There’re some things you jus cannot unsee.
Take, fer example, gross stuff. I doan get why grown ups hafta be sharin’ slobbers. Ma and Pa share spit ever’ mornin’ and I even seen Granny and Papa do it oncet or twice. Seems like a nasty habit us kids ain’t developed. I hope it ain’t genetic.
Ma says I shudn’t be sayin’ these things and tells me I’ll feel differ’nt when I’m older. She says I’m an orn’ry twerp, always watchin’ and thinkin’. But I ain’t got nuttin’ better ta do than contemplate life. ‘Sides, it’s interestin’ ta notice. I learns lots jus by watchin’ and lis’nin’. Doan need to say much. Life’s purty amusin’ on its own.
Mos’ times I see things I doan wanna unsee cuz they’re funny. Like oncet when Granny decided it was high time she learnt ta ride a bike. Dint want no lessons from noone. Nope. Fiercely independent, my Granny is. ‘Twernt long afore she was whippin’ that bike round and round the silo cuz she couldn’t figure how ta make it stop. Took crashin’ inta the back o’ the hay waggin ta bring that fiasco ter an end. Course, Granny found it amusin’. She laughs at ever’thin’.
Then there were the time us kids and the dog wuz racin’ inter and outta the house and let in a chicken. Inter Granny’s kitchen. That dint go so well. She and us kids managed ta corral that hen. Fer a moment I thought Granny was fixin’ chicken fer dinner that night, but she got it outside. Then us kids and the dog resumed our shenanigans, which nearly resulted in Granny droppin’ her precious carton o’ eggs. That were the straw. Granny can get purty flustrated and she did jus then. She put down those eggs and tole us kids we hadta stop. She said we hadta put the dog in the fridge and throw the eggs outside. Bein’ the obedient children we wuz, we wuz commencin’ to stuff that flailin’ dog inter the fridge when Granny realized what she’d said and we all had a good laugh.
My Uncle Slappy, he’s a man cut outta differ’nt cloth. He ain’t quite so bright as some, but he can tell some tall tales. Uncle Slappy got ‘is name cuz he gets tickled easy and when he does, he slaps his leg or he’ll slap anyone who’s close ‘nuf to reach. It doan pay to sit near Uncle Slappy when the tales start. That can be a painful ‘sperience. I hain’t never been whaled by Uncle Slappy cuz I watched and learnt so I hain’t never sat near ‘im. Took somma t’others awhile ta figure that’n out. Now, when Uncle Slappy tells tales, he has an audience. Kinda like a play, where ever’one is sittin’ afar and watchin’. He either ain’t figured out that he slapped his audience inter submission or he’s clever ‘nuf to have created his very own assemblage. Either way, when Uncle Slappy starts talkin’, people start movin’.
Anyways, I’m not sure o’ Uncle Slappy’s real name. Ain’t heerd noone say it. But I heerd him tell some big tales. The one ‘bout the banty rooster’s my fav’rit cuz I know the truth.
Granny was plannin’ dinner one day and fell short one chicken. Havin’ bin chased inter the house mor’n oncet by the new banty rooster she’d bin given, she decided he was a prime candi’te fer her next roast. But she weren’t fond o’ the notion o’ ketchin’ him, so she set Uncle Slappy ‘bout doin’ it. He hadn’t seen that rooster yet, havin’ jus showed up, so he dint know no better.
I happenta be slothin’ ‘round in the hay stacks that mornin’, makin’ miself scarce. As I was lollin’ ‘round, starin’ at the barn ceilin’ and contemplatin’ life’s myst’ries, I heerd the screen door slam. It always slammed shut cuz the spring fell off and ain’t nobody fixed it yet. I figured Granny likes it that way. Serves as a sorta doorbell.
Anyways, I rolled onter my belly and peered over the haystack to see Uncle Slappy skulkin’ ‘round like he wuz lookin’ fer sumpin. The chickens wuz runnin’ loose jus then cuz Granny liked ‘em ta have lotsa space. Said they laid more flavorful eggs and made fer better meat that way. Uncle Slappy was walkin’ through the bunch when he met the banty rooster. I’ll never be able to unsee what I seen next. But ta understand, ya gotta hear it Uncle Slappy’s way first.
