The 37 essays in The Chicken Chronicles is actually a collection of Walker's blog posts. But this is not just a day-to-day chronicle of the life of a chicken owner. Instead, Walker reflects on the world via the lens of her relationship with chickens. She talks about Gandhi, writes a tribute to Michael Jackson, wonders about dealing with the rose-munching deer that occasionally invades her garden and ponders the loss of her innocence. And with names like Gertrude Stein, Rufus, Agnes of God and Babe, it's hard not to fall in love with the fowls. I love chickens, after all. Especially marinated with spices and fried to a crispy crunch.
Ahem, just kidding.
What worked: I suppose if anyone could write a memoir about chickens, it would be Alice Walker. Although the book teeters dangerously close to being mushy and smarmy, Walker's beautiful prose just beautifully conveys her love and infatuation with the chickens. The chickens - with adorable names like Babe, Gertrude Stein, Agnes of God and Splendor - don't have memorable personalities, however. Not sure if the fault lies in Walker's prose, which does a great job in the description department or it's because, well, they're chickens.
What didn't work: Walker calls herself the chickens' "mommy", and writes letters to her "girls". This particularly literary device is an acquired taste. But I found them funny and endearing, and at times I actually laughed out loud by the fowl antics. The only letter that didn't do it for me is the essay where she talked about how her childhood was ruined because of a tragic incident involving a chicken ... and dinner.
Final say: Like I said, The Chicken Chroniclesis an acquired taste. If you'r a lover of good prose, whimsical stories of the animal kingdom and highly tolerant of anthropomorphism, this book may just give you a chuckle or two.