The Oh, Otis Shenanigans

Episode 11 A Chicken, A Bed, and Some Scoop Shovels

BY Temple Kinyon

“That’s a really bad idea,” Otis stated righteously.

“Oh, Otis, you’re no fun!” Otis’s cousin LeRoy laughed.

“I’m pretty sure it can’t swim.”

“It’s a bird!” his other cousin, Bertie, retorted. “Birds can swim. Ducks, swans, geese...”

“But it’s a chicken,” Otis interrupted.

LeRoy and Bertie looked at Otis, and for a moment he thought they would chicken out. Instead, Bertie nudged LeRoy in the ribs with her elbow.

“Do it! Do it!” she urged.

An impish smile curled onto LeRoy’s face. He casually walked up behind one of the stray chickens pecking about Ed and Helen’s barnyard. He bent down slowly and enveloped it in a big bear hug. The chicken offered no resistance.

Otis’s cousin didn’t live on a farm, yet he knew how to catch a chicken. Impressed, Otis took note for future reference.

Otis’s youngest cousin, Charlotte, stood next to him; they were several feet away from LeRoy and Bertie. They watched LeRoy holding the chicken walk nonchalantly up to the large watering trough typically used to quench the thirst of Ed and Helen’s horses.

“It’s hot,” LeRoy pointed out. “This chicken will feel so good after she has a little dip.”

He made a good argument. Mid-July always brought on a haze of heat and a hint of extra humidity to the Swan farm. It also brought on a family tradition that dictated all the Swans, near and far, converge at Ed and Helen’s during those in-between days of after haying and before harvest. This particular weekend also boasted the town’s annual Community Days.

With 8 more adults and 17 grandchildren congregated at Ed and Helen’s, there was bound to be some chaos. But even Otis knew that a chicken drowning crossed the line between shenanigan and catastrophe.

In one last-ditch effort to save his bacon—and the chicken—Otis firmly stated, “Grandpa Ed and Grandma Helen are going to get mad if you let that chicken drown.”

“Yeah!” Charlotte added.

LeRoy looked at Otis and Charlotte, smiled, and stretched his arms out. The chicken hung suspended over the trough, oblivious. (No one ever said a chicken was a quick thinker.) LeRoy let go and dropped it into the watery abyss.

It sank.

After a beat, a small string of bubbles floated to the surface, but nothing else happened. LeRoy and Bertie looked at each other, shrugged, and bent over to peer closer to the underwater fowl. Finally, the hen figured out what was happening and somehow managed to flail its way to the surface in a frenzy of feathers and water, showering the two would-be assassins. It flapped and flopped, trying to get out of the trough to no avail. LeRoy and Bertie stood slack-jawed doing nothing.

“What in Sam Hill is going on here!” Grandma Helen roared around the corner of the barn, rolling pin in hand, hollering at the top of her lungs. LeRoy and Bertie jumped and whirled around as Otis started to dart off in the opposite direction. Charlotte was nowhere in sight.

“HOLD IT RIGHT THERE, OTIS BARNABAS SWAN!” Grandma Helen only shouted middled names when a situation reached code-red critical status.

Otis stopped short, took a gulp of air for courage, and slowly faced his grandma. He noticed the rolling pin in her hand and prayed it was because she had been making pies in the kitchen with his mom and aunties. “I didn’t do it, Grandma!”

“I don’t want to hear a word from you, young man,” she admonished. “Go save that hen!” Otis darted over to the trough and flailing fowl, unsurewhat to do. He’d never had to save a drowning chicken before. He attempted to lean in and apply the bear hug maneuver like LeRoy had, but these were very different circumstances. The chicken gurgled and emitted an alarmed cock-a-doodle as its wings flapped wildly, splashing about. Otis quickly jumped into the trough, put his hands under the chicken, and launched it out of the water. It landed unceremoniously next to the trough in a soggy heap of ruffled plumage.

“I think it’s alive,” Otis feebly offered, hoisting himself out of the trough.

Ed raced full speed around the corner of the barn and, in an expert swoop of his arm, grabbed the chicken and hugged it to his chest. Its eyes bulging told him all he needed to know. He scowled at the three Swan grandchildren, and ominously said nothing.

