rooster

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Jody’s rooster acted just like him, except maybe for the drinking.  He was in a chronic bad mood, always looking for a fight. We could hear him coming. “ Aruuh, aruuuh, aruuuh.”  He sounded like the screeching of metal rubbing against itself.  He entertained himself by stalking around and finding someone or something to attack.  We all despised Rudy, and ran when we heard, “Aruuh, aruuh, aruuh.”   I was visiting the neighbor kids, Lainy and her mean big sister Nita, when Rudy hopped the Austin’s fence into their yard.  If Nita ever played with us, we could usually count on a mean trick, like stomping our mudpies or kicking down the walls of our playhouses.  As we sat in the grass making clover chain necklaces, Nita jumped up and ran in the house.  She latched the screen door behind her, not saying a word.  Lainy and I just kept on making our necklaces when we heard, “Aruuh, aruuh, aruuh,” right behind us. Rudy had sneaked up on us.  We tried to escape, but he jumped high on Lainy’s back, hanging onto her hair, clawing and scratching her with his big spurs.  I made it to the front porch, but Rudy hung on to Lainy, flogging and clawing.  Every time she tried to make it to the porch, Rudy clawed her again, and off she went, his beating fueling her terror.  Poor little Lainy ran round and round the house, that sneaky Nita running from window to window, door to door, laughing and enjoying the whole thing.  When Lainy’s mother realized what was going on, she raced to Lainy’s rescue. Rudy kept spurring Lainy somewhere out in the yard . Finally, Lainy’s mother caught up to her and pulled Rudy off her.  Furious as a mama bear, she whirled Rudy around smartly to snap his evil neck, slung him a few times around her head to do be sure she’d done the job right, then turned him loose to do his final chase around the yard.  Even though his head hung to one side and flopped madly as he ran in circles, it wasn’t comforting to see the depraved monster coming at us again. Jody Austin had started over to save his property when he realized Rudy had gotten in over his head, but reconsidered when he saw Rudy’s sad fate at that enraged mama’s hands.  Nita didn’t fare too well when her Mama made time to deal with her, either.

Pass the Chicken Please or Fowl Friends

Art by Kathleen Swain, my mother

We went places and saw people that normal people never encountered.  I think he just need a “trash fix” from time to time.  He’d heard of somebody who lived back in the woods about four miles off Tobacco Road who had something he might be interested in buying.  He had to check it out, driving forever down muddy roads that looked like they might peter off into nothing.  Finally we got back to Mr. Tucker’s shack.  The old man was wearing unbuttoned overalls and nothing else. While Daddy and Mr. Tucker disappeared into the tangle of weeds and mess of old cars, car tires, trash, dead washing machines and other refuse behind the house, Mother and the kids sat in the car.  It was hot.  Daddy was gone.  It got hotter.  Daddy was still gone.  We opened the car doors, hoping to catch a breeze. It got hotter and hotter. The baby was squalling.  Mrs. Tucker, a big woman in overalls came out in the front yard and started a fire, never even looking our way, probably thinking our car was just another junk car in the yard.  As the sun blazed overhead, we begged Mother to ask Mrs. Tucker for a drink of water.  Somewhere in the wilderness, Daddy was still admiring Mr. Tucker’s junk collection.  He could talk for hours, unconcerned that his family was waiting in misery.  It didn’t matter that he didn’t know the people he had imposed himself on.  We spent many a miserable hour waiting in the car while he “talked,” usually on the way to visit some of his relatives.

Finally, in desperation, Mother got out of the car, introduced herself to Mrs. Tucker, and asked if we could have a drink of water.  Turning without speaking, she disappeared into the house, returning with some cloudy snuff glasses.  Calling us over to the well, she drew a bucket of water, and let us drink till we were satisfied. That was the best water I ever had.  Mrs. Tucker pulled a couple of chairs under a shade tree and Mother sat down.  We all sat down in the dirt in the cool of the shade and played.  Daddy was still gone but things looked a lot better after we cooled off and had a drink.  Mrs. Tucker was interesting to look at, but didn’t have a lot to say.  She had a couple of teeth missing, greasy red hair in a bowl cut, and long scratches down both arms.

