Dad was careful that all the animals on the farm were well cared for. He was his own veterinarian, protected them from the weather, and fed them his best feed. Whether it was hot or cold, rainy or fair weather, the animals on the farm had to be fed and cared for. In his older days Dad took this responsibility to be his job.

As the days began to fade into dusk, he would get up from his old rocking chair and waddle out to the barn to get some feed for the chickens. As soon as he opened the doors to the grainary those old Leghorn hens knew his routine and they began clucking and clattering at his feet in anticipation. He filled a bucket to the brim with wheat or oats. He would stand in the middle of those noisy chickens and turkeys, dip his big ole hand into the bucket and close it around as much wheat as he could hold and then with a swinging motion of his arm, broadcast the wheat out on the ground for the chickens and turkeys. They ate every grain and scratched for several minutes in the ground for any morsel that they had missed, making their chicken sounds that sounded as if they were complimenting themselves on their good meal. As the night closed out the light of the day, they made their way to the old red clay brick chicken house that was at the back of the homestead.

Dad had enclosed the chicken house with a chicken wire fence that kept the skunks and opposums from digging into the chickens' roosting place. He built their roosts about three feet off the ground so the night maurauders could not get them off the roost. You'd think that those old hens would have enough sense to appreciate a good meal and get themselves into the chicken house at night but I guess that is the reason they are called "dumb chickens"? Some always insisted on sleeping outside the fence unless you made them go inside.

In 1925 there were wild night critters that were hunting an easy meal and believe me if they could get an old hen that was a banquet. The skunks and opossums would dig under the fence, if they found a place where they could get in, and if some old dumb hen hadn't gotten up on the roost or maybe she fell off after she went to sleep, she was dead meat.

Our one defense against chicken killers was old Mort, the family dog. He would smell the unwanted visitors by the time they found the chicken house. Mort always slept on the south porch next to where Dad's bed was. When he got a scent of the invader, he began a low growl to let Dad know that there was trouble in the chicken house tonight. He growled until he heard Dad get out of bed. He knew his job was not to attack but to warn Dad that he had visitors in the chicken house.

Dad put on his shoes and started for the back door. With a sweeping swing of his arm he reached up above the door and took down his shot gun, loaded both barrels and went out the kitchen door and started for the chicken house with a flashlight. In a few minutes there was a thundering boom that could be heard all over the country and one more of those chicken killers had met his just reward. Dad would come back to finish his nights sleep and old Mort laid down on the porch to wait until he was needed again.

Cortis and I were introduced to work early in our life. We hated it and it seemed that Dad always had work to do. When Dad appointed us to a job we might scowl behind his back but we did not let him hear or see us. Dad's word was the law at our house and we didn't question it. Because Cortis was bigger and older that I was, I thought he always took the easiest jobs and made me take the hardest ones. Some of our most unwanted jobs had to do with weed patches.

In the early spring the chickens ate the tender shoots of wheat around our yard. Once the wheat was eaten and the spring rains came this ground grew Careless Weeds, thick and luxurious. In six weeks those weeds were waist high. My Dad was never one to let food go to waste, so he found a use for those Careless Weeds. He would say, "You boys go out there and pull those green weeds and feed them to the hogs." If you have ever been acquainted with Careless Weeds you will know that the root grows as long under the ground and the stalk grows above it. We would cry and sweat and fuss and beg Dad to let us quit. He didn't act like he heard us. We had to pull these weeds after a shower or we couldn't budge them. We'd pull weeds and carry them by the armful to the hog pen.

The hogs thought they were a delicacy and they devoured them, squealing and grunting, in a split second. We would pull them several loads a day until we had cleaned out all the weeds around the yard. Those pigs were living "high on the hog" for a few days of good eats. Dad managed to keep the weeds at a minimum with our cheap labor and the hogs horrendous appetite. We never seemed to run out of work. Dad found a job or he would make one. One way or the other he was going to get those weeds cut. It just happened that they made good pig feed and he had two growing boys who needed something to do to keep them out of trouble. And we did manage to find trouble.

Mom would set fertile eggs under the old hens to raise baby chicks. When the little chicks hatched and Mamma hen took them out to look for bugs and worms there was lots of Mamma talk going on and she was very possesive of her own brood. Cortis and I were big enough that we weren't really afraid of the old hens, so we would try to get them to chase us. Mamma hen would stiffen her wing feathers until they stretched all the way to the ground and then she would stomp the ground a few times then she would strut around her chicks to get them in a circle. Once she had the chicks in a corral, Mamma hen would turn on us and make a rushing leap. She would screech in a high tone scream as she rushed at us with all of her five pounds of chicken flesh. The worst she could do was get a good peck of skin if she happened to hit our arms or legs. We would run and laugh and thought this was great sport.

Mom wasn't so understanding of our sport. Once in a while we made the dash to safety in the wrong direction and Mom would hear that old hen squawking at us. As soon as we heard the slam of the kitchen door we knew we were in trouble. Mom came out that door madder that a dozen old Mamma hens with a leather strap in her hand. Yes, we did get that strap used on us and she didn't call it child abuse either, she called it Chicken abuse and we better not do it anymore. It was pretty bad at the time but we would try it again when we thought Mom wouldn't hear us. Seems like we were just about as dumb as those old hens who fell off the roost.