As children we always loved going to Pop and Auntie's house. They owned a farm/ranch on the Frio River in Leakey, Texas. I have fond memories of the old house with the wrap around porch, huge shade trees in the yard, Pop’s ever present stock dog and the fenced in yard. Pop's real name was Lloyd Brooks to many of the people around Leakey he was also known as "Mutt," but to all of us nieces and nephews he was just Pop. Auntie's name was Opal (Phillips) Brooks, and she was my dad’s older sister by about 20 months. We all called her Auntie (even my parents called her that or “Shorty”). As the expression goes “they were the salt of the earth,” the kind of people who make a difference by the lives they touched.
Grandpa Phillips lived with them during the years just before his death. When I think of that old house I can still smell "Pap's" old pipe that he smoked. That pipe was so strong it would make Hulk Hogan look like "Pee Wee” Herman. If you looked closely at one of the door post inside their old house you would see marked in pencil led, lines with dates and names marking the heights of the nieces and nephews. When they built their new house Auntie took that piece of wood with them. It was too important a memory for them to leave behind. It was a part of our history, the story of all of us.
In the days before ice boxes and refrigerators they kept the milk, butter and other things that needed to be kept cold in an ice cold spring down below the hill next to the river. The Frio was not far below the house but in order to get to it you had to either walk through the barnyard or the field. The shortest route was through the barnyard. The barn was surrounded by pens that kept cows, horses, chickens and goats. Their goats often at kidding time had twins so the pens were frequently full of live stock. It was also home to my greatest nemesis as a child, Auntie's RED ROOSTER. Who was my arch-enemy but also the source of great humor and laughter for my older brother, sister and cousins.
Every time I tried to follow the older kids down to the river that danged rooster would attack me and chase me all over the barnyard. He would go into attack mode, he was ready to fight and I was preparing for flight, wings a flapping', jumping at me with his spurs just like those fighting' rooster you see at rooster fights. I don't know what he had against me. May be he thought I was another rooster since I had short stubby legs and flaming red hair. Or may be he was possessed by the devil which is what I would like to believe, in fact I thought he was old Satan himself coming to get me. I would run as fast as my stubby little legs could carry me, often crying for my momma and all the while the older kids were laughing, being entertained by the drama before them. It must have been quite a show for all of them, while I tried to hide in the barn, get through the gate before the rooster caught me or even climb a tree hoping to get high enough on a limb that he could not reach me. It's not every child who gets bullied by a rooster but I was the happiest person on earth when at long last, I went down to the river and that rooster was gone.
In my vengeful dreams I often imagine that Auntie's red rooster was one of the chickens we ate for Sunday dinner. In some way I suppose that was my way of taking a perverse pleasure in his demise. In my mind, this is my way of finally getting even with the tormentor of my youth (they say what goes around comes around, but honestly you never really get even with evil). The absolute truth is, however, that old bird would have been too tough and gammy to make good fried chicken and the only way one could have eaten that old red rooster was to boil him for hours before you served him and even then he would have been tough as boot leather. As far as I am concerned he was just plain mean and ornery and the world became a much better place when that Old Bird died. I don't intend to sound callused, but there are some deaths that make the world a safer and better place to live.
I still loved going to Pop and Auntie's, walking the footlog (or at least trying to walk it) and learning to swim in the Frio River. Those were good times and in spite of everything, these are fond memories of a simpler time and the days of my youth, but I’m glad that Old Bird’s Dead!”
Bob
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