Rats!

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If you’re a storyteller, people tell you stories. It’s one of the biggest perk of the job.  Recently, I spent a delightful afternoon at the Hopkinton Town Library (it’s big and beautiful and welcoming) talking story with Norman Miner. Later, he emailed me an additional story that our confab had brought to mind.

Thank you, Norman! How did you know a good chicken story, rat story, and cautionary tale of adventuresome boys getting a lesson in yankee practicality is my favorite kind of story? You must be psychic!

Here’s Norman’s story (reprinted with his permission and slight edits for length):

Setting: Small, family dairy farm (30 or so cows).
Time:  Early 1950’s.
Main characters:  Two fifth graders — Rodney Church of the farm and Norman Miner his visiting school mate.

This day began like most days on this small farm. Father and the hired man trudged across the road to the barn near about 4:00 a.m., with the boys allowed to sleep in and come along later.

Following the milking, feeding, mucking out, and releasing the cows into the pasture, the men and boys sat at the kitchen table while two women (mother of Rodney and her helper) filled plates with eggs, home fried potatoes, bacon, and pie.  

Conversation, mostly between Mrs. and Mr. Church, included a mention of rats in the hen house. Rodney and Norman, listening in, exchanged inspired, knowing glances.  
             
Breakfast consumed, coffee cups drained, much scraping of chair legs on the linoleum floor, the boys grabbed their jackets and hurried to the woodshed. Rodney paused near the chopping block. “What do you think of that?” he said.

“Huh, what?” Norman said.

“The rats!”

“Yeah, what about the rats?”

“We can take care of them.” 
             
Rodney took up an arm full of kindling. Norman followed suit. They refilled the kitchen wood box. That chore complete, they worked on the log cabin they were building, moved hay from the loft for the cows’ evening meal, dug worms for fishing in the brook, and so forth.

They also agreed on materials and equipment needed to “take care of the rats,” including a ground cloth, a flashlight, and a .22 caliber rifle.
   
At one point Rodney spoke directly to the rat issue: “We should go check out the hen house and see where the rats are getting in.”  

The hen house was a 10’ X 20’ foot shed with a low, sloped roof, windows on the south side, and an entry door on the east . The interior featured a number of roosting poles about six feet out from and parallel to the north wall. The poles got shorter as the roof lowered.
   
It didn’t take long for the boys to determine that a small hole at the junction of wall and floor was the most likely access for the invading rodents as evidenced by the litter on the floor. They filled the water and food dishes and gathered eggs. Rodney said: “We just need to gather the ground cloth, the flashlight, and the rifle and come back to set up before dark.”
   
Norman, while privy to all these details, could not form a firm picture in his head as to how this plan was to be configured.

During the evening meal conversation was at a minimum, punctuated with brief comments praising the food, especially the pie—peach wedges preserved from last year’s harvest with raisins in a covered pie crust. Rodney and Norman cleared their plates of every crumb.                 

After supper, they found a rubberized poncho hanging amongst the jackets on pegs on the landing. This would be their ground cloth. They grabbed a flashlight from a drawer. (Nobody noticed.)
   
Signing for silence a single finger over his lips, Rodney slipped upstairs and removed a small rifle from the cupboard. He carefully and quietly pulled back on the bolt to verify that the chamber was clear, which it was, then handed the rifle to Norman, rummaged for cartridges, and came up with four or five.
   
But now was not the time to stand around drawing attention to themselves. The boys swiftly and quietly slipped back out to the woodshed. Rodney switched the flashlight on and off to be sure it was working. It was. With poncho, rifle, and flashlight in hand, they made their way to the hen house. Most of the chickens had settled in for the night, roosting on the poles.

They boys chose the corner of the back wall to set up their rat ambush, a good distance from the hole. Rodney unfolded the poncho and tried to lay it flat on the litter. The hens protested this violation of their privacy. Knowing he didn’t have much time before full darkness, Rodney threw one leg and then the other over second roosting pole and, holding onto a third, he slipped into position on the poncho.

Norman passed him the rifle and flashlight and snaked between the poles himself. Now, both boys were on their hands and knees on the poncho beneath a ceiling of roosting hens. 
   
Rodney chambered a cartridge and closed the bolt on the single-shot .22
   
“Shine the flashlight up to the far corner and the rat hole to see if we have a clear shot,” he said as he took a prone shooting position. “Looks good,” he said. “Lie down and we’ll wait until it gets dark. We’ll use the flashlight then and see if we can catch any rats in the light.”
         
Fifth graders are not known for their patience and these two did not contradict that opinion. Only minutes after full darkness Rodney switched on the flashlight briefly. No rats.
   
Again a few minutes later.
   
Again, same result: no rats.
         
A dark hen house filled with dozens of roosting hens isn’t a quiet place, but rather filled with squawks, wheezes, and shuffling of positions. In that kind of environment the clicking on and off of the flashlight went unnoticed.
 

But the sharp, explosive sound of a discharging rifle at little, red eyes reflecting the flashlight’s beam caused every sleeping hen to nearly have a heart attack followed by an attack of diarrhea, which rained down like a monsoon on the prone boys, coating them in hen poop.
           
The boys fled---rifle, flashlight and poncho forgotten---as they dodged hens and roosting rails heading for the hen house door.

Outside, they ran for the house. To their surprise in the doorway stood Rodney’s mother bathed in light from the kitchen. “If you boys think you are coming in here covered with chicken mess,” she said, “you’ve got another think coming. You strip down and I will get you a bucket of water with soap and wash cloths. If that’s not enough, I will get you another bucket, but you are not coming in here covered like that.”
           
Next morning, the rifle, flashlight and poncho were retrieved but no rat carcass noted. The boys realized their preparations had not gone unnoticed and the results accurately predicted—as if they were not the first ones to have had a similar experience.
   
Rodney’s father produced a license-plate-sized piece of lightweight metal. He handed it to Rodney. "Take a hammer and a few roofing nails,” he said. “Fold if you need to fit it in place. Nail it in firmly over the rat hole. Oh, and do the job while the chickens are outside.”