Laurel and Hardy Roosters

My great uncle Howard was a brash, outspoken man who owned a construction business. He and his crews built houses. Howard was the youngest of 10 children and was practically raised by my Grandma, his older sibling. They grew up as subsistence farmers in the foothills of Tennessee, in a high valley between the mountains.

The house they grew up in had one room, a metal roof, and a dirt floor. A covered porch ran the length of the house. The only water source was a well at the bottom of the hill, a good distance from the house. Grandma described to us how they raised corn and would sell a pig to afford basic staples. She said each Christmas, which they waited eagerly for, would consist of an orange and a candy cane for each kid. The area where they raised corn was so steep, they had to be careful when they hoed. If they started a rock tumbling, it could knock over several stalks on its way down the hill. I asked her about the Depression once, and she said it was the same for them before, during, and after.

I give you all this background on Howard so that you understand what a complete character he was. He certainly didn’t lack confidence. I guess if he came from so little and made so much of himself, he was entitled to be confident.

Before I get back to the roosters Mom got from Howard, let me tell you a short story that involved me, Howard, and yet another rooster. I was probably around 10 and we were visiting Howard. I remember he was sitting with my Dad just inside the open door of the garage. I had spotted some bantam (we always called them banty) chickens. Howard nonchalantly offered them to me if I could catch them. Banty chickens are miniatures, less than half the size of a normal chicken.

Howard was teaching me the lesson I relayed to you all in the last rooster story: just wait till they go to roost. I was an energetic 10-year-old and spent the rest of the afternoon chasing those darn things. To make matters worse, I would run up to Howard panting, covered in sweat-streaked dirt, and he’d give me a sip of his beer. Dad never drank, so I doubt he understood just how much I’d gulp down each time. Towards the end of the afternoon, I had made no progress catching any of the chickens that freely roamed the entire farmyard, but I was getting pretty well “lit” as the day wore on.

As dusk started to descend and Howard began to finalize his lesson on catching chickens, I said something that would follow me for the rest of Howard’s life.

I ran up to him and said, “I can’t catch a rooster and I can’t shoot a gun!”

The rooster reference was obvious, but the gun portion referred to the fact that my older brother would go shooting with my dad while I was forced to stay home. I guess this event had a lasting impression on me that the alcohol stirred to life. Regardless of the reason I blurted it out, from that point forward, Howard never failed to greet me with that line. And he did let me have the chickens that day, as he explained all I had to do was wait for them to go to roost.

Back to the roosters for Mom. When she mentioned to Howard that she was looking for a rooster, he immediately offer to give her two that very night. What he came up with for her was typical Howard. Both were male, but to call them roosters was a stretch. One of them was literally as broad as it was tall, a completely round ball of feathers. It was a breed of chicken raised for meat. It had been selectively bred to grow quickly. The intention was for them to feed out quickly and be butchered young. Only this poor thing had not been butchered, and therefore continued to grow and grow. The other rooster was the polar opposite. It was tall and gangly, and its feathers were so sparse, it looked like a cartoon character.

The tall, skinny one had other problems. Its head was small even for a chicken, and it had equilibrium issues. It would walk a few feet looking like a severe drunk, then begin listing to one side, sometimes righting itself, but many other times just falling over. The round rooster was so heavy that its legs couldn’t support its weight. It literally walked on its knees, never standing fully upright. The pair reminded me of Laurel and Hardy.

Howard’s farm had become the area’s dumping ground for animals that were not quite right. Normally, such animals would be put down so they couldn’t pass on undesired traits. But the neighbors knew Howard would take them and let them live out their lives peacefully on his farm.

Though neither of these roosters had any hope of performing the duty Mom needed them for, we loaded them up. With the roosters in the back of the station wagon and Howard standing in his driveway and laughing, we headed for our house. Back home, when we got them in the chicken coop, Dad became concerned for the skinny Laurel rooster. He rightfully guessed that it couldn’t protect itself and couldn’t get up on the roost to at least get itself off the ground. So, to protect him, Dad decided to place him on the roost, which was just some horizontal boards attached to an angled rack. The front board was 18 inches off the ground.

Dad stuck the skinny thing up on the first board of the roost. The rooster stayed still and seemed able to stabilize itself. Dad watched it for a minute or so and satisfied, turned to leave. But, just then, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned just in time to see the skinny rooster take a headfirst swan dive onto the concrete floor, where it died instantly.

As for the fat, knee-walking rooster, he got around fine but could only bring himself to food and water. He didn’t move much more than he had to. A few weeks after we got him, we brought home the big, beautiful golden-chested rooster and six hens from the neighbor I talked about earlier.

As Dad was unloading the chickens, the large rooster came bolting out from the crate. It raced across the coop with Dad not far behind. In just a few seconds, that big brute spurred the defenseless fat rooster to death. Overcome by instinct, the golden rooster had eliminated his competition. Such is the way of animals on a farm.

By the way, Mom soon had more chicks than she could handle, but that’s a story for another day.

One other thing. If you’re keeping track of rooster stories, I’m counting this as two. You just read the (albeit short) “I can’t catch a rooster and I can’t shoot a gun” and “Laurel and Hardy” rooster stories.