Momma Versus Romeo the Rooster: A True Texas Tale

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After Mother passed a few years ago, I packed away her personal things in an upstairs closet. On occasion I would visit the closet and look through some of the boxes and albums, remembering vividly when she was such a smiling part of my life. There is not a day passes that I don’t reflect on her precious memory.

One shoebox was filled with old photographs. Some were more than 80 years old. There was one picture of me at about four-years-old, standing next to a tricycle wearing cotton “drawers” crying through clench fists. Tears from frustration on my cheeks because I had not been able to master the art of riding that trike. Looking closely at the picture, I noticed a large scar that ran from my left thigh to my ankle. The other leg had an assortment of bruises and scars from the knee to foot. This picture was taken one week after the “Battle.”

Momma Versus Romeo the Rooster: A True Texas Tale
Photo: Pixabay

We lived in a small house at the Seymour Golf Course. Dad was a caretaker of the greens, while my momma cooked for the Rock Inn Café in Seymour, Texas. My world consisted of the small frame house, cellar, chicken house, garden, outhouse, and abandoned well. My day was spent playing, going to see my dad, eating from the garden, chasing butterflies, killing grasshoppers, and gathering eggs while staying out of the way of Romeo. Romeo was the name for the large rooster. Later Mother told me she had given the roost that name because “he was very much a lady’s man.”

Whether I was picking onions, watering the garden, gathering eggs, or looking through the Sears catalog in the outhouse, I had to keep a wary eye out for Romeo. Many times I would barely make it to the porch or the well before the rooster attacked. Jumping high in the air with sharp spurs pointed at me, he was frightening. Then he would prance around strutting with lowered wings, only to crow when he heard me crying.

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