For many years my parents had an ongoing argument about White Leghorn chickens. Momma held that particular breed in high esteem. Daddy hated them with a passion. Momma said they were, by far, the best laying hens. The ate less, and took better care of their baby chicks than any other breed. She also contended that they were more skillful at dodging hawks and owls, which were always swooping down for a chicken dinner.
Daddy accused the White Leghorns of sitting on the roost poles all night, thinking up new ways to make his life miserable. He claimed they would leave a big fat earthworm to follow him down a row of corn he just planted, scratch it up, and eat the seed. He pointed out the hens' habits of running great distances to his dogs' water bowl to use it for their potty! Oh, how Daddy hated those hens!
One summer afternoon we were eating watermelon under the hickory trees in the backyard. Daddy grew some of the finest melons in the county. These were Dixie Queens and each person had half of a melon and a spoon. Well, just as Daddy dug his spoon in the heart for a big bite, one of Mama's hens appeared from nowhere and sailed to the top of the picnic table. She grabbed that piece of melon right off of Daddy's spoon. Before we knew what had happened, Daddy whacked that hen over the head and she fell over dead as a doorknob. At the same time, Daddy delivered her eulogy, calling for her eternal damnation.
Well, Mama grabbed the old hen and bathed her head with cool water, all the while declaring this was the very best laying hen she owned. I don't know how she knew, since there were twenty-five and they were all identical. Then Mama began to heap coals of fire on Daddy's head. She ended her sermonette with, “That's it! I'm leaving!” She grabbed her shoes, packed a little sack of diapers for the baby, and hit the trail on foot with the baby in her arms.
In those days in Newton County the stock law was an open range. This meant livestock could roam anywhere they wished with no fences to hinder their grazing. There was one mean bull in particular. He was red with long horns. For some reason his horns had brass tips on the ends. He was known as “The Jeff West Bull.” When you said that, everyone knew which bull you were referring to and who owned him.
My two older brothers went up the ladder and sat on top of the house. They kept reporting what direction Mama was traveling. Suddenly, Roy said, “Oh no! I see some cattle and I think the Jeff West Bull is with them!”
Daddy ran to get his shotgun and loaded it with squirrel shot Apparently, Mama heard and saw the cattle about then and knew there was no time to get back home. She quickly remembered a hickory tree a few yards off the trail and she headed for it. The tree was oddly shaped, some said it was and Indian trail tree. A huge limb jutted out from the main trunk. It was hollowed out, like a feeding trough for cattle, and was just over Mama's head. She lifted the baby up and laid her in the trough-like limb. Then, according to my brothers, she shimmied up that tree like a squirrel. The bull, by this time, had spotted Mama and came bellowing and pawing the ground. When Daddy saw she and the baby were safe, he stood behind a tree for a few minutes; I guess to give Momma some thinking time. The bull finally gave up and went about his business.
Daddy asked if she were ready to come down. She replied, “I believe I am ready.” She handed the baby down to Daddy and they trooped back down the dusty trail to the house just at sunset .Daddy sent Mr. Jeff West word that he owed his bull a bale of hay to pay a debt of gratitude. He said he would explain fully when he saw him. (Oh, that old hen made a full recovery, but kept a respectful distance from Daddy from then on. )