Mother tried to converse, but Mrs. Tucker didn’t have a lot to say.  I couldn’t take my eyes off the missing teeth and long scratches down her arm.  I started talking to her.  She didn’t have any kids. It didn’t take long to figure out she “wasn’t right.” I was fascinated and wanted to ask about what happened to the teeth, but knew what that would get me, so I asked instead about her scratched arms.  Mother hushed me up but that topic inspired Mrs. Tucker. It seem, she was going to put a rooster in the big pot in the front yard to scald before plucking. He scratched her and escaped before she could get the lid on.  Apparently she didn’t know she was supposed to kill him first.  Just at the point where things were getting interesting, Daddy came back and I didn’t get to hear the rest of the story.

Mrs. Tucker sent us home with a turkey that day, teaching me a valuable lesson. Don’t ever accept the gift of a turkey.  Ol’ Tom was to be the guest of honor at our Thanksgiving Dinner.  Daddy put him in the chicken yard and Tom took over, whipping the roosters, terrorizing the hens, and jumping on any kid sent to feed poultry. We hated him.  Mother brandished a stick to threaten him when she had to visit to the chicken yard.  He even flew over the fence and chased us as we played in the back yard till Daddy clipped his wings.

Before too long, we saw the Nickerson kids, the meanest kids in the neighborhood, headed for the chicken yard.  Mother couldn’t wait to see Tom get them.  Sure enough, Ol’ Devil Tom jumped out from behind a shed on jumped on the biggest boy, Clarence.  Clarence yelped and ran at Ol’ Tom, his mean brothers close on his heels, flogging Ol’ Tom mercilessly.  Unlike us, they didn’t run out with their tails tucked between their legs.  They launched an all-out attack on Tom, beating him with their jackets, sticks, and whatever they could grab.  They chased him till they tired of the game.  Tom never chased any of us again, but Mother never got around to thanking the Nickersons.

Setting Louie Straight

Louie lived with his mother, an ancient crone.  It must have been a hard  life for both.  From outward appearances, they seemed very poor.  Their  decrepit home cried out for paint.  Windows needed screens. Old Lady Rick often hung in the crooked doorway shrieking at Louie.  “Louie, get me some taters out o’ the tater house!  Pour a bucket of water on them tomaters!” Louie generally plodded wordlessly to do Mama’s bidding. 

Mama had another son who lived across the street, Don Ricks, the proud father of Boogereater and Jamie, the suspected cigarette thief.  Don plowed and maintained Mama’s poor garden, except for what Louie could be pushed into doing.  The Rolling Store, a converted school bus pulled in next to her house weekly so Louie could fetch the scant  groceries on her list.

Following Boogereater’s gasoline sniffing episode, Daddy was extremely critical of Mother’s handling of the situation.  If Mother had been attending her children instead of trying to sneak a nap, Connie would never have slid off the bed.  Mother should have stood up to to Mrs. Rick and not left her children to take “that kid” to the doctor.  If she’d kept the screen locked like she was supposed to, Louie would never have gotten in to scare her. I guess if she hadn’t put gas in the car, Boogereater wouldn’t have sniffed it.  The bill from the doctor put the icing on the cake. The point of this was, Daddy knew how to handle things.

Thanksgiving was a’coming.  The rooster to have the place of honor at the festivities was shut in a coop fattening.  The accomodations were nothing special but the menu was excellent.  In his neighborhood ramblings, Louie apparently noted the incarcerated rooster, stirring a memory.  Mother noted Louie headed across our yard with the squawking rooster under his arm.  Mother rushed out to rescue her bird.  “Louie, bring back my rooster!  We are fattening him for Thanksgiving!

“I ‘mon eat him.  I ‘mon eat dis rooster.” He replied complacently as he headed home with his new rooster.”

“Louie!  Bring him back!  That’s my rooster!”. This wasn’t the first time Louie got the best of her. 

She was fuming when Daddy got home.  “Louie got my rooster! I saw him cutting across the  front yard with the rooster under his arm.  I hollered at him, but he wouldn’t bring him back!”

“Well, if you’re gonna deal with him, you’re gonna have to be smarter than he is!”This was a generous paraphrase of Daddy’s response.  He’s d never heard of political correctness.  “I’ll go get your damned rooster!”. He strode confidently across the dusty road.

He found Louie out back of the house shutting the rooster in a crate, “Louie, I came to get my rooster.  Don’t be going out on my place no more.”

