ROOSTER RAGE - Segment 4 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

    

     Oblivious to the escalating tension between Rudy and me, Gramps would frequently say, “Wake, I want you to go out to the hen house and collect some eggs.”  The thought of venturing into that place sent chills down my spine.

    
     “But Gramps,” I’d plead, “I only collect baseball cards.   Besides, I don’t know anyone who trades eggs.  Maybe you could call in a S.W.A.T. team.  I’m sure they could get the eggs.”

    
     Gramps would shake his head and say, “My stars, I wonder if that boy will ever amount to anything.”

    
     I knew I would never amount to anything if Rudy caught me before I could start amounting.  I really don’t know why I was afraid to go into the hen house, because Rudy was never there.  He was always out looking for me.

     To go from the house to any other point on the ranch, you had to consider the possibility of a confrontation with Rudy, so I always tried to know his whereabouts before venturing outdoors.

    
     Before leaving the house, I would go to every window, upstairs and downstairs, to pinpoint his location.  I’d look out the front window…he was there.  I’d look out the back window…he was there.  I’d check the side window…he was there.  I was surrounded by an omnipresent, psychotic attack rooster.

    
     To get out, I would need to distract Rudy.  I searched the house for grenade launchers, but found none.  Deciding on a massive air strike, I ran upstairs, got out the water balloons, and filled them to the point of bursting.  I was ready.  I opened the window and started launching a full-scale attack.  I felt like the mad bomber, trying to conceal his hysterical laughter.  Rudy was running everywhere, as my bombs were splattering all around him.  Finally, he disappeared.  After a long silence, and not seeing him anywhere, I decided it was safe to make a break for it.  No sooner had I stepped outside and shut the door, than Rudy magically appeared in all his radiant beauty, wings spread and flapping, preparing himself for a bodily assault.

To be continued...check back soon

ROOSTER RAGE - Segment 3  (Scroll down for earlier segments)  

   With Rudy patrolling the grounds, there was no need for a guard dog.  Anyone venturing onto the ranch unexpectedly was Rooster bait.  It happened to my friend, Alan.  One morning he thought he would come by and ask if I could play ball.  I happened to see him coming through the yard, whistling merrily as he made his way to the front door.  I panicked.  Without notice, I had no time to distract Rudy.  It was too late.  There was sudden silence, followed by several shrieks that reverberated through the morning quiet.  Looking out the window, I saw Alan roar by, followed closely by the “Evil” rooster.  It appeared Alan might set a new land speed record for the barnyard, previously held by me.  After zigzagging around numerous farm implements, and making several nice loops around the house, Alan spotted me holding the back door open.  He roared in, huffing and puffing.  I slammed the door shut. 

     “That was close,” said Alan, badly shaken, but heaving a sigh of relief. 

     “At least he didn’t get your lunch money,” I answered.           

     Apparently, there were problems in the hen house, because Rudy always had a bad attitude.  He loved taking out his frustrations on someone smaller…me.  I called it "Rooster Rage."

     Rumor had it that Rudy was upset because chickens were disappearing.  None of them wanted to be the next to have their picture on an egg carton, with the caption “Have you seen this missing chicken?"  If you know the whereabouts of this chicken, please contact your local poultry authority.”  I was certain I had seen several on the dinner table, but with tension already running high I was afraid to say anything for fear of retaliation.  I didn’t want to be found bound and gagged in the hen house, with a ransom on my head.  And I knew Rudy wouldn’t be willing to exchange me for chicken on a platter.  The prospect of having my youthful life come to an abrupt end in the hen house kept me quiet.   

  

ROOSTER RAGE - Segment 2 (Scroll down for previous segment)

    Rudy was the barnyard bully at Gramps Camp.  I would have preferred going to a basketball camp, even a Christmas tree wrestling camp, but Gramps Camp was free. 

