THE ROOSTER

     There were inherent dangers in being an eight-year-old boy that I felt unable to communicate to the rest of the family.  Most particularly, it all had to do with grandma's big red rooster and the fact that I felt betrayed by my own bodily functions.

     In that summer of 1948, my parents had sent me to stay with grandma on her farm in the foothills of the Missouri Ozarks, and it sure was different from my home in St. Louis.  The school term was over in the city and, with Dad recently laid off at the factory, I understood my visit was not solely for pleasure.  I didn't really mind being here though.  In most ways I was actually enjoying the change from city life.  My only problem was that rooster.

     Grandpa had died of pneumonia three years before.  Now it was just grandma and the last of her nine children, Cecil and Beverly, left to eke a meager existence from the always-poor farm.  Cecil was eleven and Bev was five.  I saw nothing unusual in the fact that I had an uncle four years older and an aunt three years younger than I was.

     I loved my grandmother very much, and I know she loved me--in a kind of quiet, understated way.  She was a no-nonsense rural woman, so there were never many kisses or affectionate embraces.  But she would seldom pass by me in the course of the day without tousling my hair or squeezing my shoulder gently.  She always seemed to know if I was troubled or hurt and knew better than anyone how to make things better.

     My favorite place on the farm was the orchard, on a hill overlooking the west side of the house, where I would eat green apples while perched on a branch if my special tree.  From here I had an unobstructed view of the entire farm; southward past the barn lot and unkempt livestock fields to the spring-fed creek lined with willows; eastward across the roof of the big house to the small garden and farther on to dense forest below steep, wooded hills.  To the north (and I hated to even look in that direction) lay the wire-fenced back yard with a gate opening into the chicken yard, populated with 18 or 20 hens and a sharp-spurred old red rooster.  A dusty 150 yard foot path from the gate neatly bisected the chicken yard and ended square in front of the wooden outhouse.  All in all, it was a pretty neat place for a boy to spend the summer.

     Problem was, that darn rooster thought he owned the chicken yard and every time I went in there he would try to prove it.  Extending his wings and ruffling his neck feathers, the bird would charge and send me running in panic to the nearest of the two exits.

     After the first couple of encounters with Old Red, I avoided the chicken yard whenever possible.  We two combatants would eye each other warily through the wire fence, with the rooster strutting and posturing to assert his dominance.  It seemed to me that Old Red was as big as I was and that the big bird looked at me almost eye-to-eye--and the rooster had spurs that could punch holes in my skin.  It just wasn't a fair fight.

     Most of the time I had no reason to venture into the chicken yard, but there were times when a confrontation could not be avoided.  With the outhouse being situated at the far end of the lot, I was forced to go through there at least once every day.  I had no problems with taking a pee now and then.  I could always sneak off behind the barn to relieve myself, and I learned to make it my last business of the day to visit the outhouse--at dusk when the rooster was safely inside the chicken house for the night.  But even with all my careful planning, there were a few occasions when I simply had no choice.  I came to dread that unmistakable pang in my gut during daylight hours.  I thought about slipping off into the woods and squatting in the dry leaves there, but mental images of a snake biting my bare rump quickly dispelled that idea. 

     I suspected that grandma knew of my skirmishes with Old Red.  Once I almost told her about my problem.  The two of us were alone on the front porch one hot afternoon, she on a cane-bottomed chair and I seated on the ledge of the screened porch.  She always wore a bibless apron over a faded cotton print dress.  She sat with a pile of string beans on her spread apron, snapping them in two pieces with a practiced motion and simultaneously pulling away the strings.  She then dropped them into a large metal cooking pot at her feet.  I was constantly amazed at the way her hands worked almost with a mind of their own.  Her brilliant blue eyes could give you their full attention from behind rimless glasses while the hands never missed a beat with the beans.  We sat that way for what seemed like a long time, not talking much--she busy with her chore and me trying to decide how best to present my predicament.  Just when I had worked up the nerve to tell her, Cecil came crashing through the screen door yelling about the cow getting out, and the moment passed.  I was ashamed to admit in front of Cecil (my hero) that I was afraid of a chicken.

     So, at those times when I realized I couldn't wait until dusk, I would watch from the back porch of the house until Old Red was at the farthest angle of interception and sneak up to the gate, from there to make a mad dash to the safety of the outhouse.  Sometimes I made it without incident, but other times the rooster would be hot on my heels.  Once, amid a flurry of feathers and squawking, Old Red's spurs actually struck the back of my leg just before gaining refuge in the outhouse, leaving an angry red welt on my calf.  I was thankful for the denim overalls I wore or it might have been worse.  Even when I made it to the wooden building without a chase, I knew I still had to face the return trip.

    

This state of undeclared war between me and Old Red might have gone on through the summer unchanged, with the rooster holding the upper hand, if not for a totally unexpected encounter that occurred one July morning.

     A thunderstorm had passed through late in the night, leaving the early morning gray and overcast.  After a breakfast of grandma's biscuits and gravy, I went out on the back porch, noticing that the damp and relative darkness had kept the chickens in the shelter of the chicken house.  The rain had stopped and I felt I could safely make a trip to the outhouse.

     I walked through the gate and a few steps down the path when I spotted a slight movement on the ground next to the fence in the farthest corner from the chicken house.  I approached cautiously, and as I got nearer, saw a baby bird which had apparently fallen out of the nest during the wind of the storm.  I thought the nest must be in one of the cedars that lined the fence row.  I got close enough to stoop and pick up the flightless baby, seeing the agitated parent bird chirping loudly from a nearby branch.  Finding the nest, I saw that I could just reach it through the prickly foliage.  Standing on tiptoe and extending my arm to its fullest limit, I managed to place the little bird back in its nest.  Totally absorbed in this task and feeling quite satisfied with myself, I turned from the fence and found myself face to face with Old Red.  I was cornered, nowhere to run.  The rooster stood between me and any means of escape.

     It all happened so quickly that I had no time to think or plan my actions.  As the big rooster charged, I hollered in mindless fright, expelling all the air in my lungs in a loud scream.  I kicked with my feet and flailed wildly with my arms, feeling my balled-up fist strike Old Red's tough, leathery comb.  Surprised by my loud yell and the swat on his head, the rooster retreated about ten feet from me and stopped, making a low chuckling sound in its throat.

     Feeling a tentative rush of nerve at my unexpected victory, I took a couple of steps toward Old Red, yelling and flapping my arms.  The rooster backed off warily.  More daring now, I charged at the rooster, again waving my arms and yelling.  Old Red went in full retreat, flapping his wings and trying to elude the attack.  I couldn't believe it.  The big red rooster was actually afraid of me.  I made several more experimental charges at him with the results always the same.  Giddy with the new feeling of bravery, I might have spent the whole day in that chicken yard antagonizing Old Red, except that I heard grandma call to me from the back porch.  When I came in the house she scolded me soundly for "botherin’ my rooster". But she couldn't hide a little smile as she turned away.

     Later that day, when I felt like it was safe to approach her, I asked grandma if I could be the one to go out to the chicken house and collect the eggs every morning.  She said I could.