Chickens Crossing the Road

I have always wondered about that old joke, “Why did the chicken cross the road?” and why the answer “to get to the other side” was so funny. My wondering is over. After I saw the chickens crossing the road, I understood, and it was funny.

Since 2000, we have lived in the same house in Sandgerði, Iceland. Mainly a fishing village, quaint Sandgerði sits on the North Atlantic Ocean and has a small gas station, a convenience store, and a well-maintained harbor for its boats. Cats run free. Dogs are supposed to be on leashes, but often take a trot around town before a neighbor sends them home. Currently, the chickens run wild. I like the chickens. They belong to our neighbors across the street, but they are entertaining. Our oldest son might take exception to my affection for the chickens, as they often wake him up around four on summer mornings, crowing outside his downstairs window. My son’s chicken angst aside, I find them funny. The chicken gang of two roosters and four hens consistently roam our neighborhood and rule the roost, so to speak.

Unrelated to the chickens themselves but essential to the story of their crossing the road, we suffered three separate sewage floods into our house at the end of the summer and early fall. The city had to dig up our whole front yard, part of the sidewalk, and half of the end of our driveway to repair some pipes. After fixing the pipes, filling in our yard, and laying sod over the dirt, they still needed to repair the sidewalk and driveway.

On a chilly autumn morning, before the sun had left for the winter, I walked down to the car to start it before driving it. As I sat there warming my car, which I had backed in as usual, I waved to the four men from Poland who worked on the sidewalk and our driveway, replacing the bricks one by one. Because we car share as a family for economic reasons, I waited for both Clayton and William to join me. William came and sat in the passenger seat. He, too, waved at the friendly Polish men repairing the driveway. As Clayton left the house, walking to the car, William and I both turned our heads to the left because we heard the chicken gang coming around from the back of the house to cross our front yard. They had apparently been stalking Clayton outside his window, per normal. He huffed as he sat down in the warm car and said something less than kind about the chickens.

Meanwhile, the workers at the end of the driveway stopped working, looked at the chickens marching across our yard, and looked at Will and me through the windshield with quizzical brows. We both shrugged simultaneously in an attempt to say, “Not our chickens.” The Polish guys started chuckling. The chickens strutted in front of my car, with all three of us in it now. First the alpha rooster, then the beta rooster, then the four noisily clucking hens slowly crossed our driveway and followed the fence opposite where the men stood. Just as the last hen crossed in front of the car, I saw a police car turn the corner and head toward our house.

Unbeknownst to the police officers, a collision between them and the chickens hidden by my fence was imminent. The police reached the end of the fence just as the alpha rooster did. The Polish men, the boys, and I all stopped chuckling, perhaps even holding our breath in suspense. What would happen? If the police decided to play a game of “chicken” with well, chickens, who would win? We watched in stunned silence as the police car came to a forceful stop. The chicken gang marched across the street as if they owned the world. Why did they cross the road? To get to the other side, obviously.

Meanwhile, the whole world stopped to accommodate them. The workers, the boys, and I burst into fits of laughter. When the last hen finished crossing the street, the police car drove on. I slowly pulled my car out of the driveway, stopping to wave and share a laugh with the workers. That chicken joke will always be funny to me now.