Aunt
Rhoda Bailey was, without a doubt, the best vegetable gardener in Sandstone
County and could pickle almost anything she grew in her garden: okra, beets,
onions, squash, and her prize-winning green tomatoes. Blue ribbons from the
county fair completely covered her pantry door and was a testament to her
pickling know-how. Her husband, Claude, owned a sawmill about four miles out on
Cotton Gin Road and was known to be an honest, hardworking, and well-respected
man.
Aunt
Rhoda, by experience, had educated herself about plant maladies and was more
than happy to offer her advice about leaf spotting, root rot, curling leaves,
and ears of corn that looked like someone in serious need of dental work. But
one April day, a mystery developed that had Aunt Rhoda and all her gardening
friends completely baffled. Her newly planted seeds were disappearing from the neatly
tilled rows of dirt. Reference books, so-called experts, and even the county
extension agent proved to be of no help. Then early one morning, as she looked
out through her small kitchen window, there stood the problem: a big red
rooster prancing up and down the rows enjoying a breakfast of corn, peas, and anything
else he could scratch out. Aunt Rhoda had no idea whose it was or where it came
from.
The
Ephesus Church Quilter’s Club met every Tuesday morning in the church
fellowship hall to quilt and visit and Aunt Rhoda was usually the first one
there. When Clarence Watson, who had never been married, wanted to join the
group, the whispering was that he was just trying to get the attention of widow
Mabel McNally. And since they needed a man to put up and adjust the quilting
frame, they agreed to let him join in.
Quilting sessions were a time to talk about anything you wanted to talk
about and to also discuss the latest “community news.” This was the
conversation on a particular day that same April:
Nellie Johnson: Everybody
got their beans planted? Supposed to plant ‘em on Good Friday, you know.
Sarah Danley: Hadn’t
even got my garden broke up yet. Arvie sed his tractor was down. Sed he might
not even fix it.
Nellie: Aah, he sez ‘at ever year.
Aunt Rhoda: Talkin
‘bout plantin’, listen to this.
Somebody’s big red rooster’s been gittin’ in my garden and scratchin’
out and eatin’ my seed faster than I can put ‘em in the ground.
Nellie: Lordy mercy, I never heard of such. You sure
‘bout that, Rhodie?
Aunt Rhoda: Seen it
with my own two eyes. Ain’t got no idea what to do.
Clarence: Go down to the Blue Doo beauty shop and git a
sack full of hair and put it around the edge of the garden. Won’t never see ‘em
agin.
Lois Johnson: I’ve
heard ye can hang a dead chicken from a limb and that’ll keep ‘em away.
Sarah: That’d
keep anything away! Want to keep Betsy for a few days? (Betsy was Sarah’s feist
dog.) She’ll keep ‘em run off.
Aunt Rhoda: We got
Jake but he just lays on the back porch ‘n sleeps. Well, give me a few days and
‘at rooster’ll be sorry he ever set foot in my garden.
Lois, whispering to Nellie: Rhodie’ll
figure out what to do. I’ve known her for nigh on 30 years and she ain’t never
let nothing get the best of her.
Claude
left for the sawmill every morning at 5:15, you could set your watch by it, and
got home around four o’clock. The sound of him stomping the muddy sawdust off his
boots was his way of announcing, “I’m home, Rhodie.” A Friday in late April was
no different, except…….NO ROOSTER!
“Whew, I’m worn to a frazzle, Rhodie.” That was
his greeting most of the time. “Seems like everything that could go wrong today,
did. Stripped nineteen teeth off of the saw blade, the fork lift went down
three times, and Elbert had to go home sick, that first-day-of-huntin’-season sickness.” Something sure smells good. What’s
for supper.” “Your favorite,” Aunt Rhoda replied, drying her hands on her
apron, “Chicken ‘n dumplins.”
Claude didn’t say a word, just looked out through
the screen door and smiled.
