We live in the Midwest. It’s farming country; a land of waving cornfields and neat rows of soybeans with a few spots of golden wheat here and there. There isn’t much entertainment in rural areas,very few concerts or art galleries for stimulation–so we must create our own entertainment. Sometimes it is just all in good fun.

One Sunday afternoon, my husband and I started out on our bikes to visit a couple about three miles. down the road. We had grown up with these two, and our families visited often, so we thought we would just drop in. When we got there, they were gone, so my husband, being the mischievous character he is, pulled a large stalk of corn from the field near the driveway, opened their mailbox, and pushed it in root first–with all the clumped dirt–leaving the rest of the stalk dangling.This was to let them know someone had come to call.

Several days later, we had heard nothing from our neighbors and had almost forgotten my husbands little gesture, when a horn blasted from our front drive. It was the mailman pulling in our driveway.

“Miss.” he managed as he got out of the car with a puzzled grin when I came running out. “Did you know you had a chicken in your mailbox?”

“A chicken?” I gasped in astonishment. “What kind of a chicken?”

“A very messy one, Miss. Someone put it in head first. It’s still alive. I think it has been there awhile. Here’s your mail for today. I’ll let you attend to the other delivery.” With that he smiled brightly and headed for his car.

Well, I had known it was coming, so I had an idea who the comic was who had made our special delivery. I transported a weary but squawking chicken to a nearby coop for safekeeping, then cleaning the mailbox with a garden hose was no desirable task.

“Hmm, we’ll see about this,” I mumbled with a grin.

Two weeks later, I made a friendly call to our neighbors. “Bill, we haven’t seen you folks for a while,” I begin innocently, “I wonder if you would come up for an evening meal one night this week.” You’re not too busy now that the crops are harvested are you?”

“No, no, just a minute. I’ll check with Harriet.” He said a moment later, She said we’re free. We’d be glad to come.”

“Would Friday evening work for you, about 6:30?”

“Sure Friday evening would be fine– By the way, what’s for supper?”

Did I detect a note of hesitancy in his voice? “Oh, I’ll think of something. We’ll look forward to having you come,” I replied casually.

“Sure, thanks for the invite.”

This should be fun, I thought hanging up the phone. Of course no mention of either incident had been made and I was sure he was wondering if I had found the chicken.

Friday came around, and I killed and dressed the fatted chicken for our evening meal. I figured I might as well use it all so I prepared a lettuce and tomato salad and sprinkled chicken feathers through out for Bill’s salad dish, along with the main dish of fried chicken mashed potatoes with gravy, and green beans from the garden.

2 Revisions

Friday at 6:30 rolled around and our two friendly neighbors came. Joyous greetings and happy laughter occurred, as it did every time we got together. But did Bill seem a bit on guard?

We settled down at the table and after prayer (Of course I breathed, “Lord forgive me.), I served the salad. It was hilarious when Bill finally realized after a few bites and spits that he had more in his salad than he had bargained for. He looked at me puckering,”I know, you don’t have to explain!” he bellowed with a grin.

“Well now,” I said ” I didn’t want to waste any part of that good chicken someone left in my mailbox.” Our group at the table convulsed in laughter.

“All right, you win!”he managed.

I produced another salad for Bill and he was finally able to eat in peace,

Our chicken story made the rounds in our small community for some time. It was certainly one of the highlights of our mail carriers career.

Nuff said!

(Names have been changed to protect the guilty.)