Louie met the challenge, totally unperturbed.  “I ‘mon eat him.”

Tolerating no nonsense, Daddy glared at him. “I’m taking my rooster.”

“I’ll get me ‘nother one.” Replied Louie steadily, knowing right was on his side.

Bested, Daddy stomped back to his own yard.  Where’s my rooster?” Mother queried.

“Let’im keep the damned thing!” Daddy spouted.  “He ain’t got enough sense to talk to!”

Rudy to the Rescue

Farmer Brown had dozens of hens, but no rooster, so he goes down the road to the next farmer and asks if he has a rooster for sale.  The other farmer says, “Yeah, I’ve this great rooster, named Rudy. He’ll service every chicken you got, no problem.” Well, Rudy the rooster costs a lot of money, but, farmer decides he’d be worth it. So, he buys him and takes the rooster home. He then sets him down in the barnyard and gives the rooster a pep talk, “Rudy, I want you to pace yourself now. You’ve got a lot of chickens to service here, and you cost me a lot of money. Consequently, I’ll need you to do a good job. “So, take your time and have some fun,” the farmer ended with a chuckle.

Rudy seemed to understand, so the farmer points toward the hen house, and Rudy took off like a shot. WHAM! He nails every hen in the hen house three or four times, and the farmer is really shocked. After that the farmer hears a commotion in the duck pen, sure enough, Rudy is in there. Later, the farmer sees Him after the flock of geese down by the lake. Once again, WHAM! He gets all the geese. By sunset he sees Rudy out in the fields chasing quail and pheasants. The farmer is distraught — worried that his expensive rooster won’t even last 24 hours. Sure enough, the farmer goes to bed and wakes up the next day to find Rudy  dead as a doorknob — stone cold in the middle of the yard and buzzards are circling overhead. The farmer, saddened by the loss of such a colorful and expensive animal, shakes his head and says, “Oh, Rudy, I told you to pace yourself. I tried to get you to slow down, now look what you’ve done to yourself.” Rudy opens one eye, nods toward the buzzards circling in the sky and says, “SHHHH, they’re getting closer…”

Terrible Tom Turkey and the Thingamajig

Original art by Kathleen Swain

Evil turkey

Evil turkey

Awfuls chasing turey

Awfuls chasing turey

When I was a kid, we often went places normal people would never intentionally go.  Periodically, Daddy would realize he hadn’t spent any time around social misfits and needed a fix, bad!  One day he announced he’d had heard of somebody who lived back in the woods about four miles off Tobacco Road who had a thingamajig he just had to have.  Never mind, all five kids needed new shoes and the lights were due to be cut off.  He NEEDED that thingamajig!

He HAD to check it out, driving forever down rutted roads that looked like they might disappear into nothing. Finally we got back to Mr. Tucker’s shack. Mr. Tucker was wearing overalls and nothing else. Apparently buttoning overalls wasted valuable time needed forpile junk collecting. While Daddy and Mr. Tucker disappeared into the tangle of weeds and mess of old cars, car tires, trash, broken washing machines and other refuse scattered around the house and into the woods.  Mother sweltered in the car with the five of us while Daddy and Mr. Tucker rambled.

It was hot. It got hotter the longer we waited in the punishing July heat. We opened the car doors, hoping to catch a breeze as it got hotter and hotter. The baby and the two-year-old were squalling out their misery as Mother fanned them.  Daddy wasn’t known for the consideration he showed his family.  He was “the man.”

Mrs. Tucker, a big woman in overalls came out in the front yard and started a fire, never even looking our way. She probably thought our car was just another old clunker in their yard. It got even hotter. We were all begging for a drink of water. Daddy was still gone, admiring Mr. Tucker’s junk collection. Daddy could talk for hours, unconcerned that his family was sweltering in the car.  He thought misery was character-building. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know the people he’d just stumbled up on. We spent many an hour waiting in the car while he “talked” usually having stopped off on the way to visit some of his relatives.

Finally, in desperation, Mother got out of the car, introduced herself to Mrs. Tucker, and asked if we could have a drink of water. Mrs, Tucker turned without speaking, went into the house, came back out with some cloudy snuff glasses, called us over to the well, drew a bucket of water, and let us drink till we were satisfied. That was the best water I ever had. Mrs. Tucker pulled a couple of chairs under a shade tree and Mother sat down. We all sat down in the dirt in the cool of the shade and played. Daddy was still prowling around in search of junk, but things looked a lot better after we cooled off and had a drink. Mrs. Tucker was interesting to look at, but didn’t have a lot to say. She had a couple of teeth missing, had greasy red hair that was chopped off straight around, and long scratches down both arms.

