Tales from WannaBea Farm

My ears perked up as I heard the Carnie ask, “How much would you take for her?” and not waiting to hear Grandpa’s answer, I ran through the kitchen and out the back door. Running as fast as my scrawny five year old legs would carry me, I headed to the chicken pen where I struggled for what seemed hours, trying to open the gate. Finally the latch gave and I ran to the hen house where the hens were just beginning to go to roost in the late afternoon. Peering around in the dimly lit interior, I finally located “Tripper”, the little speckled, Bantam hen, as she jostled for a position on the roost, and scooping her up in my arms I dashed out, not even bothering to relatch the gate.

Looking back towards the café to see if the coast was clear, I dodged around the cabins and through the trees until I was out of sight. Holding Tripper close and crooning to her, I walked on until I came to a small creek and looking around I realized that I had never been this far from the café before and didn’t know where I was, and now it was getting too dark to see. But at least we were safe from the Carnie.

Crawling under a bush, I cradled Tripper in my arms, petting her and talking to her. “You’re a pretty little chicken”, I told her as I continued petting and talking to her, “you’re NOT bizarre, whatever that means. Just because you have four wings, doesn’t make you a freak and I won’t let that man have you and put you in his old freak show!” I fell asleep alternately assuring her that I would protect her and then praying to God to keep her safe.

My grandparents had a small café and tourist court about halfway between Dallas, TX and Shreveport, La and the Carnies always stopped there to eat as they traveled from one State Fair to the other. This trip through, Grandpa had showed them our four winged chicken, a little Bantam that not only had her normal wings, she had another full size set of wings halfway between them and the little set of tufts on her legs. Grandpa had to keep that set of wings clipped because otherwise she was always dragging them through the grass and catching them on fallen twigs and things. That’s how she got her name, because she was always tripping over things when her wings got too big. But boy did she look funny when she tried to fly.

Awakening the next morning in my own bed, I thought that I had dreamed my adventure through the woods, but Grandpa assured me that it was not a dream. When they couldn’t find me, found the gate open and Tripper gone, Grandpa realized that I had run away. The search party found me curled up under the bush with Tripper still in my arms. Picking me up and carrying me home, I never woke!

Grandpa told me that he would never have sold Tripper and had told the Carnie, “Why I would as soon sell my granddaughter!” Now I know that is just a figure of speech, but had I hung around to hear him say it, that would have really scared me.