Beech Tree News Network

Red had a head the size of a backhoe bucket, and he packed a set of spurs that bore a close likeness to railroad spikes. Given all of this, Red was still a certified COWARD. He would sneak-up on your blindside or get you when your back was turned. Had he lived in the Old West, he would have been classified as a "backshooter." He refused to face you head-on, especially if he thought you were carrying any "difference."

Red was a big Rhode Island Red rooster belonging to Mister Tom and Miz Fannie Stobuck, who lived out the lane about a cow-bawl from us, over on the hill. My daddy was made manager of a country mercantile store and no longer had time to milk. My mother couldn't, so we bought milk and butter from Miz Fannie after we sold our cow. I encountered Red on one of my first trips on the milk and butter run. I was wearing a brand-new pair of denim overall pants, with tan button-down flaps on all the pockets . . . in one of which I had securely tucked Miz Fannie's milk money. I was proud of my pants. They looked like cowboy britches. Red could have cared less about my cowboy get-up. He came out of nowhere, jumped me, and ripped a good-sized gash in my pants and in my leg. The pants didn't bleed; my leg did.

Red had had his fun. It was time for pay-back . . . Judgement Day was coming. My mother told me to carry a big stick the next time I went. I found a tobacco stick at the barn and took it on my next trip. I determined I was going to give Red an attitude adjustment if I could get in a good lick on him. But seeing the stick I carried, he always dodged me. Then I went on the offensive, once I chased him back into the chicken yard and cornered him. Before I could swing my weapon, the cowardly sneak squalled and jumped the fence.

From time to time when I arrived T Miz Fannie's I would spot Red hiding an peeping out from behind his cover, now that I carried a weapon. That's the way cowards are. Red was mean, but he was smart. Smart enough to know when he was well-off, and smart enough he wanted to see his next birthday. Once Miz Fannie admonished me not to seriously "hurt my rooster." I didn't promise anything; I thought to myself, "If I can get to his head just right, he won't hurt long."

From then on as long as I carried my headache stick, there was a shaky truce between Red and me . . . my big stick against his spurs. His spurs were sharp, but MY STICK WAS BIGGER.

Mister Tom came over to my daddy's store one night, as he usually did. He said to daddy, "You can tell Don to rest easy about the red rooster, we had him for Sunday dinner."

Kindest regards . . .