     Anyone who visited Gramps Camp knew the “Law of the Camp”---between you and having fun was a varied assortment of barnyard assailants. It was there that I learned to run like the wind.  The steeple chase and relay run were nothing compared to the rooster chase and bull run.

     The “rooster chase” had a profound effect on my life, leading to years of trauma therapy. (My wife is still hoping I’ll have a full recovery.)  The chase involved Gramps’ big white attack rooster, Rudy, who I was certain had escaped from a maximum security prison for roosters.  He had little beady eyes and a slasher beak to go along with his lethal talons.  Judging from Rudy’s size, I figure he must have been the first rooster on steroids. 

     Every time we would drive into Gramps Camp and park, I would go through my usual routine; palpitating heart, sweaty palms, nervous twitching….At the same time, I would be peering out the car windows in every direction, looking for Rudy.  Not seeing him, I would very quietly open the car door and step outside, making sure to hold onto the car, to prevent my wobbly knees from buckling.  Steadying myself, and gaining all the strength I could muster, I would sprint like a BB shot for the back door of the farmhouse.  Once inside, I would peek out the window.  There would be Rudy, standing in the middle of the yard.  When he saw me, he would wink a beady eye and flash one of his talons.  I tried to convince Gramps he was harboring a felon who had served time in the slammer for harassing little kids.  The least he could do was outfit Rudy with a beeper so I would always know his whereabouts.  Gramps would just smile and continue reading his paper.   

ROOSTER RAGE - Opening segment (Scroll down for previous chapter)

  

     Bentley lived on a sprawling five acre farm, where he and his wife, Emma Lou, raised two children and a large herd of sheep.  Bentley said it was much easier raising the sheep.  They were easier for their dog to herd and they cost less to feed.

     He was always bragging about the blue ribbons his kids won every year at the county fair.  “Next year we’re going to enter a couple of sheep,” he boasted.  “Hopefully they’ll show as well as the kids.”

     My wife and I, and our two children, also lived on a five acre farm, although it wasn’t sprawling like Bentley’s farm.

     The fact that we were just raising our children on the farm bothered Bentley; not that they weren’t blue ribbon quality, but that we were wasting good space not raising something else. 

     “You need to get yourself some chickens,” Bentley said one day.    

     “Do they come with a rooster?” I asked.

     “You gotta have a rooster with chickens,” he went on.

     “No thanks,” I answered. “Five acres isn’t enough room for a rooster.”

     Bentley was unaware of my tormented past…with Rudy, Gramps’ demon-possessed rooster. 

SMOKE IN THE VALLEY - Final segment (Scroll down for earlier segments)

   

  As cars, filled with curious onlookers, began lining the road leading to the ranch, Lester and I went upstairs for a brief moment of quiet reflection, followed by a lengthy bout of hysterical sobbing.  The fact that we had already outdrawn the carnival was of little solace.

     In a bedroom, overlooking the blazing barn fire, we considered our future, or what was left of our future.  It was very possible that we had only a few hours left to live.  In case our parents spared our lives, we calculated how long we would be in prison, with time off for good behavior---not starting anymore fires.  We figured we might be allowed to see each other by the time we were in our late sixties.  For certain, we would go down in infamy as the two young boys responsible for the Great Happy Valley Barn Fire.  Historians could not blame this one on a cow.  The cows rejoiced, while Lester and I waited to see if we had a future beyond the fourth grade.

 

SMOKE IN THE VALLEY -  Segment 7 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     “Sure seems odd,” Mom said.  “I haven’t heard any thunder or seen any lightning, but I definitely smell smoke.”

     I braced myself for a close encounter with lightning, as I blurted out, “Could we have a bucket of water?”

     It was a direct hit.

     “Is the barn on fire?” asked Mom.  I barely had “yes” out of my mouth, when nonchalant disappeared, and all the action went into fast-forward.     

