11

Barnyard Follies

Our place had a barnyard, a large, rectangular enclosed area near our house. A two-story barn anchored the yard along its southern boundary. The barn had a hay loft above and hay racks, a corn crib and animal stalls below, an open-air pig parlor on one end and enclosed cow pens on the other.

A 6-foot-high wire fence bounded the other three sides of the yard. A chicken house, where hens laid their eggs and roosted at night, was located near the fence on the eastern side. A woodpile, the open-air depository for wood for the stove and fireplace, occupied a commanding position on a slight rise roughly in the center of the yard.

We spent so much time in the barnyard that it was like an extension of our house. A working landscape, the barnyard was the scene of many daily and seasonal farm activities: feeding and watering the animals, collecting eggs, milking the cows, storing hay in the loft and corn in the crib, cleaning the ground floors of the barn and chicken houses, and chopping wood at the woodpile. My brothers and I shared these barnyard chores with Mama and Daddy. We enjoyed having our own “petting zoo” and watching the antics of our barnyard friends.

Poultry and eggs were staples in our diet, so we always had a dozen or more chickens in the barnyard. Our hens hatched baby chicks, but from time to time, Daddy and Mama supplemented our flock with mail order baby chicks, or “biddies” as we called them. When the mail carrier delivered the biddies, we placed them in a brooder box with a saw dust covered floor under a kerosene lamp to keep them warm until they were old enough to fend for themselves.

Daddy and Mama selected breeds that were good “layers” (for eggs) or “broilers” (for meat.) They were predominantly road island reds, named for their bright red- or rust-colored feathers, and white leghorns, with elegant snow-white plumage topped by bright red crowns, and a few dominickers, a rare breed distinguished by their irregularly striped black and white feathers.

We also kept a half dozen or so guinea fowl. Exotic birds with plump, roundish bodies, dark gray-bluish feathers speckled with white dots, and small featherless, helmeted heads, like uniformed guards. Daddy valued the guineas because they were very good at “sounding the alarm” and deterring hawks and other predators. “They’ll make a racket if that old fox comes around,” he said, referring to their loud screeching sounds.

The chickens roamed the yard all day long. They scratched out a living from the dirt, constantly pecking for worms, insects, and seeds. I watched them stretch, ruffle their feathers and flex their wings, cocking their heads to one side and then the other, sometimes standing on one leg, listening for any alien invader, and occasionally nestling down on the ground for a short nap.

Every so often, the older hens took a break from scavenging and strolled around the yard like grand dames, reminding the pullets of the pecking order and showing off their finest feathered coats for Red, the big rooster that surveyed his harem from atop the woodpile before swooping down to claim one of the hens.

At least once a day, in the early morning or late afternoon, we supplemented their diets with “chicken feed,” usually shelled corn or store-bought grain. I or one of my brothers spread the grain widely over the ground so that all of the fowl had a chance to eat. This always set off a feeding frenzy, as the chickens scrambled to get every grain.

Inevitably, this brought out our two obnoxious ducks. They rudely waddled into the flock of feeding chickens, flapping their wings, wagging their tail feathers, quacking loudly, snapping at the hens with their large orange beaks, trying to grab every kernel for themselves. Showing a complete lack of chivalry, Red, usually more than a match for the ducks, ignored them and the plight of his hens and concentrated on his own gratification.

Like the chickens, the guineas roamed free around the barnyard, but they were very clannish and kept to themselves. If the chickens were at one end, the guineas headed to the other end. Unlike the chickens, they were great flyers. Startled by a sudden sound or movement, they took flight and soared across the yard, like low flying planes. “There go the guineas,” my brothers and I shouted, delighting in the aerial show and watching to see if they would land on the barn, the ground, or in a tree.

Red was a terror for us all. Whenever we went into the barn yard, Mom would caution us: “Keep an eye out for that rooster.” Red was likely to attack us from behind, flying through the air and flogging our legs with his spurs. Daddy was not immune from his sneak attacks, and on many occasions, he threatened to have “the son of a bitch for dinner if he flogs me one more time.” He clipped Red’s wings to slow him down, but Red never lost his haughty attitude as he strutted around the barnyard. The other animals steered clear of him, except for Billy, our pet goat. Billy ignored Red and the other animals who were very wary of him.

Billy was the most eccentric looking animal in the barnyard. He was white and tan, a skinny creature with a narrow back bone and frame, with a long wispy beard, pointed ears that stuck straight out under two short horns that curved up and back, and a short tail that pointed up and twitched whenever he was agitated. He looked like a wise and wizened Chinese holy man with a satanic streak.

He did not have a female companion because Daddy and Mama did not care for goat’s milk and had no reason or desire to raise more goats, male or female. Daddy liked Billy because he foraged on the kudzu vines and weeds and helped to keep the barnyard presentable. The problem with Billy was that he would try to eat anything. “Can you believe that crazy thing is trying to eat a tin can,” Daddy asked on one occasion.

My brothers and I loved Billy because he was playful and did outrageous things. When he saw us enter the barnyard, Billy would begin to bleat — “baaaaaaa, baaaaaa” — and trot toward us, ready to play. He loved to slip up on us and playfully head butt us from behind. On one occasion, while Bruce and I were in the barn, we heard our younger brother Richard calling “help” but laughing so hard he could hardly get the word out of his mouth. We stepped outside and saw him lying on his back on the ground. Billy was astride him, pinning him to the ground while he chewed on his shirt.

Billy’s curiosity and athleticism eventually got him into trouble. One day, as I was walking from the house to the barnyard, I spotted Billy in the garden. yard. He loved plants, and he was feasting on the winter greens.

“Daddy, Billy’s in the garden,” I yelled. Daddy was in the barn tending to the hogs.

“Where?” Daddy asked as he came out of the barn. “Somebody must have left the gate open. Go check out all the gates and the fence while I get him back in the yard. “

I checked the gates and the fence but could find no opening that would allow Billy to get out.

Several days later, Billy was back in the garden again, helping himself to some more greens. Again, we found no opening in the fence or gates.

“We are going to have to keep a watch on the son of a gun,” Daddy said. “I am going to put a bell around his neck so we can always hear where he is.”

Several days later I heard Billy bleating, but his bell was silent. I went out to the barnyard and found Billy on top of the six-foot wire fence. He had scaled the fence like a mountain climber until the bell and rope around his neck caught in the fence, and he could not complete his climb to the top. Daddy disentangled the bell rope from the fence and helped him down.

“So, he’s been climbing the fence, the rascal,” Daddy said. “Now that he has learned how, we will never keep him inside.” I thought Billy was doomed. He had disrespected Daddy’s fence. But to my surprise, Daddy said, “I guess we will have to put a strand or two of barbed wire on top of the chain link fence.”

Barbed wire kept Billy out of the garden, but it did not end his desire to climb. He frequently usurped Red’s place on top of the woodpile, and once we found him on top of the chicken house.

The barnyard also had its darker moments. Once, when I was gathering eggs in the chicken house, I reached into a nest and my heart pounded when I saw a snake coiled up around an egg. On another occasion, when we were awakened after midnight by squawking chickens, Daddy found the mangled carcass of a hen that lost its battle with the fox that lurked around the farm. One afternoon, a hawk swooped down like a modern-day drone and carried away one of the young chicks. Most horrific of all, a deranged sow ate several of her newborn piglets before Daddy could remove them from her pen.

But Mama’s face-off with a mad cow was my favorite barnyard drama.

“Mama, Bruce is messing with the mad cow,” I said.

I watched Bruce throw rocks at the brown Guernsey cow as he got closer and closer to...