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“The three of you march your fannies up to attic and think about what you’ve done,” Grandma Helen barked. “Your grandfather and I will deal with you later. Now git!”

Otis, LeRoy and Bertie sulked their way into the house. Otis’s mom, Mavis, along with the aunties, stopped working on pie fillings and crusts to eye the damp, naughty children.

“Oh, Otis, what did you do?” Mavis groaned.

“I didn’t do anything, Mom!” he wailed. “I told them it was a bad idea!”

The screen door slammed shut as Grandma Helen entered the kitchen. “You stood right there and let it happen, Otis, and that’s just as bad!”

“But I didn’t…” Otis’s pleas to save himself fell on deaf ears as the Swan women stood, arms folded over their chests, daring the trio to utter any more defenses.

“Attic!” Grandma Helen ordered with a stern finger pointing the way.

Defeated, the three marched up the stairs to the attic, which held a conglomeration of twin, full, and bunk beds set up for all the grandchildren to sleep when visiting their grandparents. Otis took his usual spot when he visited, in the twin bed under the window. He curled up in a ball with his back to LeRoy and Bertie. They had taken residence on twin beds in the corner.

“Thanks for getting me into trouble,” he grumbled.

“Sorry, Otis,” LeRoy offered, “but Grandma Helen was so mad I didn’t dare say anything.”

“I’ll tell Grandma that you really did tell us not to do it,” Bertie piped up.

“It wouldn’t help at this point, but thanks,” Otis replied.

The three laid in their respective spots, quietly contemplating the afternoon’s happenings. The room was a bit stuffy from the July heat and lack of air conditioning. The whir of a fan that stayed on continuously to keep the room from getting stagnant lulled Otis to sleep.

He was awakened by a distinct sound. Creak-ah. No one knew how old the beds in the attic were, but they definitely weren’t new, and they all had their own distinct noises that emitted from the aging bed springs andframes. Otis had spent enough time sleeping over at his grandparents to know which bed made which sound. He snuggled back down, ignoring the noise. Creak-ah, creak-ah, creak-ah. Otis’s eyes flew open. He knew LeRoy was awake and on the move. Squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK joined in the rhythm, which came from Bertie’s bed.

Creak-ah, creak-ah, creak-ah, squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK. Without even rolling over to see, Otis knew what his cousins were up to. He let it go for a about a minute. Creak-ah, creak-ah, creak-ah, squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK. Repositioning himself, Otis confirmed his suspicions by eyeing his two cousins bouncing on their beds, facing each other.

Here it comes, Otis thought. And he was right.

The two Swans launched themselves into the air, crossed next to each other mid-flight, and landed on the other’s bed, never missing a beat. Creak-ah, creak-ah, creak-ah, squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK. Their bouncing momentum allowed them to spin in the air and face each other again, never stopping. Creak-ah, creak-ah, creakah, squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK. They silently acknowledged each other once more and jumped back to their original bed. Over and over this bouncing from one bed to the other continued. Creak-ah, creak-ah, creak-ah, squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK.

“Uh, guys,” Otis interjected. “You better knock it off. Grandma Helen doesn’t allow us to jump on the beds.” Creak-ah, creak-ah, creak-ah, squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK. “Oh, Otis,” LeRoy said. “They’re busy downstairs; they can’t hear us. They’re pie making.”

Every year the Friday before Community Days, Helen and her daughters-in-law made several pies to raffle off for the church. There would be flour misting the air, rolling pins flying, fruits and creams mixed with gusto, meringues whipped into a frenzy, and a stream of golden-brown delights coming out of the oven for hours. Another layer of noise from the attic would only mingle with the baking din, the women chatting, and Grandma Helen’s radio playing just loud enough to fill any gaps in the ruckus. Every now and then one of the Swan ladies would sing along with oldies from Hank Williams or Patsy Cline. LeRoy was spot on—there was no way in God’s green earth the women would hear the creak-ahs and squee-EEKs.

“C’mon, Otis” Bertie invited breathlessly. “We could jump to your bed, too. It’ll be fun!”

