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It was also my job to gather the eggs.

Our rooster was of the Shack Nasty Clan and loved to take out after me. I still have nightmares about something chasing me. Dad had noted that he had better get rid of that particular rooster as he was overly protective of the hens.

We had a coffee can by the door for gathering the eggs, but one particular day there were more eggs than room in the coffee can. So I was a little slower than normal and had to invent places to keep the eggs. So I filled my pockets.

Delay in gathering lead to the rooster finishing his freshly picked grass out in the yard. Somehow he spied me gathering those precious eggs and here he came.

I could hear him running after me. I made it to the door of the chicken yard, but did not stop to slam the door in his face. Instead I did what every kid does, ran for the house.

I could still hear him coming and as I turned around, while running at full speed, just to see where he was, I slammed into the side of the house. Can full of eggs, pockets full of eggs and a rooster who was probably doubled over in laughter at the site.

Mom to her dying day still recounted how long it took to get the shells out of the pockets.

A couple days later, some hungry farm hands stopped in. Dad talked them into taking three roosters.

They returned to complain how tough one of those roosters was. Couldn’t even chew after we cooked it all day.