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Of all the stresses I anticipated relating to my son's 8th grade formal dance, I never imagined that our rooster would play a part. However, when you live on a farm, even a small one like ours, you never know when entropy will rear its head.
In the days leading up to the dance I ordered a corsage and convinced my son of its importance, while my husband took Alden shopping for his first real suit. Things were going smoothly.
The formal was on Saturday evening, but my husband had to work all day, so it fell to me to begin the dress preparations. Again, things appeared to be going smoothly. Joe got home just in time to help Alden with his tie and put on his new shoes.
They decided Alden needed to tighten his belt another notch, but then realized the belt was already on the last hole. The leather hole punch was needed, and quickly! Now, there is only one area of fashion in which a horsewoman can boast superiority over normal women, and that is in the area of adjusting leather goods. I rushed out to the barn to get the hole punch.
This set the stage for the trouble... me, rushing across the barnyard with the leather punch in my hand. I was only intent on getting back to the house and fixing the belt. I did not think about the fact that our rooster and his hens were running loose in the barnyard. Why would I?
In my mind, I was rushing back to the house to help my son prepare for a milestone event. In my rooster's mind, I was threatening his hens and then retreating (quickly) before his ferocious might. He zeroed in on my lower legs and feet, inadequately protected by the standard southern summer uniform of capri pants and sandals.
His first attack caught me off guard. I spun around and yelled at him, while he pranced and puffed up his neck feathers. I moved backwards as fast as possible while watching him. He moved in for another attack and I swung the leather punch, clocking him squarely on the head. This did nothing to deter him. In fact, he attacked again immediately. I swung my only weapon again, and then it happened... something, I couldn't tell whether it was beak or spur in the feathered fury, put a deep hole in the back of my right hand.
Fortunately by that point I was just a few steps from the back door of our house. I managed to get up the stairs and inside. Alden and Joe gave me a startled look as I shoved the hole punch at them and rushed to the kitchen for ice. Like a skilled acupuncturist the rooster had hit some kind of nerve center in my hand. The pain radiated out to my fingers and my grip was weak.
This is how I ended up going to Alden's formal: Nursing a wounded hand in the passenger seat while my exhausted husband drove. When we arrived I was just able to hand Alden the box with the corsage and take a picture of the smiling couple, who were blissfully unmindful of the strange sacrifice I had made for their evening. Such is country life and parenting!
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