“Oh no Brother Ben. Shot at a rooster and killed a hen.” Bettye Sangster Herrington remembers someone in her Dooly County family making a hefty sigh when something went awry then reciting that little rhyme. It caught my attention as my shots are often wayward.  

I found some sketchy history about that quip online. One young lady said her family closed their mealtime blessings with, “Amen, Brother Ben. Shoot the rooster. Kill the Hen.” Apparently they prayed before the chicken was slayed.

Variations of that poem have reportedly been used in humorous expressions of gratitude for table fare. Kids were likely enthusiastic practitioners. I suppose it was reserved for when chicken was served, which was quite frequent during my father’s childhood. 

Daddy didn’t care much for chicken as an adult. He ate so much growing up that he lost his taste for fowl meat. He would eat a single wing, but that was about it. Cured ham and side meat, on the other hand, were lifelong staples he never tired of.

Something Daddy told me years ago demonstrated his mother’s selfless love for her children. He was grown before realizing the neckbone wasn’t Mama Joiner’s favorite piece. It’s amazing how mothers personify sacrificial love without expecting applause. 

Pulley bones were my first choice during childhood. I favored the flavor of white meat and also loved the wish that came with each lucky break. For those born too late to participate here’s how it worked.

My brother and I would each hold one side of the y-shaped bone beneath the table, then pull until it broke. The person with the longest section was entitled to a wish, which is why it’s also called the wishbone. The wish was kept secret, an inviolable rule for potential success.  

I don’t remember any of the things I wished for. Home-churned ice cream and warm pound cake would be good guesses. I’m certain I never wished for a neckbone. If I ever do, the economy has tanked. But everyone has different tastes I’ve learned, sometimes for reasons not readily discerned.

Several decades ago Rev. Harris Whitman and his wife Betty owned and operated a Carterbugers franchise in downtown Vienna. They did a superb job of managing a popular eating establishment. 

One day a long, black limousine pulled up to the drive-in window. Brother Harris noted it was an amusing site for a fast-food restaurant in a small town. The chauffeur ordered for the snazzily dressed young woman in the back seat. She had a hankering for chicken livers. 

That’s enough about chickens for today. Suzanne Harper sent an email in March, when I asked readers to submit favorite sayings. Her grandmother, Mama Cassie Stephens Johnson, had plenty of them. Suzanne shared a few of her wry comments.

“It always rains after a good man dies to wash away his tracks.” Suzanne said it still causes her concern when there’s not a drop of rain after funerals. The weather may be bone dry after my service, but maybe it will at least be humid.

“Don’t wash on New Year’s Day or you’ll be washing for a corpse before the year ends.” If Jane is doing laundry next January 1st, I’ll be suspicious of her motives, especially if the clothes are all mine. 

“If troubles were strung up outside on the clothesline, you’d go gather in your own.” It’s tempting to worry about troubles, even those we know are unlikely. “Prepare for the worst but expect the best,” seems a reasonable approach. 

“Flowers blooming out of season, trouble’s the reason.” Suzanne heard Mama Cassie make that remark not long before she died. Her grandmother was peering out the kitchen window over the sink when Suzanne’s Aunt Leona told her the Rose of Sharon was blooming out of season. Perhaps the timing was coincidental, or maybe she sensed things were changing.    

I’ll close with a saying from Suzanne’s father. “Always tell the truth, so you don’t have to remember what you said.” The truth is I’m not sure how to conclude today’s rambling column. 

Perhaps my uncertainty is akin to the off-target shot described in Brother Ben’s poem. Sometimes I aim at a rooster and wind up hitting a hen, but Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, next week I’ll try it again. Amen.