The previous story reminds me of the time Walter’s dad, Peter, came to our back door. It was early one summer day. At the time we had a few chickens living in the barn. Dad kept their wings clipped but he needed to do it again as a couple of them, including mom’s favorite rooster, had begun flying out early in the mornings and going over by Peter’s house.
Mom would take me out in to the chicken coop sometimes just to watch the chickens hunt and peck. She loved the roosters too, especially one little Bantam rooster. His feathers must have had thirty or more different colors. I remember sitting in the yard one day counting the colors in that rooster’s tail with mom. She said she thought he could win a prize for having more colors than any other rooster. It is this rooster, mom’s favorite, involved in this story.
The rooster had been waking Peter up for a few mornings and it was making him mad. This particular morning while mom and I were having breakfast we heard a loud knock on the back door. We both went to answer it. There stood Peter on the stoop holding mom’s rooster under his arm. The rooster was clucking but not struggling much as Peter was holding him securely with his elbow.
“Is this your rooster?” he asked. I looked at mom’s face as she answered, “Why, yes it is, has that bad rooster been bothering you Pete?” I don’t remember much about Peter but evidently he wasn’t a nice sort of fellow. I looked at his face waiting for him to answer. He changed his stance, raised that rooster by the neck high into the air and said, “Yep, he’s gotten me up three days in a row, but he won’t be doing it again.” Immediately Peter gave his arm a big crank in a circle and popped that rooster’s neck with a loud snap.
Peter held out the rooster's limp body towards mom. She took it from him looking in disbelief from Peter to the rooster. Peter simply turned and let himself out of the yard. I remember watching mom to see what she would do. She walked over to a lawn chair and sat down dropping the rooster to the grass.
I don’t remember what she did after that but I think we just sat there for a long time. When dad came in from the field I listened as mom told him the whole story from beginning to end. Dad went straight to the barn, found the clippers, and clipped the rest of the chicken’s wings. When all the chickens were safe in the coop he went over and had a “visit” with Peter. When he got back to the house I could hear dad and mom talking. Dad’s voice got louder than usual but I couldn’t hear the words he was saying.
On the farm nothing was ever wasted. We always ate our chickens but dad took that rooster out and buried it next to the barn where we buried our pets.