My grandparents on my mom’s side had chickens and rabbits in a pen behind their house. My grandfather’s name was Roy, and my grandmother’s name was Lydia. They lived just a few minutes across the bayou in Arnaudville. Both of them spoke Cajun French. For some reason I called both of them Roy, Grandma Roy and Pop Pop Roy. My favorite story about Grandma Roy involves the chicken coop.
They had one rooster in the pen that was just plain mean. One day my older brother, Chris, went into the pen and the rooster attacked him. Roosters, of course, have spurs that they use to spar.
“Grandma Roy, that rooster you got in your pen is mean,” Chris told her.
“No, No, cher, it’s fine.”
Grandma Roy ended up going into the pen a day or so later and the rooster attacked her and left a gash on her leg.
The next day Grandma Roy went into the pen and wrung that rooster’s neck. It went into the pot for a gumbo. And that was the end of that. She was not going to put up with that rooster anymore.