One Easter, when my sisters and I were ages four, six and eight, our Granny O’Daniel surprised us with a live baby chick. We named her Jenny. That poor critter actually managed to survive our affectionate squeezes and constant petting.
Before too long, our cute little pink chick grew into a big, white rooster. We changed his name to Jake. He was ruler of the roost, and mean as the dickens. Jake laid claim to the back yard and viciously attacked anyone who dared enter his domain.
When Mama carted the laundry out to the wash house or tried to hang clothes on the clothes line to dry, that rooster chased after her—pecking at her heels. Mama kicked and cussed at that bird the whole way.
My sisters and I stayed clear of the back yard. We played out front on our swing set. One day, my younger sister, Charlotte, jumped off the swing and let out a blood-curdling scream. “It’s Jake!” she yelled. “He got out of the fence.”
“Run!” said my older sister, Anna. “Get to the house!”
We sprinted towards the house with Jake angrily flapping his wings and snapping at our bare legs. I tripped and fell face down in the grass. He jumped on my head, pulling at my hair with his stubby beak.
“Get up!” yelled Anna.
“Get up!” yelled Anna.
“I can’t,” I screeched. “He won’t get off!”
Mama barreled out of the house wielding a long-handled broom. She batted that monster off my head and yanked me to my feet. “Run!” she yelled. “Get in the house!”
We all tumbled through the door and slammed it behind us. Mamma grabbed the phone and called her daddy, “Come get this crazy rooster!” she said.
“You’re scared that that little critter?” he scoffed.
Mama just smiled and raised a knowing eyebrow.
When Grandpa O’Daniel drove up in his truck, we glued ourselves to the front window. He sauntered over to the truck bed, gave us a wink and a friendly wave and pulled out a small wire cage.
Out of nowhere, Jake pounced on his arm and began pecking Grandpa’s hand. He dropped the cage and shook the bird off. Jake jumped up again and dug his claws into Grandpa’s knee.
Grandpa fought to pull Jake off, but he stumbled backwards and tripped over the cage. Jake had the upper hand now. He fluttered up to Grandpa’s chest, furiously attacking his face.
Grandpa looked like a windmill, trying to bat that crazed bird off his chest. He grabbed Jake around the neck, stuffed him into the cage and dropped the cage into the truck bed.
We all breathed a collective sigh of relief. But Grandpa’s cocky smile had turned into a scowl. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow. It’s a good thing we couldn’t hear the language he spewed as he slammed the truck door and backed out of the driveway.
Mama just smiled and gave him a wink and a friendly wave.
Recipes Included with this story: Southern Fried Chicken, Chicken and Dumplings (recipe on this blog), Smothered Chicken, Chicken Salad (recipe on this blog)
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