Freddie Owens - Then Like the Blind Man - Orbie's Story

On the walls and over the fireplace were pictures of Granny and Granpaw and of Momma and Daddy and of Missy and me. There were other pictures too — people I didn’t know — a wall-eyed woman with a square jaw, her hair piled up on top like a box — a little colored boy on a tractor with a chicken in his arms — three happy looking colored women, standing on a porch in housedresses, all squinting and smiling in the sun.

When Granpaw read his Bible, he would rub at the knot on the side of his head. One time Granny yelled at him to stop, and he did for a while; but then he started doing it again.

“Strode you’ll get that to bleed,” Granny said.

“Shit,” Granpaw said, closing the Bible. “Cain’t a man do nothing private around here?” He set the Bible on a side table by his chair.

“You’ll make it worse,” Granny said.

Granpaw spat in his coffee can, set it down and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Then he got up from his chair and did that stepping-off-in-a-ditch kind of walk, in a circle, looking all around the room, at me, at Granny, at the pictures on the walls. His hawk eyebrow tried to pin everything down. “Ain’t a thing in this world the matter with me,” he said to the air in front of him. Then he did that ditch-walk back through the kitchen and went off to bed.

Granny said he was sicker than he let on. “Had that stroke last year. That’s how come him to walk that way. Too much sugar.”

Too much sugar was why he had to shoot himself in the butt too. Once he shot himself in front of me and Granny in the front room, dropped his coveralls right there and poked a needle in his butt. He yelled and jumped up in the air. “Good God A Mighty, that hurt!”

I thought it was for real.

“Strode,” Granny said.

Granpaw looked at me and grinned. “Did you think Granpaw was hurt son? Come here and look at my needle.”

“Leave him alone,” Granny said.

Granpaw laughed.

I tried to stare daggers at him but all that did was make him laugh even louder.

“He ain’t stout like he used to be,” Granny said. “He’ll kill hisself, working the way he does. Ornery old devil.”

Granny worked too. She was all the time feeding the farm animals, the chickens and the hogs, hoeing out tobacco, cleaning house, washing clothes, sewing and cooking. On top of that she went to church. Granpaw was too tired to go to church so I got to stay home with him. I was glad about that.

The chickens belonged to Old Man Harlan, but Granny took care of them. Because of that, she got most of the eggs. They walked funny; the chickens did, like they were trying to be real careful not to step in anything messy. They would put one foot down; then look around like they were seeing if there was anything on the ground they didn’t want to step in. Then they would put their other foot down. The rooster’s name was Geronimo. He was a big black rooster with a red head and green and black burnt-up looking butt feathers.

The day after blackberry-picking Granny and me were out taking care of the chickens. Granny had fed them and was pouring water from a bucket into a long wooden trough. “If I had more time, I’d try to sell me a few of them eggs, but then I wouldn’t have none to give away.” She finished with the water and set the bucket down. “I’ll take some over to Kingdom sometimes. Sometimes I’ll make up a basket for Moses, if the chickens is laying good. See them little chickens yonder?” Granny pointed out two white chickens that stood next to the fence, stretching and fanning themselves in the sun. “I want you to take care of them for me. I’m thinking of entering them in a beauty contest.”

“A beauty contest for chickens Granny?”

“Yeah for chickens,” Granny said, “at the County Fair. They’d take first prize, they was big enough. Don’t you think they would?”

They already looked pretty, standing up bright as snow in the morning sun. Snowbirds, I thought they were, showing off their snowy bright wings.

“What you want me to do Granny?” I asked.

“Feed them. Take care of them. You know. Be nice to them. So they’ll grow good.”

“What do you want me to feed them?”

“Corn. Or that feed there.” Granny pointed to a grass sack by the fence. “Or just get you a piece of good loaf-bread and break it up. They’ll like loaf-bread. Can you do that?”

I nodded that I could; glad to have something to do. I liked the chickens a whole lot. I named one ‘Johnny’ and the other ‘Elvis’.

“Those are boy’s names,” Granny said.

“I don’t care Granny.” I pointed to Elvis. “That red thing. See how it flops over his eye?”

“Her eye,” Granny said. “That’s a comb. All chickens got combs.”

“Elvis Presley’s hair goes like that. He sings Hound Dog music.”

“Hound dog music?”

“Uh huh. And Jailhouse Rock!”

Granny seemed to ponder that a second; then she said, “I believe I heard that on the radio once. Sorry old jitterbug music, if you ask me. What about that other there? She don’t have hair.”

The other chicken’s comb went straight back like a little saw blade. “That’s a flat top Granny. Like Johnny Unitas. Johnny Unitas is a quarterback. He throws the football.”

“Only ball I ever seen a chicken throw was itself, and that from the top of a fence post to the ground,” Granny said. “They’re your chickens. I reckon you can call them anything you want to. I never heard of no boy chickens in a beauty contest though.”

Sometimes I’d pretend Elvis and Johnny were captured by Apache Indians. The Apaches would be all the other chickens plus their big chief, Geronimo The Rooster. I’d play like I was Davy Crockett or Daniel Boone, coming to save Elvis and Johnny from the Indians.

I’d have to get me up some corncobs from the chicken yard first, which that wasn’t too easy because of flies and bees and wasps zooming around, trying to get on me. I had to watch not to step in any chicken poop too or pick up any chicken-poop corncobs. I’d get an armful of corncobs and take one and hold it up from the bottom so it pointed up in the air like a sword and start marching it toward the chicken house door. I’d wait for the hot part of the day when I knew all the chickens would be in there sleeping in the dark. I’d march up on them but real quiet like, waving that one corncob in the air, trying not to make too much noise because I wanted it to be like a surprise and I’d be whispering a little battle hymn I made up along the way.

Battle Creek Michigan! Battle Creek Michigan! Battle Creek Michigan!

And when I got to the door I’d look in and there would be all the chickens in there sleeping and I’d point the corncob and draw back and yell as loud as I could. BATTLE CREEK MICHIGAN! Then I’d let fly with the corncob and all the chickens would wake up and look about and I’d already be throwing more corncobs, shooting my six shooters, my rifles– Bang! Bang! Bang! — from the doorway. A bomb would go off as the chickens would all bust loose at the same time, squawking and screaming and banging their wings, stirring up dust and shit and old spider webs and pieces of straw. Some would push through the holes where planks had busted out. Some would run along the floor and hit against the walls.

One time Geronimo flew at me with a bunch of other chickens, rushing in a wind of flapping wings, filling the doorway, their beaks flashing like orange scissors, squawking and carrying on I had to turn and run out the door where something caught me up by the arm and wouldn’t let go until I was looking it direct in the eye. It was Granny. “What you up to, youngun?”