After I got big enough t' go fishin' by myself, I was somehow awarded the dubious distinction of bein' “Granny's little helper”. Th' job was not too hard through th' winter, when all I had t' do was little odd jobs, like feedin' them chickens, but when summer rolled around, an' th' preachers came t' visit, it got t' be purty hard work.
    One of th' first things I learned was th' fact that before y' could fry a chicken, y' first had t' kill it. I don't know why. It just seemed like most people had an aversion t' fryin' live chickens. I always figgered it had somethin' t' do with th' feathers, or th' fact that they might have a tendency t' jump outta th' pan, but I never was certain.
    Anyway, ever'time a preacher had t' have a Sunday dinner, me'n Granny ended up in th' chicken pen. She'd always do at least two of 'em, so I would stand there an' hold one till she separated the other from its squawk-box. This was not an easy job, 'cause once th' second one found out what was happenin' t' the first one, it'd suddenly develop a violent urge to flog th' tar outta th' chicken holder (which wuz me) in a frantic effort to depart th' premises. Once Granny got through with 'em though, they quickly changed from rough'n rowdy t' good'n tasty.

    I guess th' most trouble we had was in tryin' t' catch 'em. It was hard enough just chasin' 'em, but that giant red rooster did not like us snatchin' his girlfriends, an' th' madder he got, th' meaner he got. For uh long while, he'd just try beatin' us t' death with that three-foot wing span of his, then he discovered he had other weapons. Let me tell ya, that rooster had bigger spurs than a rodeo cowboy, an' he knew how t' use 'em. It got so bad that granny began carryin' a baseball bat with “intent to go armed” whenever she went into th' coop.
    Eventually, although it took four of us t' do it, we had t' chain 'im to uh stake in th' middle of th' pen. It was a good idea, but when he started beatin' them wings, it looked like a small tornado had hit th' coop. He stirred up such uh windstorm that we'd hafta pull hens outta th' chicken wire when their heads'd get hung in th' little holes. Them stuck chickens gave new meanin' to th' name “pullets”.
    I remember one night when a red-fox d'cided t' have hisself a chicken dinner. He made th' mistake of diggin' a hole under th' wire about four-feet away from Tantrum's stake. When Granny heard th' ruckus, she grabbed th' shotgun an' headed fer th' coop, but after th' dust cloud settled, the only thing she found was a fox-fur stole - cleaned, dressed, an' hangin' on th' wire fence. Now I never liked foxes all that much, but I felt real sorry fer that one.

    I think Granny intended t' hang onto ol' Tantrum after she saw that fox, but as a wise ol' hillbilly once said, “necessity is th' murder of intention.” Around the end of July that summer, necessity murdered Granny's intentions. She got word that a “full-gospel” preacher was comin' t' town. I mean t' tell ya, this preacher was really blessed. They estimated that he weighed a good three-hunnert an' fifty pounds b'fore breakfast. Now th' biggest fryers in Granny's coop weighed no more than two or three pounds fully feathered, an' Granny wuz not about t' do four chickens t' get that ol' boy satisfied. It became apparent that the only sensible way t' meet the requirements would be to fry up one tender young hen, an' a twenty-five pound rooster... Guess who.
    I knew right then that I wuz gonna need help holdin' chickens, so when it came time t' turn ol' Tantrum into a mean cuisine, I sent word up th' bottom for my cousin Buddy t' come down an' pitch in. Now Buddy was not very big, but I figgered th' two of us together could still hang onto one big chicken okay.

    When th' time came t' start th' sacrificial ceremonies, th' three of us eased into th' pen t' get that preacher's Sunday treat. We grabbed th' young hen first, and then we went after Tantrum. When he seen us headin' his way he lit into flappin them elephant-ear wings of his till th draft pinned me'n Buddy against th' side of th' chicken coop. You never heard such squawkin' in all your life. It sounded like th' ladies' auxiliary th' time they found a drowned rat in th' gravy bowl.
    Granny knowed she wuz gonna hafta do somethin' drastic, so she decided t' anestestesiiii... er, anthesterseyes... uh... anusthiii... Ah, bat bloomers - she d'cided t' put 'im t' sleep. While me'n Buddy kept him busy from th' front, she snuck around b'hind 'im an' c'mmenced t' swingin' her bat at th' side of his head like th' last batter in th' final game of th' World Series. Now if you've ever seen th' way a calm chicken's head moves around, you'll realize how hard it would be to hit th' one on the end of Tantrum's neck. She missed with th' first couple of swings, an' tore a terrible hole in the chicken wire, but when she finally hit 'im, it was amazin' how much easier he was t' handle.
    Granny took th' smaller hen while Buddy an' me c'mmenced t' dragggin' ol' Tantrum by th' legs. That was an error in judgement; granny an' me shoulda taken Tantrum, an' give th' little hen t' Buddy. Nevertheless, little cuz grabbed one chicken leg, while I locked on to the other, an' it took ever'thing we had t' get that giant outta th' pen, but we finally made it. As you mighta guessed, by th' time we reached th' sacrificial choppin' stump, we had less energy than a cricket in a coma.

