Cocky | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: Cocky | Previous Challenge Entry
By Sarah Fehr
10/10/14
LEAVE COMMENT ON ARTICLE
SEND A PRIVATE COMMENT
ADD TO MY FAVORITES

Growing up on a farm was a privilege - one that I completely took for granted as a child. I have such pleasant memories of skipping barefoot through the open yard, playing tag in the sweet grass, and catching the pop flies that Dad hit us in the barn yard. Other memories include blood blisters on my heel from dashing my foot on an inconveniently placed pebble, the sickly "squish" of mashing cat poop (barefoot) in the "sweet" grass, and hopefully thrusting up my tattered baseball glove, eyes squinched shut, only to have the ball make direct contact with my two front teeth. And this was long after I had attained those two prized pearlies for Christmas. In other words: no replacements.

For the first five to eight years of my life, our family raised hogs. Although it may be better said that my dad and uncle raised the hogs, while the family complained of the stench. The complaints rose to a clamor of distress when the wind came out of the South Southeast AND the enormous window fan was set to draw air in from the outside.

One of the out-buildings was a traditional-looking, venerable barn near the house. (Thus the odor issues.) Unlike the newer hog houses, this barn had storage areas and a hay mow in addition to pig pens. It also harbored an old rooster, and not a jolly one. Despite his desperate struggle to rule his roost, Dad and Uncle Walt refused to take him seriously and considered him a source of entertainment. And as such, he was targeted for all kinds of teasing and provoking.

One fine, sunny day my five-year-old feet pitter-pattered into the dim barn. I was, no doubt, intent on locating a ball or bat, and as usually was the case, I swung the door shut behind me. Anyone who has experience with aged farm buildings knows that one must, of necessity, pause for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the murkiness before proceeding further. My auditory perception registered the squawking at the same moment that my vision registered the strutting. Of an bristling rooster, that is.

At this point in the tale, my memories grow a little sketchy, which is probably to be expected when a tender young schoolgirl with nowhere to turn faces a vengeful, advancing fowl. Yes, this savvy cock had me backed into a dark corner, my eyes the size of dinner plates in my pale pinched face. Now it may not seem very frightening, but if you have ever been just a few feet tall and standing before a resentful, this-is-my-chance-to-requite-the-human-race type of rooster, you would commiserate appreciably.

Just when I thought it was over for me, who should pop through the door but my knight in shining armor, complete with snowy stallion and jousting stick. Ok, there was no white horse, and the jousting stick was a pitch fork; but in any case, my enraptured eyes perceived a glorious rescuer, complete with plaid shirt, dusty jeans, and a puzzled look: my dad.

I was a brave child. I promptly burst into tears and ran into the house, up to my room, and ensconced myself under the bed sobbing in terror. A few minutes later, I ascertained the sharp "crack" of a rifle and knew that the villain had been dealt his final blow. I had the grace to feel slightly guilty that he had been dispatched because of our mutual encounter. But not too much so.

Ah yes, the warm fuzzies of farm life. The benign lessons about...life and death, eat-or-be-eaten, every man for himself, and - the comfort of a father's love.

PREVIOUS ENTRY | NEXT ENTRY
SUBMIT YOUR ENTRY FOR THIS WEEK'S CHALLENGE

The opinions expressed by authors may not necessarily reflect the opinion of FaithWriters.com.

If you died today, are you absolutely certain that you would go to heaven? You can be right now. CLICK HERE

JOIN US at FaithWriters for Free. Grow as a Writer and Spread the Gospel.