Otis contemplated. Jumping on the bed was against the rules, but the odds of getting caught were slim. For a split second, he tried to add up the possible infraction of getting caught jumping on the bed added to the impending chicken-drowning punishment. He couldn’t imagine it would be that big of a deal to jump on the bed, so he recklessly scrambled to his feet. He began with a slow up and down motion without his feet leaving the mattress. He had to get his legs ready to jump. Creak-ah, creak-ah, creak-ah. Squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK. Otis upped his tempo and joined the ensemble. Eeee-ERR, eeee-ERR, eeee-ERR.

The three hopped on their respective mattresses, looking at each other in sheer bliss. The thrill of the actual activity was only matched by the naughtiness of it all.

“Ok, on the count of three, we go,” LeRoy instructed. “Bertie, you come to my bed, I’ll jump to Otis’s bed, and Otis, you go to Bertie’s bed. Got it?”

“Got it!” Otis and Bertie chimed in unison.

Creak-ah, creak-ah, creak-ah.

Squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK.

Eeee-ERR, eeee-ERR, eeee-ERR.

“One…two…THREE!”

The cohorts flew into the air with enough momentum to propel them to their landing pads. Success!

“Let’s see how long we can do it without stopping,” Bertie suggested. The giggling and jumping combined to create a circus-like atmosphere in the attic; three youngsters in perfect rhythm, the harmony of their box springs generating a concert of old metallic tones. They leaped and landed with the precision of a synchronized swimming team.

“Let’s go faster!” Bertie squealed.

“OK!” Otis and LeRoy squealed back.

Around and around the jocularity continued, creak-ah, creak-ah, creak-ah, squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK, eeee-ERR, eeee-ERR, eeee-ERR, over and over again, faster and faster, each rotation more furious than the last, again and again, creak-ah, creak-ah, creak-ah, squee-EEK, squee-EEK, squee-EEK, eeee-ERR, eeee-ERR, eeee-ERR. The bottom half of LeRoy’s bed slammed to the floor with tremendous force, careening Bertie off sideways toward the wall. The unforeseen disaster happened so swiftly, LeRoy—in midair bounce—couldn’t course-correct. He landed in the middle of the cattywampus mattress and smacked into Bertie as she ricocheted off the wall. They dropped to the floor like two lead balloons, landing in a heap between the busted bed and wall. As if in slow-motion, Otis hung in the air, already headed to Bertie’s bed, unable to take his eyes off the calamity. He refocused on his intended target too late, however, and the miscalculation of not watching what he was doing made his touch-down connect on the edge of the bed rather than the center, which hurtled him into the air in an unintended direction above nothing but the worn, woven rug covering the open section of wood floor in the middle of the room. He rocketed down toward the rug, his velocity causing him to hit the floor and take a bounce, crashing into one of the bunk beds. He ended up flat on his back, out of breath, staring at the ceiling. But what caught his attention wasn’t LeRoy or Bertie groaning on the opposite side of the room. It was a wailing coming from under the annihilated heap of mattress, box spring, and bed frame. A combination of pain, fear, and despair poured out in waves.

“Holy hell, it’s Charlotte!” Otis scooted over to the portion of the bed still resting in its frame. He peered under the bed and saw little Charlotte laying on her back, sobbing, and blood gushing from above her left eyebrow. Otis reached for her hand and yanked, the wooden floor offering a slick surface for her to effortlessly slide out from under the wrecked bed. She’d stopped crying for a moment and looked at Otis, wide-eyed.

“What happened?” she squeaked LeRoy and Bertie regained their wits, grabbed a handful of tissues from the box on the nightstand, and rushed over to render aid to their injured cousin. Bertie pressed the pink wad to the oozing gash.

They each wore battle scars of their mischief—Charlotte was bleeding, LeRoy was developing a black right eye, Bertie had a rosy lump forming on her forehead, and Otis, well, his injury didn’t show, but his rump sure smarted from his collision with the floor and the bed.

“Shhhhhh!” Bertie commanded in a loud whisper. “Maybe they didn’t hear.”

“Maybe they didn’t hear?!?” Otis hissed. “The bed broke! They’re not deaf!”

The gang of four heard it at the same time, several sets of feet barging up the wooden stairs in a flurry. Grandma Helen led the charge as she burst through the bedroom door, Mavis, and Aunt Patty hot on her heels. They stopped abruptly to survey the scene. “Just what in Sam Hill is going on up here?!” Grandma Helen demanded.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Otis muttered under his breath, unfortunately, a little too loudly.

