The Roosters that Scarred My Life

I hated that rooster and I loved that tractor.

It didn’t start out that way though. My brother Mark bought a hen and two roosters at an auction down the road from our house. The Edward’s home and farm was being sold and all their equipment and miscellaneous farm items were being sold by auction. This was an auction I did not want to miss. They had all sorts of interesting items there and one of the coolest tractors.

All of Barnwell was there at the auction. I was young and the excitement of the crowd was intense. Each item sold was a communal event as the crowd jostled in bidding the jointly approved of each sale to the highest bidder. The auctioneer walked as a great leader, the crowd following, through the farm yard from pile to pile, tractor to implement. Discussion of each item, it’s great value and usefulness, was followed by his unique call. His song was spell binding and I watched intently to see what each person would bid on.

My heart was set on a little Ford tractor. It was a relic of the past. Small and not that powerful, it did not possess a great deal of usefulness for a large farm yet it was beautiful. When the Edwards would race down the road on that tractor I would admire it’s form and speed. They mowed grass for the village with it mostly and so I would see it around. A small blade helped to clear snow in the winter and had cleared out our driveway more than once.

But I loved the way it looked. It had style as well. The era in which it was designed endowed it with streamlined features. It was a small tractor that wanted to be a transcontinental locomotive. It was yearning to go through the skies like a Boeing Stratocruiser. The grill on the front was curved and each piece was properly proportioned. You could be cool on a tractor like that.

The little Ford tractor was sold for an exorbitant price. I knew that everyone there loved that little tractor. The bidding began and the auctioneer raised the price again and again. The crowd was intent and many were hopeful. I felt a pain in my stomach as I realized that it was not likely that it would be coming to our house.

Soon it was down to just two bidders. He looked intent. He must have loved as I did. Perhaps he had sat on a tractor like thatand turned the soil with a plow and mowed the hay.

Going, going...he won the prize. I envied him for his purchase.

The tractor was gone but I was still full of hope. What would be on the block next? We entered an area with chickens. They had some interesting specimens. Not just the plain old white broilers we had. These chickens had color and flair. They pranced about as if on a proud haughty promenade.

My brother Mark was in the crowd when we reached the roosters and the hen. The auctioneer lauded the beauty of these fowl. A rare breed from Poland, we were told. The hen laid eggs with a shell tinted blue. She had beautiful plumage and strutted with grace and confidence. The roosters were strong and showed their colors with contempt for the crowd. I was dazzled.

It seems, however, that only Mark and I had an attraction to these birds. The auctioneer began his bidding song. Mark raised his hand then waited for the onslaught of counter bids and to my surprise none came; my brother became their owner. And with that swift action they entered into my world.

My admiration soon soured.

We already had a coop full of laying hens. Enough that we had more eggs than we could eat. Someone had to collect the eggs daily – it was my duty. To be perfectly honest – I feared the those nasty hens. They had no emotion. Their cold hard beaks were just like their hearts. They would look at me with a blank stare and I could never understand their intentions. When I turned my back to them they would run up to me and peck my leg or just sit there; I never knew which it would be. Their actions seemed unpredictable, yet predictably they were ready to peck when I least expected it.

Upon entering the chicken coop they would often be sitting on their nests and I would have to reach under them to gather the eggs. They wouldn’t fight back but they wouldn’t move either. They would just watch with their cold steely eyes as I pushed my hand under them to search for eggs. Then, I would imagine, they would signal a complicit hen to attack from behind.

So it was, to this group of criminal hens that we added our Polish hen and two roosters.

The hen was quite a lady. She had a delicate little hat of dark black/blue feathers that came out of her head like a fountain. Those feathers shimmered in the light and danced with her movements. She had more gravitas than any of the other hens and seemed to easily become the lady of the coop. How could the other hens even compete?

The roosters gained quite a different domain. They were not allowed into the coop or the chicken run. We had no need of fertilized eggs. They remained on the outside and soon found their calling as a protector of their harem of hens. A small but effective regiment willing to risk all to maintain the sanctity of the run and coop. Ready to thwart all intruders – they became my nemesis.

I had enemies within the coop and now I also had to contend with these dedicated warriors outside the coop. My chore was transformed into a war. It was a guerilla war fought by ambush and unimaginable attacks on me - the innocent bystander. I bullied by two little birds with showy feathers. However, they did more than peck me when I turned my back. Without warning one would ambush me in a furry of feathers and dust – talons flared, digging into my calf his beak would attempt to disassemble my leg muscles. Repeated assaults would convince me there was some magical power in those little feathery soldiers.

I was no match for these little roosters. The reality was that I was in their grip – clasped in their cold little clawed foot. They guarded that chicken run and coop with a vigilance unmatched by any human army. I feared their territory and only the constant prodding of my mom and dad would make me return.

I determined that these evil tyrants must be unmasked and be known for what they were – evil roosters. Yet, in vain I plead with my parents and brothers. They ridiculed my pain. My one ally, my sister, was equally terrorized by the rascally roosters and together we were nothing in the face of such monsters. I was fighting a loosing war.

My liberation was sudden and I played no important role. As if almost by chance, without any plan or forethought, my dad was walking by the dark kingdom, shovel in hand, on his way to the barn. The Generalissimos launched a sudden and severe attack. Attempting to defend the darling hens he flew at my dad with all his might. With one swift motion my dad smacked him on the head with the shovel. He toppled over – dead.

I continued to gather those eggs – I no longer feared the silly little hens with their pesky pecking. I had seen worse and known greater fears.

Earlier that spring I had watched a an auction – enjoyed the thrill of waiting to see who wanted each item more. I intensely listened to the auctioneers song and watched the nods of those who were bidding. Then, as a by-stander, the tractor I so loved went one way and tyrants came another.