Excerpt



The first childhood remembrance occurred on a farm twenty miles south of Fremont, Michigan. Mom yelled at me playing near the tall windmill.

Cliff. Do you think you can chop off the head of a chicken? I want to roast it for Sunday dinner. Youve done it a few times. Pick out a yellow feathered one. It has more meat than a Leghorn.

Okay, I yelled back. Grandpa and Dad had chopped down a big tree and left the stump near the windmill. I always used that stump to lay the head on when I chopped through the neck. I used the long wire thing with a hook upon it and snagged a big hen. It had a bigger comb, too; so it must be a fat one which Mom wanted.

The thing flopped a lot and it was hard to lay the darn neck down, while holding the hatchet in my left hand. Finally after wrestling with the feathered stupid fowl, I thought the creature was still long enough so I swung the hatchet at the neck.

I hit the neck, just a little. There was a lot of blood and I wondered why as the fowl had flapped its wings, squawked a lot, and then hurried off the stump. Then I saw the red stuff oozing out my wrist. I had slashed my right hand wrist real deep!

Mom! Mom! I tried to scream, but didnt as was scared of maybe dying from the slashed wrist. She was hanging up washed clothes a ways from me and came running. Then when seeing me holding my hand with the red stuff pouring out the hole, she wrapped a small towel around my hand and tied a big knot.

We have to get you to Fremont for the doctor to sew the hole in your knuckle, she said. You didnt kill the chicken, did you?

No, Mom, I replied, pointing to a chicken squawking. Thats it over there making a noise.

Mom looked at the chicken and then at me. Thats a rooster, not a hen. She stated. The way she looked at me I knew I had done something real bad.

You should be thankful its not dead, she continued. Hes one of Dads favorite roosters.

We went toward the house and she rang the dinner bell, but this time it was the alarm bell that something was wrong. Guess Grandpa was in the barn as he got to us quick.

Since it was Saturday, they put me in Dads Ford Sedan and rushed me to Fremont. The doctor took some stitches in my wrist (dont know how many as of this date seventy years later), and we went home. Later Dad wondered why one of his favorite roosters had a cut in his neck?

Today at age of eight-nine, I have a scar on my right knuckle.