Mother tried to talk to her, but Mrs. Tucker wasn’t a great conversationalist.  I suspect she didn’t know too many words.  I couldn’t take my eyes off the missing teeth and long scratches down her arm. Despite Mother’s attempts to quell my questions, I found out a lot about her. She didn’t have any kids. It didn’t take long to figure out she “wasn’t right.” I was fascinated and wanted to ask about what happened to her teeth, but knew that would get me in trouble, so I asked how she scratched her arms. Mother told me to hush, but fortunately, Mrs. Tucker explained. It seemed she was going to put a rooster in the big pot in the front yard to scald him before plucking him.  He’d scratched her and gotten away before she could get the lid on. Apparently she didn’t know she was supposed to kill him first. Just at the point where things were getting interesting, Daddy came back and I didn’t get to hear the rest of the story.

Mrs. Tucker gave us a turkey that day, teaching me a valuable lesson. Don’t ever accept the gift of a turkey. Ol’ Tom was going to be the guest of honor at our Thanksgiving Dinner. Daddy put him in the chicken yard and Tom took over, whipping the roosters, terrorizing the hens, and jumping on any kid sent to feed him and the chickens. We hated him. Mother had to take a stick to threaten him off when she went out to the chicken yard. He even flew over the fence and chased us as we played in the back yard till Daddy clipped his wings.

Before too long, we saw the Nickerson kids, the meanest kids in the neighborhood, headed for the chicken yard. Mother couldn’t wait to see Tom get them. Sure enough, Ol’ Devil Tom jumped out from behind a shed on jumped on the biggest boy, Clarence. Clarence yelped and ran. The other boys were right behind him, swatting at the turkey. Unlike us, they didn’t run out with their tails tucked between their legs. They launched an all-out attack on Tom, beating him with their jackets, sticks, and whatever they could grab. They chased him until they were tired of the game. Tom never chased any of us again, but Mother never got around to thanking the Nickersons.

Rudy the Rooster and his Boosters

imageThe Austins lived just across the pasture from us. Jody Austin “drank.” In our neck of the woods, “drinking” meant a man was considered disreputable, prone to beat his wife and children, and probably didn’t work. It sounded a lot like today’s alcoholic. Jodie qualified magnificently. It was rumored that he had shot a man in a bar. Folks left Jody alone. Every Saturday night Jody hosted his “drinking” buddies for a binge. The festivities started with a huge bonfire. As they sat around on barrels, old cars, and broken lawn chairs, they tossed their cans out in the darkness. They got louder, sometimes had a friendly fight, occasionally rolling all around the fire, finishing off with a little singing…a treat for all the neighbors.

Jody and his gang of rowdies got sufficiently drunk, they started crowing trying rouse the rooster! Jody had a fine crowing voice, but roosters are territorial, determined to keep their harem to themselves. Since roosters habitually are “early to bed and early to rise,” it usually took about four tries to get Rudy the Rooster going.  His initial response was usually half-hearted and anemic. Roo-ooh- ooh-ooh-ooh-oooooh. He obviously needed his rest. Jody’s buddies took a turn crowing. Rudy was riled now and ready for a rooster fight, but couldn’t find a single rooster to whip. The partiers thought this was high humor. They all took turns crowing. After a particularly authentic crow, Rudy called back “ROOH-OOH-OOH-OOH-OOOOOOH!!!” The longer the competition went on, the madder Rudy got. He must have hated Saturday nights and drinking.

First in a series

Checking Bonnie and Clyde Out of the Chicken Library

imageI guess Spring is really here.  Aunt Betty called.  She just checked out eight hens and one rooster from the chicken library where she lives up in Kansas.  The rooster hangs out with his favorite hen, so Aunt Betty named them Bonnie and Clyde.  I guess it’s not really a chicken library, but that’s how it works for Aunt Betty.  She has a deal worked out with one of her neighbors to get chickens in the nice weather, returning them for the winter.  She has the pleasure of chickens and eggs without the misery of over-wintering them.  What a great neighbor!