Saturday, November 13, 2010


I don't remember much about the days when my grandparents' farm was thriving but I've heard the stories. It was always fun to sit around the kitchen table where my grandparents and aunt lived. We'd have a cup of coffee made in my aunt's simple coffee pot that only made 6 cups and enjoy whatever delight my grandmother was baking while we listened to the stories about "back then."
"Tell us another one," we'd say. We never could get enough of tho
se stories.

One particular story was told over and over. It had to do with one mean chicken named Baldy. This bird earned the nickname because of the many fights he'd partake in around the barnyard. Baldy ruled the roost if you know what I mean-winning every battle he chose-leaving him "hairless" in the process.

One battle he won every time the opportunity arose was with my oldest brother who was the first grandchild and constantly at the farm. Something tells me he was my grandfather's sidekick around the barn and a frequent passenger in Grampie's old truck. But whenever he was toddling around that barnyard and Baldy spotted him-the scurry began. Baldy would go right for this what had to be strange creature running about his domain with red hair flying and freckles plastering his face. What must have Baldy thought of this intruder at my grandparents' beck and call. Maybe it was jealously; maybe he didn't like foreigners. Whatever Baldy's reason, he would go right after my brother. With his head down and those twigs for legs flying he'd dig right in and chase my brother at high speed leaving clouds of dust and dirt behind him and one little boy screaming. No matter how many times he'd be reprimanded Baldy would do it again and again whenever it became necessary to declare just who was King of the barnyard.

Eventually Baldy earned his own private living quarters at the farm-a small buidling about the size of an outhouse where he lived in exile of fellow foul and one red-headed toddler. I don't know what ever happened to him but Baldy's house (which we family members still refer to it as)remains intact and my brother-to this day-has a fear of chickens-especially bald ones!

1 comment:

  1. My mother used to have a mean old red rooster. My daughter would walk home to her Granny's house from school and every day, that rooster would be waiting for her! He would go down to the fence line before she was even in sight! Old Red was banished from the homestead. We sent him over to the 40 acre ranch where Tara Marie's uncle lived. Uncle Billy took care of Old Red his own way!