The Chicken Hawk

I-Alice’s YesterYears #14

On this beautiful summer morning I ran to look out of the south window. What was going on out there?  That’s when I saw what it was. There was that pesty old chicken hawk proudly perched on the sawed-off tree preening its beautiful plumage. Screams for help echoed throughout the farmyard as the clucks and baby chicks ran for protection.

“Merle, come quick!” I called to my son. “That hawk is back!” I watched the bullets from Merle’s gun ruffled its feathers as it soared off into the clear blue sky screeching, “Catch me if you can!”

That same evening Brenda, my daughter called, “Mama, come help me. The hawk, the hawk!” I saw a devious look on her face. “Where is that gun. I’ll get him!” she announced.  Before I could reply she ran on ahead, picked up the 22-rifle, flung it onto her left shoulder and crouched into a stance mimicking her younger brother.

“Brenda,” I chastised. “You have the gun on the wrong shoulder and besides it doesn’t have a bullet in the chamber.”

“Load it for me,” she begged.

I took the gun from her and pushed a 22-long shell into the chamber. “Brenda, do be careful,” I begged as she flung the 22-loaded gun over onto her right shoulder. Within a split second she was kneeling by the white picket fence. She was giggling nervously as she looked up and said, “Easier for me to hold the gun.”

The daring hawk just sat there observing our every move. Secretly I laughed with Charley Chicken Hawk and decided to challenge Brenda to go ahead and shoot.

“I can’t do it Mama,” she sighed. Shaking she lifted herself to her feet.

“Phlett!!” A shot rang out and the hawk flipped up and over. There it lay next to the tree stump.

“I shot it! I shot it!” Brenda cried out. “Mama, I didn’t want to shoot it, I only wanted to scare it!”

This has to be on film, so off I went to retrieve the camera with its black and white film. Just as I was about the snap a picture of this unbelievable scene, Brenda exclaimed, “Wait, I want a picture of me wearing my new sunglasses and I want to show off the gun.” So off she ran to the house to get her sunglasses, bringing the 22-rifle back with her. With sunglasses perched on her pudgy nose, she was grinning from ear to ear in the memory picture, the gun in one hand and her other hand lifting the hawk’s huge wing.

Brenda refused to leave the dead bird lay by the sawed off stump. So reluctantly I rolled its huge wings close around its still body and carried it some seventy yards back to the garage. Brenda lifted the garage door for us to enter and pulled the heavy shop tool drawer to open it. I had no choice but to stand there with the dead bird in my arms as she removed the tools. Then she lined the bottom of the drawer with gunnysacks.

“Hurry it up!” I bellered. “This bird is getting rather heavy and besides this thief doesn’t need a soft bed.” The bed was finally readied. Carelessly I plopped the bird down, shoved the heavy drawers shut and turned to leave the scene. I was relieved to know this was the last I’d ever see of the pest. But on the other hand I had mixed feelings about Charley Chicken Hawk. I also had qualms about how our sharp-shooting son would react to Brenda killing it.

The lime green International farm truck came down the road with Edwin and Merle coming in for supper. I felt a rush of uncertainty as I saw Brenda literally bounce down the eight steps, giggling with glee as she ran up to the truck.

“Guess what you guys?” she hollered into the open cab window. “I shot the chicken hawk!”

“The hawk?” Merle bellowed in disbelief. “You! YOU SHOT THE HAWK! Why, you couldn’t hit the broad side of the barn door. That is if you ever tried shooting!”

“Come! Come!” said Brenda running triumphantly ahead. They reached to garage door and in one short leap she pulled the drawer wide open. She shrieked in shock. A gasping chicken hawk lifted its head and looked at her. We all stepped back as the hawk pounced up and out from its coffin and sailed gracefully out the open garage door.

We stood frozen, watching in awe as it spread its magnificent wings, gliding gracefully around the yard. As it winged higher and higher into the blue sky a delightful thrill enveloped me. To think that only a short time ago I cradled that creature in my arms. Once more the hawk circled the farmyard as it came gliding down to where we all stood. A cry of freedom exploded from its beak. In that moment I forgave Charley Chicken Hawk for any and all the chickens he’d stolen from us.