Grandpa Dutch and the Rooster

 

Roger Johnson

 

 

Now there never was a better raconteur than Mr. Tom Wilburn, and he recorded this story

well enough in his Tales. But, to tell you the truth, his version is a speck skimpy and doesn't seem to catch the drama of the whole event, especially the part about the preacher and his mainly famale family.

 

The year was 1938, and the price of cotton was in flux. Congress had just passed the Agricultural Adjustment Act, which sped up the migration of laborors to the North. Maybe that's why, on the Sunday in question, the three brothers, my uncles, were out there tending to cows at dawn. Nobody else was available.

 

Brother Benjamin Collins had just started his first year as a circuit preacher in north Mississippi. The parsonage, such as it was, sat close to Shaeffer’s Chapel, down the road a couple miles from Grandpa’s farm in what we called the prairie. He also served congregations in Artesia, someplace outside Caledonia, and way down in Shuqualak. His wife, Sister Bernice Collins, was a cheerful lady who kept a close eye on their four daughters. They could all load into Brother Ben's well used Model-T for Sunday journeys to the

utlying congregations. The machine was cranky. Its radiator leaked and the springs were pushed flat, but there were plenty of farms with wells to replenish the water, and Sister Bernice had sewn cushions to soften the harsh ride.

Grandpa Dutch was a considerate and loving man, a little hard on the boys but doting on his wife and only daughter. As a teenager he had run away from Bucks County, from his prominent and strict German family, headed west, and turned himself into a cowpoke, hunting guide, and moderately successful gambler. I have a photo of him posing with his wide-brim hat in Deadwood, Dakota Territory. And, yes, he carried a six-gun low on his right thigh. Heading back east, he held south and spent time in New Orleans. He was an astonishing athlete. He earned his keep by running match races—sometimes against local challengers and sometimes, for prizes and bets, against horses. He also wrestled and, despite his short stature, could jump higher than any opponent. With his winnings, he acquired a hotel in the Mississippi Delta but soon sold out and boughta thousand rolling acres across the state, just south of Columbus. It was and still isrich farm land, well watered and productive.

 

Grandpa Dutch rose early on cold mornings to light an oil stove that served as a furnace to heat both water and the bedroom. He would not have it that Grandma should get out of bed in the cold.

 

On this, the rooster’s most difficult Sabbath, the three brothers were already at their morning chores, gloved and dressed warmly against the chill. Brother Ben and his family were just passing up the road, headed for morning service in Artesia, when steam erupted from the radiator. So Brother Ben turned into the circular driveway, knowing that the pump supplying the cattle trough was next to the dairy barn.

 

The oil furnace made a hissing sound and small flames shot out through the vent holes at its base. Grandpa disconnected the hose, wrapped a towel around the stove, and in three steps tossed the fiery contraption through the top half of a screen door toward the gravel driveway. In its arc, the furnace exploded, spraying burning oil down in a circle, harmless but for the unfortunate coincidence that Chauncy, Grandma’s prize rooster, was strutting within that newly described circle. Chauncy did not burst into flame, but some drops of burning oil landed in his luxuriant tail feathers, where they glowed ina sudden blast of morning air. For Chauncy had setoff at a good pace for his favorite place of security and paternal fulfillment, the hay barn.

 

The boys turned to see what commotion there was back at the house. There was fire in the driveway. More amazing was Chauncy trailing a thin stream of white smoke and streaking over the gravel at an angle toward them. But even more spectacular was the sight of their father, red flannel nightshirt whipping around his pumping legs. He was pursuing Chauncy and gaining with every step.

 

A barbed wire fence enclosed the hay barn. Its gate offered entry and exit for vehicles. The flimsy gate was also strung with barbed wire, supported by poles that fit into loops of baling wire at the posts. Chauncy, in full panic, lowered his head to pass under the lowest strand. Grandpa, churning barefoot through the nether part of the driveway, threw up his arms and sailed headfirst over the top strand. Perhaps it was just luck, but more likely the result of careful calculation. Grandpa landed bellybutton high on Chauncy.