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During the Antelope County Fair, I saw a lot of fun T-shirts proclaiming "Keep calm, it's fair week" or "I heart 4-H" or "4-H Head Heart Hands Health."

Next year, I think I'll sport one that declares "I survived being a 4-H grandma."

Not that I did as much work as my grandson's parents overseeing the preparing of projects for the week-long event, but ... I did push, -er, help him decide which projects to try.

And I did survive a two-day barn quilt workshop, where hopes for more Husker decor to adorn our porch soured when Jorden opted for a Minecraft version.

Right-brained creative grandma versus the analytical, left-brained mind of a 9-year-old.

You decide who got his or her way. (Drive past our garage and you'll notice a barn quilt is not on display.)

One of the great things about 4-H: there's something for everyone.

Jorden decided to raise chickens this year.

This gave me pause.

He likes fried chicken. Buffalo Wild Wings is one of his favorite restaurants. Whenever he visits, he requests wings or homemade chicken strips.

Did he understand the farm-to-table implications of raising poultry?

"I know where chicken comes from, Grandma," he told me.

Good. Glad we have that cleared up and there isn't any awkward discussion about how the chickens in pen one ended up as dinner on our dining room table.

In the spring, he selected four different types types: a Rhode Island Red, Rhode Island White, Americana and a wellspring. Since then, he learned what to feed them, how much water they drink, why it's important to clip a wing.

Courtney drilled him on questions a judge may ask during showmanship and he prepared his spiel about how to raise hens. Richard escorted him to the farm daily so chicken chores could be completed.

A year ago, as a Clover Kid, he shyed away from talking to the judges. Actually, he forked over his projects and hid behind his mom so he wouldn't have to speak.

What a difference a year makes.

When it was time to enter the show arena, he walked in, placed the Rhode Island Red on the exhibit table and turned into the chicken whisperer. He didn't hold the hen's legs. Instead, he petted its head and talked to it, waiting for the judge to make his way down the line.

Good grief! Maintain control of the bird, his mom and I both proclaimed. We don't want a repeat performance of your Aunt Tammy. When she was your age, she let the hen escape her grasp and it ran around the 4-H barn, everyone scrambling to retrieve it.

But there he stood, a 9-year-old in control of his destiny. An ever-so-serious look dissipated when the judge began conversing, a smile - and even a little laughter - replacing it when asked why he clipped its wings.

"Because Grandpa Earl told me to so it won't fly away," he responded.

Just. Like. A. Boss.

Two blue ribbons and two more in open class. A couple purples in cake and cookie decorating. A few reds mixed in for other projects.

"I think I had a good showing," he told me Sunday night as well-deserved sleep set in. "What projects can I do next year?"

I grab the fair book, peruse the categories and hand it to him, so he can make the important decisions.