We talked about Chai, the thirsty cow, and the fact that she looked to me as the only one that could to satisfy her thirst. She even had me shoveling through a snowdrift.

There are usually chickens on a family farm, but I can’t recall any on Ellen’s dad’s farm in New York and I don’t know why. He might have had his fill of caring for chickens when he found that 10,000 of them didn’t produce enough income, even when range grown and selling the fertilized eggs as hatching eggs.

When growing up at Banda, where my dad had built and operated a mission hospital, the most common source of meat was chicken. The Zande people, though they did a lot of hunting, normally ate muhogo, sombe, rice, and peanuts with palm fat and bannanas. Sometimes the hunt was successful and everyone ate fresh meat for a few days while the rest of the meat was cut into strips, dried slowly over smoky fires, and hung from the cookhouse rafters.

There were always chickens. They ran freely where they would, finding food where they could, and going about their lives as if they had no owner. When meat from a hunt was cut up there were scraps they could peck off the bones. When the peanuts were harvested the chickens gathered where the Zande women were working together to roast, sort, and clean the crop to make peanut butter. They became pests snatching peanuts from the surface of the tightly woven mat where each roasted nut was broken in half to remove the red skin and the germ.

Such an abundant food supply was rare as the chickens were never intentionally fed, though they did come running every time water and scraps were thrown out the cookhouse door. It didn’t matter whose door it might be; the chickens went wherever they wished but stayed within their range, possibly determined by the distance they could hear the members of their own flock. They wandered, to return again and again to their favorite places spending their whole day scratching and pecking, looking for bugs, eating grass seeds, plucking blades of grass and anything else they could find.

They used their favorite dust baths and ate tiny rocks, though no one told them they needed the dust to keep down the natural parasites, or that the grit was needed in their gizzard to grind the bits of grain and seeds they found. The Zandes knew which chickens were theirs, even though they mingled with others in the village during the day. Though the birds were basically wild their owner’s children usually discovered where the hens snuck off to lay their eggs and, in hopes that she wouldn’t abandon that nest, carefully took no more than one or two eggs at a time. The chickens always returned to the same place to roost each night, the place they had first been shut in for a few days by their owner.

They closely resembled what are called red junglefowl. They were only a little larger than a bantam. The small roosters were very possessive of their flock of hens, ever ready to fight if a strange rooster infringed on their territory.

A Zande family might have no more than five birds, plus chicks. Eating rice with chicken cooked in palm fat and flavored with peanut butter was a guest meal. When it was certain that the guest was coming, the host would show her children which chicken to catch for her to prepare for the meal later that day.

Now it isn’t always possible to honor the guest with a meal, but a gift of eggs or a chicken is frequently offered to a special guest.

When Ellen and I completed our first three-month school term at Rethy Academy as dorm parents we said goodbye to our 23 kids as they left for Christmas vacation to be with their parents. Ellen and I also left, driving two days to Banda to be with my family during the break.

To welcome us my parents gave us exactly the same chicken dinner that a Zande would give to his very special guests, so everything was perfect. Word got around, however, that the son of the doctor had come back home and brought his wife with him.

My dad had cared for the Zandes at Banda for nearly 20 years and had literally done thousands of surgical cases, mostly hernias and tumors. He was the only doctor in the area so was widely known and many of his former patients came to see his son and his wife, Ellen.

A number of those who came brought gifts, including chickens and eggs. We ate the eggs during our vacation time with my parents and sister, but what should we do with the live chickens?  We took them with us back to Rethy.

I left the chickens in their woven baskets a couple days and they pecked the corn I gave them through the open weave. They would now come back to the same place at night so I released them to make themselves at home. It didn’t take long before the little rooster was crowing lustily, claiming his territory near the dorm wood shop and the wood pile behind the kitchen. When Ellen told the cooks to purchase chickens for the dorm, the little rooster came to fight with them to prove that he was in charge. Even though he was much smaller he won every time since they had their legs tied as they waited under the table to be butchered.

The Biggy boys didn’t miss the proud crowing of the little colorful rooster from Banda. He would flap his wings repeatedly and puff out his black feathered breast then crow out his authority. The boys would take one of the tied roosters waiting to become part of Sunday dinner, and try to get a fight started. Both roosters cooperated, but the one which had been tied wasn’t nearly quick enough to dodge the kicking jump-attacks of the colorful little Zande rooster.

The boys decided that they needed an undefeated rooster. The ones that had been sold to the dorm and left tied up under the big wooden table overnight didn’t have much fight left. They went shopping in the Uguru village where there were lots of roosters. They stipulated that they wanted the boss rooster that was in charge of all the other roosters in the village.

The boys couldn’t wait to see if their big white rooster would beat Pa Brown’s rooster. One of the boys slapped his leg repeatedly, mimicking the little rooster’s wing flapping and then crowed the best he could. Almost immediately he heard the answer to his challenge. The little Zande rooster appeared from behind the woodshed ready to defend his territory.

