I feel like I need to share some of my stories from my childhood before I forget them.
We use to order baby chicks through the mail. The mailman would honk his car horn when we had a large parcel. The baby chicks would arrive in a box. If we weren’t home when the mail arrived, the box would be placed next to the mailbox post.
Only a few of the chicks survived in this order. I had a chick that really loved being around me, followed me around, let me hold him and pet him. He grew up and became a very angry hateful rooster. He chased my sister and me everyday all over the yard. He would chase us up to the back porch and leap at us as we opened the screen door to run in. He would occasionally make contact and scratch us on the back or the legs with his talons.
One day he chased me from the clothesline pole to the backdoor. I ran in the house crying, he had gotten me on the back. My mom was doing dishes, ironing, cooking, sweeping or mopping it seems she was always busy – well, this day she was not in any mood to hear about the rooster. She saw me, left the kitchen, went to the backyard and the rooster came at her. I ran to my bedroom to watch out the window. Somehow she got ahold of his neck, it all happened so fast. Mom grabbed his neck and started swinging him over her head. She went around one, two, three times. Then somehow he fell out of her hand onto the ground. His eyes were closed, like he was in a deep sleep.
Mom came back into the home. I only know because I heard the back screen door slam. She had went into the bathroom to wash her hands. I was still in my bedroom when she came in and told me she had killed the rooster. He was dead. We wouldn’t have to run from him anymore. I turned to look out my bedroom window to look at him. He wasn’t there. He was gone. I told my mom, and she said it could’nt be, she snapped him neck. He was in the back yard walking around, a little wobbly, but was still alive.
The evening when my dad got home, met him by the back door. She must of told him what had happened. I could hear him laughing, I am not sure why. Anyway, he went out to the yard – I watched from my window. He grabbed the rooster, took it to the farther back yard (which we called the holler). Mom put a pot of water on the boil. Dad did it. He murdered the mean rooster. I was sad and relieved.
We had the rooster for supper that night. We didn’t miss being chased, or scratched, or the rooster pecking our head as he flew by. We didn’t miss the 4:30 in the morning or the 12 midnight cock-a-doodle-doos. We did talk about him and mom many evenings over supper.
My World! 