The Visitor

Today is Mother's Day, and in just over a week, it'll be nine years since my mom died. Born in 1936, the youngest of four, she grew up in this house with her mom, dad, siblings, and countless pets. Somehow, they made it work - six of them in this 900 sq ft, barely two-bedroom cottage; some years, they even took in others.

Mom also spent much of her adult life here; we moved in when I was a teenager to care for her mother, my grandmother, and she didn't leave until the last year of her life, when she needed more care than I could provide.

Mom didn't talk much about her childhood, but thankfully, she took a creative writing class where she put a few of her best memories on paper. In a tribute to her on Mother's Day, here's one of her stories.


The Visitor

“Ruf, leave those flowers alone,” dad yelled from where he was hoeing carrots and beets. “And stay out of my garden. You’re ruining it.”

He tried to sound angry, but he was fond of Rufus, so he wasn’t too convincing. She continued on her way, picking blossoms here and there and dropping them, leaving them where they lay. She was quite a clown, parading about in her rusty-red coat and bright red hat. She darted around on her spindly little legs, completely oblivious to dad’s warning.

When I think back to my childhood, I remember Rufus so well because she was such a frequent visitor. So much so that she was like a member of the family. She arrived most anytime of the day, timidly tapping at the back door.

“Hi, Ruf,” said mom, as she opened the door. “Come on in and set a spell. How are you today?”

Accepting the invitation, Rufus entered shyly, looking to see if the dog or cat were anywhere nearby. She wasn’t really afraid of them, just cautious. She made a quick tour of the house and greeted each member of the family in turn, checking to see if there was any activity going on that interested her. Usually not finding, she finished her inspection and headed for the kitchen to look for her special treat. Mom always had a little something for her, and she always hid it in a different place. Rufus poked around until she finally located it. She was a good snooper.

Rufus seemed to know instinctively when it was time for dad’s lunch. While he cleaned up, she perched in the chair next to his and waited, and then, as he ate, watched patiently. Her begging brown eyes followed every move of his hand. She looked plump and well-fed, but I guess dad felt sorry for her – soon he was sharing his meal with her.

She had her fill and went looking for mom. She was especially fond of her because mom took such good care of her during her tragic, near-fatal illness. Rufus followed her around the house like a lost puppy; they went from room to room, dusting, cleaning and making the beds. She wasn’t any help, but mom enjoyed her company.

The only thing that Rufus seemed frightened of was the vacuum cleaner. We couldn’t imagine why because it had never been used when she was there. But she became very flustered and gave it a wide berth whenever it was left in the middle of the floor. I often wonder what would have happened if it had been turned on.

When she decided her visit was over, Rufus left the same way she came. She hopped lightly down the stairs and went about her business. She seemed to know she’d be welcome when she came calling again.

I remember Rufus so vividly because she was our pet chicken, a beautiful, tawny-feathered Rhode Island Red, with a brilliant crimson top-knot. She was part of a flock of chicks, hatched in the old barn behind the house, by a cackling, mean biddy. She was smaller than the others, so they picked on her, a rather common occurrence in Chickendom.

We never knew what really happened, but one day, when mom went to collect the freshly laid eggs, she found Rufus, prostrate, in the corner of the henhouse, half-dead and almost completely paralyzed. The others were pecking at her mercilessly. Mom screamed for help, so we brought her a warm blanket and she gently wrapped Rufus up and brought her into the house. Tears glistened on the rims of mom’s eyes as she carefully laid Ruf in a box by the roaring fire. Day and night she watched over her, talking softly, gently massaging her almost lifeless body. Day and night, she cried a little and prayed a little. At last, she coaxed her to accept some food, and slowly, the battle was won. With mom’s patient and loving care, Rufus returned to life.

It took many weeks for Rufus to regain all her strength. When it was time for her to return to her former residence, she objected strenuously, and the other hens weren’t very welcoming. She never did completely re-orient to her old way of life; from then on, she was only a part-time occupant of Chickenville. Whenever the notion struck, usually at meal time, she flapped her wings, cleared the fence, and came calling on her adopted family. I’m sure, in her little chicken-mind, she felt she was really “people.”

I don’t recall whatever happened to Ruf. I suppose she’s somewhere in Chicken Heaven, picking flowers, leaving them where they lay. Back in those days, chicken was often on the dinner menu. But I hardly think such an awful fate could befall a delightful, captivating and well-loved pet like Rufus.

- Anelda

(Photo: this yellow rose bush was a gift from mom, probably around the time I graduated from high school)