     Grams instantly came down with a “sick” headache, and headed for the couch to lie down, while Mom ran to the phone to call the fire department.  Being a very small town with only a volunteer fire department, you had to plan a time when everyone was available…like “Fire by Appointment only.” Unfortunately, we hadn’t scheduled the barn fire, so it would be awhile before they arrived.  Meanwhile, Gramps had seen the smoke and traced it to the barn with little trouble.  He was now on his way to the fire carrying a bucket of water.  I was just hoping he would look on the bright side.  He could have a nice crop of roasted marshmallows. 

SMOKE IN THE VALLEY - Segment 6 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     “Let’s get a blanket!” I yelled at Lester.  “Maybe that will smother the fire.”

     “I’ve never seen a blanket that large!” he yelled back.

     “Maybe we should roll on it!”

     “Are you kidding?! Lester yelled again.  “I don't care for fire-roasted cowboy, especially when I'm the cowboy being roasted."    

     “It might be better than facing our parents!”     

     While we formed a committee to sort out our options, the fire was spreading rapidly, causing us to fear for our safety.  With all the hay going up in flames, the cows had already resigned themselves to “ordering out.” 

     Smoke was now billowing out of the barn.  We figured someone might suspect something, so we decided we would go to the house and get a bucket of water.  The fire was far beyond the bucket-of-water stage, but we’d run out of other ideas.

     We wanted to run and scream “FFIIIIIRRRRREEEEE!!!”, but we knew that would just cause alarm, so we practiced acting nonchalant. 

     After several rehearsals, we nonchalantly walked into the kitchen where Mom and Grams were busy canning, and talking about the dangerous-looking storm clouds that were filling the valley.

     “Looks like we’re in for a bad storm,” said Grams.

     “Maybe worse than that,” piped Lester.

SMOKE IN THE VALLEY - Segment 5 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

“This is perfect,” I said.  I found just enough space where I thought we might be able to have a good campfire.  Then I bunched up a small pile of loose hay.   Hoping for better success than my previous attempt, I lit the match and threw it on my pile of hay.  The match was delighted!  In less than a nanosecond, we had a roaring fire.  Neither I, nor Lester, had planned for such success.  An instant blaze was staring us in the face.  We looked at the fire…looked at each other…then formulated a quick plan of action---PANIC!

     Not wanting to create a big scene or disturb anyone, we panicked as quietly as possible, standing temporarily frozen and wide-eyed, cradling our chins with both hands, so they wouldn’t hit the ground.  We considered getting out, but remembered you were never supposed to leave a fire unattended.  “Maybe we can find someone to watch it,” wailed Lester, “while we sneak out of the country!”

     “Right,” I answered.  “Maybe one of the cows would keep an eye on it.”

     I knew if we didn’t take some action soon, we were going to be Cowboy Shish Kabob.  Since I had already passed on preventive action, our only choice was to smother the fire immediately.  So I grabbed a big pile of hay and threw it on the blaze.  Don’t ever do that!  The fire exploded into a roaring inferno!

 

SMOKE IN THE VALLEY - Segment 4 (Scroll down for earlier segments)

     Taking the matches, we tiptoed quietly back downstairs and outside, being careful not to disturb Mom and Grams in their canning.

     Once outside, we hurried back to our campsite in the bullpen, anxious to start our campfire; at least, I was anxious.  Some of the cows had strolled over to watch, probably hoping we’d invite them in for a sing-a-long.  I took out one of the matches and struck it, but without success.  I tried match number two, then three…four.  After exhausting a book of matches, I realized we’d gotten more heat banging two rocks together.

     Our dilemma called for aggressive action---a heart-stopping idea.  “I was just thinking…maybe we should use some hay.”  Lester wrinkled his face and started to get a bit fidgety.  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he volunteered.

     “You’re right,” I said.  “We’ll just go to the barn.  There’s plenty of hay there; no use hauling it over here.”

     I sat on Lester for about fifteen minutes, until his nervous jitters subsided.  Then he followed me to the barn, still tugging a bit at my shoulder and almost dislocating it.

     Arriving at the barn, we found it full of hay, from top to bottom, and end to end.