KARMA SPEAKS

TRUE FEAR, A ROOSTER TALE

BY DENISE “KARMA” CLIFFORD

Can I just say that one will never know true fear, until being attacked by a rooster. This is something that stays with you for all of your days. How do I know this you ask? Well let me take you back, way back to the days of a girl who wore old hand me down overalls, boots and a dusting of dirt, grease and hay particles as a cloak. As a kid it was my job to collect eggs, and keep the chickens fed. Not such a hard task, you may say to yourself. But you probably have never been eye to eye with a rooster, his talons and pure fear in your heart. It didn’t start out this way, in fact I loved taking care of the chickens. As a lonely little girl who moved to an old country home where there was a mean old goat, a Jersey cow named sugar, and one ole white chicken running around alone. Of course she needed a friend.

As two lost Souls wandering around, I made it my job to entertain this chicken. “Don’t chase that chicken!” I would hear from the same direction as the hammering, or the welder. “You will give that chicken a heart attack.” It was never said don’t figure out a way to catch the chicken, just don’t chase her. I’m not sure how long it took, hours or days in convincing the bird we were friends, but I did. The exact day is And will forever be etched in my head, as it has become folklore And handed down as the tale of the day I had a standoff with my mother at the front door, chicken in hand. I wanted to bring her inside. I had been left home with no bike, you see my brother and Shelly were sent to get my mom cigarettes, Because her car wouldn’t start.

Back then you show up at the gas station and let Harold know your mom needs smokes. He would smile, hand over the cigarettes, sometimes a lollipop, and utter “say hello to your mom, Shirley for me.” This time tho, I was left at

home. So I walked out back, picked up my chicken and proceeded up the creaky ole front steps to enter the kitchen. All would have been grand if my mother wasn’t pacing the floor having nicotine withdrawals waiting for her loot. So of course when she heard me staggering up the stairs, reaching for the door, she immediately came to see. I stood there for hours, listening to the horrors of what my mom was going to do to me when I put that chicken down, so I couldn’t. I Jist stood there. The chicken never did come inside, but from then on the chicken and I understood our friendship and thus began the beginning of my love for chickens.

It was not too long after that that my dad Inherited a flock of chickens. We also received eggs to incubate in the cellar, where the fat fluffy cat Ashley was standing guard the day they began to hatch. Another tale for the books as he ate until his belly dragged upon the floor and tiny yellow fathers hung from his grin, like a badge of accomplishment. My mother again fell over ranting about “Kerry’s gonna kill this cat when he gets home!” Although he never did.

Time lapse to adult chicks, hens as well as roosters were hatched. When the roosters matured and became territorial it was time to thin the herd so to speak. Did you know chickens really do run around with their heads cut off. I learned that to be fact as I crept out of my bedroom window to see why I wasn’t included in the festivities. My brother still calls it the bloodbath massacre. He was there to help reduce the male population in the flock, and we were able to fill our freezer. I can still hear my mother’s voice “oh I’m not eating that, I’ll only eat store bought chicken!” And that’s exactly what she did. She wasn’t much of a farmer. She grew up in Rochester, on Joseph Ave. So the farm and her always had some underlying issue they needed to come

“Can I just say that one will never know true fear, until being attacked by a rooster. This is something that stays with you for all of your days.”

to terms with. I could write tales of the city gal gone to the country, but that’s not today.

Now that we had a freezer full of chicken, and one rooster left to protect his flock, you would think all was well on the home front. Wel, this guy took his job very seriously and I now became a threat to his ladies. My once simple task of go collect the eggs, make sure they have clean straw, was now the traumatic event I dreaded each and every day. His beady little eyes watching me sideways, to his puffed up chest and this long sharp daggers hanging off the back of his legs were all I could think about. Being attacked and hit with these razor blades and pecked at is enough to make a little girls heart beat right out of her chest,her legs run so fast, and her mind to replay a chicken so big attacking her, that from then on the smell of fear when entering the coop was enough to provoke yet another attack. The trauma, and anxiety, the disappointment in not completing a task. The doubt from the man who counted on you to “just feed the chickens.” Became panic attacks and failed attempts to show that rooster who’s boss.

After a few lectures and me promising I wasn’t being lazy, I’m being attacked, my dad found out first hand for himself. Needless to say, the flock went to an all female hen house that day. And the fear still lingered there Every Time I opened the coop door. I felt his presence there lurking waiting to attack. As time went on, the feeling became less. Never gone, just less. You don’t really know fear, until you are attacked by a rooster.

Fast forward to this year.I once again have chickens, and along with hens come roosters. I inherited two initially. And I can now admit that I have also handed down the true essence of fear unto my niece Amelia, who came to pet the chickens and visit with aunt Karma. She left with a scratch on her cheek, crying in fear. The fear of a rooster attack. And we added a chicken to our freezer that day.