“Stop running around like a chicken with its head cut off,”
admonished the impatient mother to her teenage daughter. The girl slowed and pondered
a time many years ago at her grandparent’s farm.
Pa rolled a
large stump to the middle of the barnyard. He carefully took his ax from the
scabbard and honed it against the whetstone, rotating the large stone with the
foot pedal. Sparks
flew as the metal glistened to a sharpened edge. The flock of white leghorns
cackled at his feet, oblivious to their fate. Reaching down, Pa picked up a bird and in one
motion had it spread across the stump. Thwack!
The ax made a clean cut severing the head from the bird’s body. Pa
released the bird and with wings flapping, it haphazardly ran from him until it
dropped. More followed as Pa’s ax hit its mark time and again. The headless
birds ran without direction, dropping when death took over.
Hearing her
name, she came back to the present knowing full well the meaning of her
mother’s oft used phrase.
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