“Well now,” Uncle Slappy says to his rapt audience, who’s all settled in now after doin’ the Slappy Shuffle. “Granny says she ain’t got ‘nuf meat fer dinner and tells me she wants a ‘ticular rooster. It’s his time, she tells me. So I goes outside and, knowin’ that an’mals requires a firm hand, I eyes up that rooster. Ya know…ta let ‘im know who’s the boss n’all. Well, he eyes me back and we gets inta one big starin’ contest. I overcome his finer sensibilities by narrer’in my eyes to slits. See, like this…” and he demonstrated to us’n by narrer’in his eyes and sqwinchin’ up his face. He looked ta me like he et a saur lemon and it come out his nose. I tried not to laugh too hard so as not to set off Slappy’s hands, but it wern’t easy to hold that’n in.
Uncle Slappy unsqwinched his face and his audience lost its spasms. “Yessir, I stared ‘im inter submission. He purt near keeled over from my evil eye. But he ain’t no dummy. I wuz swaggerin’ towards ‘im when he jus jumped up and runned at me, feathers all big n’such.” Slappy’s hands were a flyin’ by now, showin’ us those wings and causin’ his audience to sway. “He sunk his beak inter my leg and owwww,” Uncle Slappy howled, “did that’n ever hurt. But I weren’t done. In one big, fast swoop, I done grabbed his neck and wuz holdin’ him up in front ‘o me, his legs jus danglin’ in thin air. We stared,” he sqwinched up his face again and I found a sudden need to pull lint offen my sock. “Then I saw this sof’ look in his eyes and I swear ta ya on my grave that a tear run down that rooster’s face and I cudn’t do it. Nope. Tol’ Granny she’d hafta find her another murd’rer.” Slappy laughed and attacked his leg with one’a his big hands, causin’ us’n ta rear back. I wuz laughin’ now at the memory o’ that rooster and him, but he dint know that. I won’t tell.
Ya see, Uncle Slappy hadta tell a tall tale cuz the truth is that rooster done got the best of ‘im. Here’s what really happened.
As he wuz skulkin’ among the chickens, the banty come runnin’ right at ‘im, feathers fluft, wings out, head low. He got Uncle Slappy in the leg, that’s about the onliest truth of it. Slappy howled (I’m supposin’ he hadta put that’n in the story cuz someone mighta heerd ‘im) and started spinnin’ his legs backwards, like Fred Flintstone goin’ in reverse. But that rooster wuz right on ‘im. He wuzn’t lettin’ up. Uncle Slappy turned and run ta the waggin. He wuz commencin’ to climb in when the rooster got the backa ‘is leg. He wuz kickin’, the rooster wuz peckin’, and it dint look too good fer Slappy ‘til he pulled hisself up inter the waggin.
Well now, that dint last long. The rooster had tekken a most def’nit dislike to Slappy and was in the waggin right baside ‘im afore my uncle’s back hit the hay. From atop the hay loft, I cud see inter the waggin. Slappy was slappin’ at that rooster, ‘is hands goin’ so fast they looked like blades. The rooster jumpt up top ‘o the waggin rail above Slappy’s head, lookin’ down at ‘im. I’m purty sure he was a’laughin’. That tear Slappy saw wuz pure mirth. Slappy retched up ter grab its legs but the rooster appeared to fall off t’other side so Slappy done retched ‘tween the slats ta grab ‘im. Well, that there wuz a bad idea cuz Slappy got ‘is arms caught ‘tween the rails. Now the rooster wuz back in the waggin and havin’ a time with Slappy’s armpits. The howl I heerd from Slappy was one thin’ but the sqwinched up, lemon-nose face he gave the rooster brought tears ta my eyes. Slappy got his arms free and the rooster done backed off. Mebbe he wuz convinced he’d made ‘is point. Anyways, Slappy set hisself on top o’ the waggin rail, holdin’ ‘is hands under ‘is armpits, a lemony look on ‘is face. Seein’ as ‘is prey wuz disabled, the rooster got onter the rail aside Slappy. They eyed each other fer a while and I’m purty sure a tear ran down Slappy’s face. Now that’n were a Norman Rockwell scene.
Vonni Sage enjoys exploring humanity through her writing and other art forms. When she isn’t creating, Vonni enjoys reading, kayaking, hiking, and snowshoeing. Recent publications include an essay, “Art in Place,” in Transformational: Stories of Northern Michigan Arts and Culture and “It Rained Down” at Friday Flash Fiction.
Vonni says about this story: “This is an oral storytelling piece based loosely on my experiences as a very young child visiting my grandparents’ farm. I noted your call, albeit in November, 2022, for oral storytelling, a tradition my Appalachian family revered. After many decades living a suburban life, I have returned to my farming roots and, as I settle into this new-old lifestyle, I find myself returning to my childhood experiences with fond remembrance.”
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