Earle Monroe lives around the corner from me on a farm. He was once a military muckity-muck. He is now a Gentleman Farmer. He and his wife Marcia raise llamas (“worthless as pets” says Earle). To keep the llamas company they have geese, peacocks, many wandering cats and a dog. A while back I asked him where to find goats to help keep the forest cleared (we have a goat pen out back), and where I might find laying hens. Earl said, with a gleam of mischief in his eyes “You need to go to the chicken auction.” He said he’d take me the next time he went.

Well, last week Earle said he wanted to go get some ducks to keep the geese company in his pond. I asked him where one goes to buy ducks, and he said, “To the Chicken Auction. Y’all oughta go with us on Friday.”  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. If someone had said to me at that moment, “You can go to Paris or Machu Pichu or Greece or The Chicken Auction,” it would have been Chicken Auction hands down. I was not disappointed.

Word quickly got out last week that an outing to the auction was planned. By Friday evening there were about twelve of us in a convoy making the journey to a town named Central, about thirty miles away. None but Earle were looking to buy anything, but everyone knows the auction is really something worth seeing. It’s a cultural gem that even those who’ve lived here all their lives recognize as a rare, remaining bastion of pure rural goodness.  

After the short drive, we turned on to Auction Road and looked for a parking space in the dirt lot outside a very large, very old barn. Now I have a little red  BMW SUV, and it looked like a Barbie car amidst the field of  big, tough pick-up trucks. When I got out of the car, I couldn’t suppress a chuckle when I saw a group of guys hanging out behind one of the trucks, beers in hand. They were tailgating before the Chicken Auction.

Just as we arrived, the owner of the barn, and the man who started this auction decades ago, stood on the stage with a microphone and announced that this would be a fair auction. He encouraged every one to pay fair prices and ask fair prices. There was a general cheer of agreement, then he announced that The Preacher would be opening with a word of prayer.  There was a ball cap on every head in the barn, and every cap in unison was removed in a cumulative swish. All heads bent exactly in unison, with the kind of practiced uniformity any drill team would die for. The Preacher gave a brief sermonizing prayer, everything short of an altar call, and then he asked for God to assure fair prices for all.  Somehow he got into his prayer a reference to Jesus as the great auctioneer, but to my great disappointment I cannot remember his wording to share with you.

The name “Chicken Auction” is actually a misnomer. There was a lot more sold there than chickens. All manner of small beast were auctioned that night, and I imagine it’s different every week. (Earl did not find his ducks on Friday.)  In addition to animals, there were drill bits and ball caps for sale. Ball caps that said “Fighting Cocks” on the back seemed to be a hot item. They went for five bucks a piece. There were feed troughs, cages and batteries, and pretty much anything else anyone had for sale.  Mostly it was animals though, and mostly chickens.

The auction started with the sale of eggs. They were fresh eggs and were going for about 2.50 a dozen, which I thought was a pretty good deal. I rushed to sign up for a bid number then held up a note card with my number on it so I could bid.  Something must have changed while I was getting my number, though. When my $2.75 bid was accepted, I walked up to the table and was handed a dozen quail eggs. To be honest, they could have been auctioning quail eggs the whole time and I wouldn’t have known; Being a recent emigrant from the west, I was having a really hard time understanding the English spoken by the good people of Central.

When I came back to the group and opened my egg carton, there was some general confusion as to why I would buy quail eggs. Earle asked me if I was going to eat them or incubate them. “I thought I was buying chicken eggs!” I told them, to their immense amusement.  “Incubate them?! Are you kidding?! Are there chicks in there??” It was a question that only a city girl would ask, and it would plague me all night, only to be finally resolved late that night when I cracked one open to find out. It was with a grateful heart that I found only egg inside the shell. I fried it up and ate it right then. Tasted like chicken (chicken eggs, that is).

The best part about the chicken auction, really, was the décor. The floor of this barn has been completely covered with all manner of carpet remnants, making for a glorious plaid throughout. There are two rows of seats and an isle, like a church. The seats are all arranged in straight rows like pews. If you get there early enough to get a seat (and there were probably fifty people seated) you could chose a sofa, a recliner, or one of the many bus seats which made up the rows. It was beautiful. The walls were covered with cardboard of all shapes and sizes, and  with random metal highway signs, like a Kentucky Fried Chicken ad. And there were flags on the wall too: The American flag, the Alabama flag and the Rebel flag. There were no black people at the chicken auction.

At one point a man was standing next to me wearing shorts, hiking boots and a fleece jacket. He wasn’t wearing a ball cap and he actually had a hairstyle (versus a crop cut). He looked straight out of Seattle, or Portland. I said to him, “You don’t look like you’re from here.” He answered me in a slow, thick southern accent, “Naw, I’m from Alex City.” Alex City is an hour away.

We got to talking, since my husband’s sister is also from Alex City. Turns out he was Betsy’s soccer coach, tied flys with Joseph, talked hunting with Bob and took his animals to Mary’s vet clinic on a regular basis. What are the chances? (Pretty good in Alabama, I’m finding.)  He told us his business is animal trade.  He was here selling chickens and a kinkaju. (Who has kinkajus?) They are little ferret type things, and I’ve only before seen one at the zoo. He said he sold it in the parking lot before the auction. (Who buys kinkajus? In a parking lot?!) He said he’s got horses, chickens, donkeys and camels. I asked where he got the camels and he said, “South Carolina.”  (South Carolina. Of course.) He said he used to have two, but somebody shot one. 

OK…if you’re laughing your ass off right now, it’s OK. We were rolling on the floor talking to this guy. “You got a camel in South Carolina?  Someone shot one of them?? You sold a kinkaju in the parking lot??”

At this point it was about his turn to sell his chickens and he asked me if I’d like to come help him sell them.  Now that is an offer a girl just can’t turn down. I was to be his Vanna White. (He said chickens always sell better when a girl holds them.) We were able to get about $6.50 a piece for all twelve. I have no idea if $6.50 is a good price, but he seemed to be satisfied. I held them up and showed them off while they were being auctioned. He made sure to tell the auctioneer that I was a first time chicken seller, which was announced loudly over the microphone. The people there had seen me taking pictures all night and looked at me with blank curiosity. I wondered if photographing the chicken auction was as odd to them as buying a kinkaju in a parking lot was to me.

Since my chicken seller friend was near the end of the line, the auction was nearly over, and it was time to check out. People waited in line, gave their numbers and paid their money. The barn and the parking lot slowly emptied, and we reluctantly left as well. There was a sign on the road that said “Santuck. First Saturday of every Month.” Santuck is a flea market. I have had no fewer than five people tell me last week alone that if I liked the chicken auction, I will really like Santuck.”  I can’t wait.