It was 6 A.M. as I sat at the breakfast table. The little radio sitting on top of the refrigerator was blasting music. Being five years old, breakfast was a time to eat and run. The faster I ate, the quicker I was able to get away from the table, get my dog, fishing pole, and run for the Buffalo Creek fishing hole. It was this particular morning I recall hearing an advertisement on the radio made by a fast talking salesman. Between songs, the gentleman made his sale's pitch. It went something like this: Ladieeezz and gentlemen. We have this once in a life time offer for you. We have 200 baby Rhode Island Red chicks for you. The best laying hens your money can buy. And if you are not satisfied with these chicks, we will double your money back. That's right.....you heard me. A double your money back guarantee. The sale's person then went on and on about how good the chicks were and how satisfied he knew everyone would be. After that sale's pitch, another one would start. This advertisement was a song and it went something like this: Happy Family Baking Powder, happy family, buy a can today. The singer would say his name......Hank William's. Everyone liked good old Hank William's and his songs. It was the perfect kicker to get people in a good mood, get them relaxed, and have them hurry to the post office and make out a money order for those baby chicks. My father bought baby chicks every spring, but I had no idea he would order his chicks from the radio show. The chicks arrived one early spring day. I remember going out to the little "pee-pee house," as dad and mother called it, and there the baby chicks stood all huddled together under a large lamp keeping themselves warm. They were so cute, like little yellow fuzzy balls. My dad was sure to instruct me on the proper way to pick them up and how to feed them. My main instruction was to not open the pee-pee house door too often because it would let cold air pass over the peeps. I was told if that happened they would catch a cold and all die. To bypass this problem, when my mother fed the chicks, I remained behind, sat down in the middle of the 200 plus chicks and played for hours at a time. After a few weeks, they began to change, growing little red feathers. Once this started to happen, I seemed to loose interest and pay more attention to the little spring pigs my father had recently purchased. Spring turned into summer and summer into fall and as this was going on, the little chicks had not turned into hens, but into giant Rhode Island Red roosters. I guess we found out gradually why the chicks were such a good bargain. One thing for sure, we did not go hungry for chicken at our table. Mother prepared those roosters in ever possible way. However, there were a few that dad picked out to remain at the feed lot to keep the hens company and to wake up the neighborhood with their cock-a-doodle-doo. The roosters were out more than they were in their pens. As a result, they became very possessive and guarded our property like watch dogs. During that winter and the following summer, the roosters and I became great adversaries. During the winter, I would make a box-like fort out of my dads tomato stakes. The fort was constructed by placing two stakes on the ground parallel to each other and then placing one across each end. This made a box and from this point on, it was a matter of choice as too how high you wanted to build it. We even divided it into first and second floors. The height could go eight or nine feet tall depending on its stability. Having built the fort, it was now time to play army with the roosters. I would make mud balls underneath the smoke house, let them dry and then pack into the fort. After I was sure to have an endless supply, I would then stalk the roosters. As I had mentioned, the roosters were like watch dogs. If you walked passed them, they would chase you and flog your legs with their one inch spurs. Being endowed with great speed, I would taunt them and then run for the fort. I soon learned to create a quick first step to get away from them. Yes there were times when a slip here and a missed step there caused me some great pain. They would jump onto your legs or back and ride you like a bronco buster riding a wild horse. Getting to the fort was the key. Once inside, you could entice them right up to the fort by poking corn stalks at them. Having lured them in close, it was war time. I would go up to the top floor where I stored my mud balls and let them have it full blast. I could really zing a mud ball and make them dance. It was through these many encounters I had become their notorious enemy. The next fall, it was time for me to go to first grade. Knowing the roosters were located behind the house, I always left out the front and walked the hard road to school. School was exciting for me and I loved it. I liked it so much that I did a lot of day dreaming about it. Day dreaming can sometimes get you in trouble as you will soon see. Skipping, singing and having a merry old time, I had forgotten about the roosters and took a short cut through the neighborhood. Down the grassy alley, past the upper garden I did my little dance. Near the pig pens I stopped to say hello to my buddies, the little pigs. As I bent over the wooden fence scratching their backs, I felt two large wing spans wrap around me and the deep penetration of spurs in my thighs. It frightened me so bad that I screamed out loud, and took off running. To the roosters surprise, he fell off and started his pursuit. Screaming at the top of my lungs, I yelled for some relief from my parents who were sitting on the back porch. As frozen in shock, they just watched in astonishment as I ran past them. Not getting any relief and being one of the fastest runners in town, I continued my run past the house and down the old cinder wagon road to my neighbor's hay field. I glanced over my shoulder to see the rooster kicking black cinders high into the air as he ran about two step behind me. This put me into overdrive, my fastest gear, in the race to the field. Nearing the field, one last backward glance, showed the rooster had lost ground, and was at least a dozen steps behind in the race. Wow, I thought, now if I can reach the hay field I would find a safe haven. It was late August, and as I remember it, the grass was waist high and ready for the second cutting. As I ran out the road, I was unable to get into the hay field immediately because of a barbed wire fence which bordered it. Several years before the farmer had installed the fence so his cattle could graze grass. I knew the fence ended just ahead of me but being under the circumstances, it looked a long way off. To my left were three cherry trees that I had climbed many times. The owner, Whitey Reed, had allowed me to pick a bucket of cherries for my mother who made the best cherry pies in town. For some reason the trees looked much taller and the limbs much higher off the ground this day and sour cherry pie was not my choice at the moment, so it was run for my life to the opening in the field. There was a slight uphill grade in the road, turn to the right, as I dove head first into the high grass. Hitting the ground, I crawled about 10 feet and then lay as still as death. I tried my best to hold my breath but I knew I must have been panting like a hunting dog. I laid face down with my arms over my head and waited for the next wave of attacks. After a few minutes, I gradually got to my knees to see just over the top of the tall grass and there he was walking about five yards from me with his head bouncing back and forth with each step and looking from side to side. I hit the ground once again and then began wondering if I might have to sleep there that night. After what seemed a week, about five minutes, I reexamined the field. I could hear my father's voice in the distance, "He's gone Joe. Come on home." When I stood up, the rooster was halfway out the wagon road and had apparently given up on the chase. Many times I had told my dad about the roosters but he always seemed to believe as a child I was embellishing the truth. But this time, he took me by the hand, walked me home and told me how shocked he was to see that rooster chasing me. When we got home, he put me on his lap and gave me a big drink of coffee and then assured me he would take care of the problem. During supper, dad questioned all my brothers about the rooster's habits. Each brother told a hair raising story. My brother Tony showed his scars and scratches, he had received that morning while feeding the pigs. It must have been the last straw. The next day we had chicken soup. Even with all of the fights we had with the roosters, we acknowledged they were a superior group and in a class of their own. The next day when I walked past the chicken lot I felt a deep emptiness. The big red rooster was not there kicking dirt and getting ready for the race. He had been a playmate for two years and an equal in combat. I had no idea at the time when I told my dad about my encounters with the ‘Big Red Rooster' it would mean his last battle had been fought. To this day, I admire the ‘Giant Rhode Island Red Roosters' as being at the head of their class and one terrific watch dog. Oh yes, one more thing, that was the best chicken soup I ever ate. | |
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