    Granny couldn't find the axe, so she went t' unscrewin' th' little fryer's noggin while I helped Buddy hang onto Tantrum, who was startin' t' wake up. When I began t' feel movement, I warned Buddy to tighten up with both hands. About th' time he put th' torque to Tantrum's drumstick, Granny popped th' top off th' hen, which hit th' ground throwin' a terrible fit an' tryin t' find its missin' noggin. I yelled at Buddy t' not let go of Tantrum, an' Buddy was a very obedient boy - which turned out t' be a disastrous flaw in his character.
    When Tantrum saw that headless hen, a wave of chicken adrenalin hit his innards, an' he suddenly decided he wanted no part of th' festivities. He let out with such a shriekin' squawk that I had t' cover my ears t' preserve my hearin', an' that meant lettin' go of that drumstick. What a terrible mistake!
    At that instant, Tantrum lived up to his name, an' threw one. He c'mmenced t' flappin' them elephant-ear wings so hard that th' backwash blowed me over, an' obedient Buddy c'mmenced t' slidin' across th' ground, hangin' onto that rooster's leg like a drunk to a jug of moonshine. Granny made a desperate dive for him, but he was already out of reach, an' about that time, Tantrum cut in his after-burner.

    I started t' yell fer pore Buddy t' let go, but I realized he probably would, an' he was already airborne. When Tantrum passed over th' clothesline, Buddy's foot got hung in uh pair of long-johns, an' th' line broke. Now, we had a giant rooster, a scrawny hillbilly kid, an' a week's wash sailin' over th' rooftops of Bartley Bottom.
    When th' local chicken hawks (who'd been watchin' that flock with mayhem in mind) saw a giant rooster flappin' skyward with a whole human kid dangling b'neath, fourteen of 'em headed for another county. For eight months after that, Bartley Bottom was hawk-free.
    With granny yellin', Buddy shriekin', an' Tantrum squawkin', th' neighbors commenced t' runnin' outside t' see what all th' commotion was about. Poor ol' Aunt Marny White come-uh-chargin' out at about th' time Tantrum went by her front porch, an' the end of th' clothesline hooked her ten-dollar wig an' yanked it off'n her head along with her readin' glasses. She let out two loud screams, an' fainted dead away, an' uncle Wilt ran for his shotgun. Thank heavens, by th' time he got it loaded, Tantrum had done a one-eighty an' started back down th' bottom.

    That panic-stricken rooster would most likely have headed straight through th' valley an' outta sight, but with Buddy, a pair of long-john's, a wash line, an' a near-sighted wig hangin' from his right leg, he did a high-speed turn towards th' riverbank. I yelled frantically fer Buddy t' grab a tree limb', but his frail little frame was too tired t' hang on any longer. He let go of that drumstick about sixty feet above th' river's edge.
    Thank th' good Lord th' flap on them over-sized long-johns was closed, 'cause when Buddy started t' fall they filled out like a balloon an' became an R-rated parachute. Here came my cousin Buddy, upside down, flutterin' towards th' water with one foot hung in a pair of winter underwear, an' a headless wig comin' after 'im.
    B'fore Buddy reached th' water, part of th' clothesline snagged on th' lower limb of a big beech tree. Pore ol' Buddy wuz springin' up an' down like a giant yo-yo about ten feet from th' water, an' Tantrum disappeared over th' mountaintop on the other side of th' river.

    Thank God there warn't no wind that day, 'cause with all them shirts an' towels hooked to his foot, it could have blown that kid right out into deep water. Granny yelled fer him to hang on fer dear life, an' you could hear th' limbs creakin' from all that weight springin' up an' down.
    Before she could get to 'im there was a loud snap an' a terrible splash. She leaped into th' water an' hauled a blubberin' Buddy - thrashin' like a drownin' tomcat - to the safety of the riverbank. While she was draggin' 'im in, a big ol' bass struck at that trailin' wig three times. He hit it so hard that he jarred th' glasses loose an' they snagged his fin an' landed on his nose. Aunt Marny tried t' catch that bass for days, but it seemed like he could always see her comin'. She finally hooked th' wig, but refused to wear th' thing 'cause she claimed it had fish teeth in it, an' it scratched her head somethin' awful. Last we heard, she was usin' it t' scrub her copper pots.
    That episode was an' exasperatin' experience for my cousin Buddy. For th' rest of his life he had a violent aversion to heights an' water, an' I don't remember him ever eatin' another piece of fried chicken. However, he always seemed t' have a fascination with movies about paratroopers. He'd sit up in th' front row an' just cry like a baby.

    A couple of weeks after th' rooster ride, we heard reports that people over in McDowell County had seen some kinda giant bird sailin' over their treetops. At first, they figgered it was either a turkey or an eagle, but it didn't have no wattles, an' they'd never seen an eagle with a comb that big. Since nobody'd ever heard of a red-colored gobbler, they finally decided it was a mutated turkey-buzzard, an' ever'body seemed satisfied with that. When their local bootlegger told somebody he'd heard th' thing crow one mornin', they blew up his still t' keep anybody else from havin' them kinda hallucinations, an' had 'im throwed in th' local slammer fer a week t' dry out.

    By th' way, that fat little preacher had t' go on a one-Sunday diet an' nearly starved t' death. Pore feller.