I really thought that November had at last settled in, and I was about to take off on novel writing. And then came this weekend. I will spare you the details. Suffice it to say, it involved a stomach virus and everyone in the family. And book signings. And NFP class. And let’s just say that not one word got written this weekend.
So today, I’m going to share a story I can’t believe I’ve never shared, because it’s canonical in my family’s household.
My mother was a city girl through & through, but she embraced her role as a farm wife. When I was a kid, she raised chickens and sold the eggs. It was almost a daily occurrence that someone along the gravel road would come knocking on the door asking to buy a dozen or three. Feeding and watering chickens, chasing them inside at dusk, collecting eggs–we were never more clearly farm girls than when we were doing hen chores. (Except, perhaps, when we were playing on grain trucks and jumping off hay bales. But I digress.)
So, after a few years, Mom decided she’d get a rooster, and save the money she spent every spring on pullets for butchering. Well, it didn’t work. The rooster spent most of his time perched in the tree outside my parents’ window, crowing at progressively more annoying times. And by annoying, I don’t mean 5a.m. I mean 3 a.m., and 2a.m. Finally one night, my mom flipped out. She grabbed a broom, went outside and hurled it up into the tree. The rooster flew down squawking and took off running into the pitch blackness outside the security light. Mom chased him screaming until she couldn’t see where she was going.
We never saw the rooster again, but the next summer, Mom uncovered a pile of feathers down by a grain bin while she was mowing. And that’s when we started telling the story of how Mom scared the rooster to death.