Not all roosters are created equal. Once every few years a regal bird, so much bigger and haughtier than any other rooster, came on the farm.  I was twelve years old when one such specimen developed out of our 300-rooster flock. This rooster strutted around the buildings, wearing a big bright red comb with a drooping wattle.  The wattle is that fleshy piece of skin hanging down under the beak and combs.  It helps cool the rooster by redirecting blood flow to the skin.

Oh, we kept our eye on this rooster! He was high entertainment for us six youngest Scheckel kids living on that 238-acre farm near Seneca, in the heart of Crawford County.  We simply called him “Rooster”, and Rooster ruled. Other roosters moved out of his way. Hens cowered when Rooster appeared.  My dog Browser wouldn’t go near Rooster. Rooster was invincible. Or so he thought.

It was a Saturday in August 1954, and the family was gathered around the morning breakfast table. The usual routine was to get out of bed, do chores, milk cows, and come in for breakfast, and subsequently, the farm day work began.  Mom announced that we needed a hen or rooster for Sunday dinner.

Brother Bob said, “Rooster.” It was time for Rooster to become a Sunday meal. Rooster was big enough to feed six kids and two adults. Imagine the size of his wishbone. That would be a real prize!  We gulped down our last bit of Oatmeal, bacon, and homemade bread.

There was a problem. Before Rooster was to become Sunday dinner, he had to be caught. That would not be easy. Rooster was fast. Rooster was cunning. We had our work cut out for us. Phillip went to the garage to fetch the chicken catcher. It was a tool with a wooden handle on one end and a hook on the opposite end.

We spread out and walked around the barnyard, hen house, hog house, and corn crib.  We were quiet and stealthy. Bob hid the chicken-catching-tool behind his back, lest Rooster was smart enough to figure out what was going on.

Phillip spotted Rooster between the red hen house and the corn crib. He was majestically scratching the ground.  Phillip put out the call, “I’ve found him.”  There was an alley of about 10 feet wide between the corn crib and hog house with a fence on one side and hen house on the opposite side.

We talked strategy.  Bob had a plan. “Phillip, you stay here on this side, and Lawrence and I will go to around the chicken house and come in on the other side, and we’ve got Rooster trapped between us.”

That sounded like a good arrangement.  Phillip was bigger than Bob and I, much more agile, faster, and agile.  Surely this plan was foolproof. Our two teams closed in. Rooster stopped scratching and raised his head.  He sensed danger. The two teams approached slowly, quietly, keeping Rooster between us.

Each team was about five feet from its quarry.  But wily Rooster would have none of this.  He jumped up, squawked loudly, wings flapping and went right between Bob and me.

Phillip yelled, “You let him get away”. Of course, we knew that. Oh, the shame of it all!  We had a plan, a good plan, but Rooster overwhelmed Bob and me and made an escape. Now the chase was on. All three of us boys, and we’re now joined by our sisters, Catharine, Rita and Diane. Certainly, six Scheckels could outthink, outsmart, outrun, and finally capture Rooster. We all wanted Rooster to be the centerpiece for our Sunday dinner.

We thought we had Rooster cornered several times. Each time Rooster rose up, flapped his wings wildly, squawked loudly, and escaped.  We lost sight of Rooster several times.  But with six pairs of eyes, he was quickly spotted.

Now it was plan two or perhaps it was plan three or four.  Phillip and Catharine would chase Rooster around the hen house.  Bob, Rita, and I would stay put and hide around the corner. When we heard Rooster approaching, we’d jump out in Rooster’s path and one of us would grab him.

Aw, it worked to perfection. Bob caught the wing of Rooster who put up a desperate struggle.  But the rest of us closed in and finally got hold of his two feet, at which time the bird was doomed. Even on death’s doorstep Rooster put up a fight. I do believe he raised his head just in time to see the axe blade coming down. That Sunday meal was one of the best we’d ever had.