“OTIS BARNABUS!”

Otis cringed as his middle name erupted from his mother’s mouth. Mavis marched over to her youngest son and grabbed him by the ear, hoisting him immediately to his feet. “Don’t you dare talk back to your grandmother like that. Apologize this instant!”

“Sorry, Grandma,” he looked at the elder in complete surrender. He’d never been more busted in his life.

“I’ll deal with YOU later,” Grandma Helen huffed as she stomped over to inspect Charlotte’s cut. She glared at LeRoy and Bertie, and they took their cue to scurry out of the way.

Aunt Patty barked, “What in tarnation were the four of you thinking, jumping on the bed? That’s never been allowed!” Otis took a step away from Mavis and clustered with his cousins in a “band of brothers” gesture. Unlike the swimming chicken incident, he was knee-deep in this one, a willing participant in the unbridled fun—and it had been fun. Grandma Helen, Mavis, and Aunt Patty led Charlotte toward the door to the bathroom for medical attention, and the three offenders mumbled their sorries to her.

“It’s ok,” Charlotte smiled. “You didn’t know I was under the bed.”

“What were you doing under there, anyway?” Otis asked.

“I saw what was going down with that chicken and scrammed before Grandma saw me,” she smirked. “I hid just in case.”

“She’s the youngest, but maybe the smartest,” LeRoy muttered. Otis, LeRoy and Bertie stood for a moment looking at each other. Bertie made a tiny, almost imperceptible snicker. Then Otis snorted. Then LeRoy sniggered. Deep belly laughs spewed from them. Tears ran down their rosy cheeks as they gasped for air and fell into a pile of fits and-giggles. “THIS IS NOT FUNNY,” Grandma Helen stormed back into the room. “I’m astonished you find this so amusing. Poor Charlotte might have to get stitches.” The threesome continued their uncontrollable outburst. The Swan adults had made that threat a kajillion times to every Swan child at one time or another, and only ONE time did someone have to get stitches due to a careless flick of a pocketknife resulting in a deeply cut finger that wouldn’t stop hemorrhaging after three hours and eight bloodied hankies later…Grandpa Ed.

“March yourselves down those stairs and out to the barn,” Grandma Helen ordered, pointing the way. “Your Grandpa Ed will give you something to laugh about.” The three amigos clumped their way down the stairs, no longer trying to stop the merriment coming out in fits and bursts. A severe punishment was coming, so why not enjoy their last moments of freedom. Helen strode ahead of the kids, making sure to be the one to tell Ed and the rest of the Swan males what had happened. The men had started out with serious intentions of actually “cleaning the barn” that afternoon while the women made pies, but with a little nip here and a little sip there of Ed’s homemade elixir, they hadn’t gotten far. Upon hearing the tragic tale of Charlotte and the Broken Bed, Ed assured Grandma Helen that he would handle it. She gave the children a satisfied, “humph,” and went back to the house and pie making.

Ed looked at the children with a grandfatherly sternness. “Seems the three of you can’t seem to stay out of trouble today.” The three delinquents stared back, but again, hilarity took hold, and they orbited into another fit of wild hysterics. Their antics in a time of facing potential trouble shocked the men, who started laughing at the audacity of it all. Soon, the entire barn was filled with great gusts of hooting and howling. After several minutes of jocularity, Ed finally composed himself. “I think an almost drowned chicken, a broken bed, and some bloodshed calls for some stall cleaning,” he stated with a smirk on his face.

“Noooooooo,” Otis, LeRoy, and Bertie moaned.

“Yep, yep,” Ed giggled. “Grab a scoop shovel. Those horse stalls aren’t going to empty themselves.” The three cousins slowly made their way to the first stall, heads down in defeat, each dragging behind them a pooper-scooper as the Swan men continued to snicker. It was now time to face the music…and the manure. Ed followed behind Otis, LeRoy, and Bertie. “And after you finish the stalls, we’ll take a walk over to the chicken coop…then there’s the cowpies in the front pasture…Gus’s kennel needs attention…and the pig pen…”