Giant chicken reminds us of winter safety, snow

Every winter, I drive around with an enormous chicken in the trunk of my car.

The chicken's the image on a 40-pound bag of chicken scratch, the mixed grains for poultry farmers to spread on the ground for their hens and roosters to eat.

It gets a great reaction when friends have something to put in the trunk, or when I need to pull something out of it, and they're standing nearby when the lid comes up.

"Weaver?" Long pause, as my friends consider how best to broach this delicate subject matter. "Why do you have chicken scratch in your car?"

"Doesn't everybody?" I reply innocently.

The truth is, the extra 40 pounds balances my car out when we have slippery roads. The insides of the bag serve as additional traction if I ever get stuck somewhere. And if I make it through the winter without ever ripping the bag open (either by accident or on purpose), then it serves as feed for the neighborhood birds in the springtime.

Those are the practical applications. The reactions are the impractical, but often hilarious, applications. It's a bird worthy of taking on other chickens, cats or Godzilla.

It's probably more of a psychological aid than anything else. I'm one of those people who likes their snow to start falling the moment all my reasons to be outside vanish. Mother Nature can drop the white stuff to her heart's content when I'm tucked inside and cozy, preferably with a cup of cocoa and a supermodel. Failing a supermodel, I'll settle for a good book.

But once I have to go back out again, like to make a quick run to the grocery store for more cocoa or, you know, to work, I want the stuff gone, vanquished back to the mountains for the skiers. They're welcome to it, and if they want more, here's my day's agenda so they can clear a pathway.

In my family, we call "snow" the "s-word." Give me a cool, overcast day with lots of gray clouds and a light breeze. But not too warm and sunny, though: Everything bad that ever happened to me, happened on a sunny day, I'm sure.

I'm pretty sure my lack of enthusiasm when it comes to the s-word harkens back to the days of elementary school, when I had to wear snow pants to school, the better to keep warm and protected in case I slipped along the way.

Between the snow pants and the boots, which were equally ridiculous to try and pull on whether they fit on over my shoes or not, I'd usually have to start getting dressed for outside recess a whole half-hour before everyone else, and then it would take another half-hour to return to my indoor clothing. I am exaggerating, of course, but not by much. In retrospect, it sounds much funnier than it actually was.

Maybe that's the reason why, the first time someone spots the first flake of the winter season, their excitement is usually met with a groan or a shiver of terror: Snow pants.

It takes a moment, but then I remember I'm a grown-up now, I haven't worn a pair of snow pants in at least 10 years. And I feel better.

A second later, I remember the giant chicken in my car, helping my car navigate to where I want to go even if it's slick.

And I feel better still.

Matthew Weaver is the business and agriculture reporter for the Columbia Basin Herald. His chicken theme goes beyond the trunk of his car, all the way to his work calendar and cellular ring tone.