Humor

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The Widder Woman and the Rooster

Several years ago after retiring from a job in Baton Rouge, Louisiana I decided to get back to my roots in Mississippi. I bought a small farm out in the country near Bassfield, MS from my son who is a Baptist Minister. He had been called to a Church at Bastrop, LA and needed to sell his house located out in the country in a neck of the woods called "Broome Town" named after all the Broomes who live in that area.

Being a Church going family we moved our letter to a small Church near where we live called New Union Baptist Church. The Church is made up of mostly folk who are kin, either by marriage or by birth. We immediately felt at home with these folk who in our opinion are the "cream of the crop" so to speak. They immediately accepted us as family and many of the young adopted us as grand parents. We loved this because we were so far from our own grandchildren.

Before I digress too far let me get on with my story. One of the members of the Church was what we call a "widder woman". Her husband had died several years earlier and she had to make out with social security to support herself. I am sure her kids helped out some but many of the folk in this community are what a lot of people call "po folks" by worldly standards. These "po folks", so to speak, will give you the shirt off their back or the last bit of food in their refrigerator. That is the kind of people they are.

Having been raised on a farm until the ripe ole age of about 22 I knew something about farming. Every farm needed a few chickens, I told my wife, and I intended to not be any different. We had a small fenced in area down from our back yard with a small coop built by a former owner. This was just the right place to put a few hens and a rooster or two so we could have some fresh aigs (the way we say it here in Mississippi). One of our neighbors had some broiler houses across the field in front of our house and told me I could come get the "stragglers" after they sent the rest of them off to the slaughterhouse. He said there is always a few that get away and are not caught and if I don't get them the stray dogs in the community will. I agreed and rounded up about seven hens and a couple of roosters.

Anybody who knows anything about "broiler chickens" knows they are bred to mature in about 5 to 7 weeks. They grow so fast that their strength cannot keep up with their growth. At 5 to 7 weeks they weigh approximately 8 to 10 pounds. As they grow older the meat becomes very tough and they are good only for making dumplings, that is if you can cook them to the point that the meat tenderizes.

Now, on with the story-this "widder woman" who I will not identify, came up to me on a Wednesday night and said "Brother Fred, Brother Fred" in a high squeaky voice (she always double names me when she talks to me). "Will you sell me one of the chickens you have over there. I want to make some dumplings for Sunday dinner". I said "no Mam, but I will give you one". After several minutes of going back and forth as to whether I would give it to her or she would pay for it I finally succeeded in convincing her that I didn't want any pay for the chicken. She said, "I'll be over there Saturday morning. Will you be home?" I said yes Mam and left it at that.


Saturday morning arrived and true to her word she arrived at our house about 8 a.m. After a few minutes of "good morning and how are you" I went to the chicken yard and picked out the biggest rooster in my small flock. By the time I got back to her car she and my wife had went over their secrets of making "chicken dumpling" that would make even the "most picky eater" slobber at the mouth. That is when she noticed that the rooster was still alive. "Brother Fred, brother Fred, I don't want a live chicken I want a dead chicken". I told her that the only kinds I have are live chickens. "Would you please take care of making him dead?" and that is when I remembered the training I had received as a small boy living on a farm here in Mississippi. I caught the rooster by the head and immediately tried to crank him like I would have the ole Farmall Cub tractor we owned when I was a boy.

I don't want to be too graphic for the younger audiences who might read this story but that is the way we do it here in the country-crank them! When I thought the job had been done I put the rooster on the ground. He immediately began to flounce around streaming feathers all over the front yard. "Brother Fred, Brother Fred, I want him in the tub in the back of the car. Them feathers are making a mess all over your wife's flower beds". I grabbed the rooster, still kicking, and put him in the tub and slammed the trunk lid down. She went on here way and I immediately finished up the job of picking up feathers.

Sunday morning arrived and as is our usual MO we arrived at Church about 10 minutes before service started. The "widder woman" was waiting outside for us to arrive. "Brother Fred, Brother Fred, don't ever give me another rooster". My goodness, I thought, what in the world went wrong? "When I got home," she said, "I opened the trunk to get the rooster out and that is when I discovered that he was not dead. He came out of the trunk of my car madder than one of them ole bulls you see in them bull fighting movies. He would have got me too if I hadn't jumped on top of the car hood. He took off down the middle of the road and I think heading for your house. If my grandson and his dog hadn't been near he would have gotten away too. Anyway, we caught him, took care of the job of making him "dead" and I plucked him in hot water getting him ready for making dumplings. I cooked him and cooked him and cooked him but that meat never did get tender enough to pull the meat off the bones. And that is why I don't want anymore of your chickens."

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