The boys threw their big white chicken at the little one they wanted to see beaten. The roosters crouched low, ready to leap, peck, scratch and kick each other. I guess they were sizing each other up. The boy’s rooster was at least twice the size of Pa Brown’s imported Zande jungle fowl, but that little fighting cock wasn’t at all intimidated. When they clashed, kicking and scratching furiously they met in the air, each trying to claw and spur the other, biting, each at the other’s red comb. They fell to the dusty hard ground. Instantly faced off again with the golden ring of neck feathers flared out behind the smaller head facing big bird’s open beak in front of his white distended feathers. Three white breast feathers drifted away behind the darker bird.

The boys were disappointed when Pa Brown’s rooster demonstrated his dominance, jumping higher, scratching more furiously, and sometimes just ducking low to avoid the attack of the heavier bird. The big bird staggered when he found himself attacked from behind, the little one clawing his back and pecking at the back of his head. The battleground was soon strewn with white feathers, the heavy bird too slow to get away from the repeated charges by the one aggressively enforcing his rule. His vigorous crowing and flapping, declaring his victory, went unanswered.

Months later the boys tried again by catching the little rooster and throwing him into Roscoe Lee’s pen full of Rode Island Red chickens, including two giant roosters. This time the Zande rooster used his wings to flee. He wasn’t in charge of those big birds in that chicken pen.

The boys lost interest in the rooster and he became old, but still crowed lustily maintaining authority over all the chickens in his pen, that were descended from the gift chickens given to us that Christmas. One day when I was out feeding the chickens, he was nowhere to be found. One of his offspring, that looked a lot like him, was crowing and there was no reply from him. I eventually found him hiding where he had escaped from his son, wedged behind the nesting boxes with his head and comb bloody from his defeat. He was certainly no longer in charge, but tried crowing when I released him outside the pen.

The Zande rooster was only interested in being in charge of his territory. I suppose he had an area in the Zande village he came from, but somehow he defined a new area at Rethy where he roamed wherever he liked. When my fellow dorm-parent bought chickens and set up his chicken pen, the rooster lost that area.  When he became a pest and I built a pen for my chickens, his kingdom became much smaller. When he got old and his son was stronger, he lost that area as well. He ended up in charge of nothing.

Do we ever get the ambition to be in charge?

Now let me tell you a story about Scrappy

Scrappy Wants to be in Charge

Fancy Tail lived at Grandpa Paul’s farm. He was a little Banty rooster that felt very big. Grandpa enjoyed the way he could crow, just like the roosters in Africa. He was crowing on top of the fence, announcing to the world that he was the boss of the chickens.

Fancy Tail wasn’t happy when a young rooster started crowing. It sounded like that little rooster had the ambition to be in charge of all the hens. The big Rhode Island Red hens ignored the crowing. They just ate food and laid eggs.

Jessie gave “Fancy” his name. His feathers shone different colors in the sunshine and two long, black feathers made a circle over the rest of his tail. Grandpa called the other little rooster, “Scrappy”. His tail was just plain and his feathers didn’t shine.

Fancy Tail jumped down from the fence because Scrappy wanted to fight. Scrappy’s head was down low. The circle of yellow and gold feathers around his neck were all sticking out. His comb was very red. His wings dragged on the ground. He was crouched down, ready to jump up to kick and scratch. His beak was open. He made bragging noises. He wanted to make Fancy Tail run away from him, so he could be the boss.

The big brown boots that brought food and water were coming. The Rode Island Red hens came barging over, crowding around the empty food dish. The three Bantam hens ran away. Fancy and Scrappy kept on fighting.

A brown boot was suddenly between them!  Fancy knew he couldn’t beat that boot and make it run away. It had kicked back the last time Fancy had attacked it. Fancy and Scrappy stopped, forgot their fight, and ran away. Those boots were in charge of the farmyard.

The little roosters wanted to be in charge of more than just the chicken pen, so they flew out. Scrappy charged at Jessie on her way to collect eggs. When she ran, he jumped up and used his sharp claws on the back of her legs and scratched her. Drew was watching and got scared when he heard her scream. He saw her run away from Scrappy.

Fancy Tail wanted to make Grandma run away. She was hanging laundry in the back yard but she was too quick for him and used her broom. His fancy tail lost one of those beautiful long feathers when he run away.

Jessie still liked to get the eggs, so she took a badminton racquet with her. Her little brother, Drew, started carrying a racquet too, but he didn’t scare Scrappy at all. Drew and Scrappy checked up on each other every day. Drew didn’t want to go by Scrappy unless someone was with him.

It was time to pick wild apples to make cider. Jessie ran to the tractor and hay wagon with her older brother, Caleb. Drew wanted to join them on the hay wagon, but Scrappy was in the way. The rooster was crowing, strutting, and pecking; slowly coming closer. Drew began screaming and crying. He was too afraid to move.

Grandpa took Drew’s little hand in his big one and told him, “Don’t be afraid, I’m here. Scrappy is afraid of me. He can’t hurt you. while you are with me, Drew. I’m his boss.”  Drew stuck close to Grandpa all the way to the tractor.

He stopped crying when he felt safe, sitting on the hay, in the wagon, with his brother and sister. Grandpa was driving the tractor.

Those two little roosters are now gone. The grandchildren have grown up and still love visiting Grandpa’s farm with all their cousins. God has made it a special place to share His love with each other. He is the boss of Grandpa Paul.

He is the One in charge of everything.