I've listened to my children tell stories of their childhood. Sometimes it takes me awhile to figure out what story they are telling...because it is not the same story I remember. I've come to realize that, while both of us experienced the same event, we've each come away with a totally different experience; my perspective is just one version of the story; theirs is another. Both are true, their version is as real to them, as mine is to me. So as I tell some of my stories I now realize that the real facts (or better, the facts as someone else might tell them) may be far different from my story. Yet, I will insist that this is what happened...these are my facts. With that said, I remember a particular encounter with a Rooster...I was probably between 6 and 8 years old. I was staying with my grandparents who lived on a farm they homesteaded in the early 1900's. I often wandered around the farm, looking into old buildings, climbing fences, and walking through alfalfa, grain, or fallow fields. My grandparents' farm was large and always provided adventure (especially to a young child).
My encounter with the rooster happened during a time when I was staying alone with my grandparents, without my parents or siblings.
I often helped with simple farm chores. Mostly running errands, like getting a tool, putting something away, or relaying a message (no cell phones in those days). Sometimes I helped with the animals. The milk cows were large and I generally stayed out of the barnyard where they milled about. I sometimes helped feed the cows with my uncle, who ran the farm with my grandfather, or helped to carry milk or feed calves.
One chore I both enjoyed and feared was collecting the eggs from the chickens. The chickens were restricted to a small chicken coop and an adjacent, fully enclosed outside area. I often fed and watered the chickens. The chickens would gather around my legs as I spread the grain into their feed troughs...but if I moved suddenly they would scatter quickly, often startled and making short, frantic half-flying leaps to get away from me. My grandfather told me I had to always move slowly around the chickens. I should not startle them...if I did they might not lay as many eggs.
While I did not mind feeding the chickens in the open area, it was much harder to complete the feeding in the chicken coop. The chicken coop was very small; nesting boxes lined the walls, the ceiling was low and the floor was dirt (or more accurately it once was dirt; the walking surface was composed of years and years of "chicken debris" making each step soft and springy). It was very important to move slooowly in the chicken coop. If the chickens were startled, in this small space, it would set off a chain reaction; all the chickens at once would begin to fly and flap and what was already a small space became even smaller, as the coop filled with random flying, clucking, and hysterical chickens. The commotion was so great and the dust so thick that it was hard to breath. I could tolerate the smell of the chicken coop, but when the startled chickens stirred up the years of "chicken debris" I felt like I could not breathe.
I collected chicken eggs from the nesting boxes inside the chicken coop. Getting the eggs was fairly easy unless a chicken was sitting in the nesting box. My grandmother told me to just slide my hand slowly under the chicken, feeling for eggs. I always had the feeling that the chicken was not so sure about my actions and I imagined the chicken pecking me or flying up in my face as I moved my hand under its body; I was sure it was irritating to the chicken. But getting the eggs out from under the chickens was never a problem.
The problem I encountered was unexpected. I had collected all the eggs and was headed back to the house with a stainless steel bucket nearly full of eggs. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a large rooster appeared and lunged toward me. I was startled but tried to move out of the way...the rooster lunged again and then again. I started to swing the bucket of eggs, trying to keep the bucket between me and the rooster while I tried to keep on the path back to my grandparents' house. I don't know how long it took me to get to the house. The rooster followed me a long ways...my memory of getting to the house is blurred; I just remember swinging the bucket around wildly trying to keep it between me and the rooster.
I do remember telling my grandfather what had happened, between tears and sobs. I was confused to why the rooster behaved that way...I had never had problems with the chickens before. My bucket now contained a mass of cracked eggs in an sea of egg whites and egg yolks. My grandfather did not seem very concerned about all the broken eggs (like I thought he would be). I remember he said something like, that's the last time he gets away with that, and my grandfather left the house.
That night my grandmother made chicken for dinner.
My grandfather killed the rooster that day. I did not know that was going to happen when he left the house after I told him what had happened. My grandmother had plucked and dressed the chicken quickly and cooked it. My grandparents did not make a big deal of the event, neither my ordeal or their reaction.
As I have reflected on this story over the years I am amazed at how simple and straightforward the events of that evening had been. My grandfather had just casually explained that he had killed the rooster and that 'ma' had cooked it for dinner. I remember feeling cared for. It is an odd story, not typical of how a young child might describe a feeling of being loved. But it created a sense of belonging, of connection with my grandparents. My grandparents were quite and soft spoken...but their actions that day, without drama or analysis, seemed loud and clear and gave me a profound sense of being valued.
I don't really remember dinner that night. I just remember the feelings I had for my grandparents.
I never had another bad experience with the chickens...
