Butchy the Chicken Whisperer chap 11.

Both of my sisters don’t wear glasses. So, why me? Why do I have to wear glasses? I’m a boy. A boy shouldn’t wear glasses. My sisters should wear glasses but don’t. Why not! But come to think of it, Teddy Roosevelt wore glasses He was a cowboy of sorts but didn’t sing. Right? He charged up San Juan Hill wearing glasses atop his trusty steed. But he had those thick black rimmed frames and they said he took about a dozen pair with him to Cuba. But, I don’t have a horse to charge up San Juan Hill. Plus I don’t have a thick black must ash like Teddy’s. All I have is a bunch of Rhode Island Red chickens. Just a bunch of red chicken to whisper to. I think I will hypnotize them all and tell them they are all pink rabbits. What do you think?

But let me mention this before I forget: While wandering through our local Sears store one Christmas 1952 I happened upon the Sears Santa House near the popcorn and peanut candy counter. A house facade with a white picket fence around the front and a big picture window to let the passers-by peer in easily and see Santa greeting kids and letting them sit on his lap. But me, a wiser and savvy eight year old and experienced Chicken Whisperer, is thinking: all those sticky faced kids are sitting on the very wrong lap. Those kids should surely be sitting on their mom or dad’s lap instead. They are the ones with the Sears credit and a Sears catalogue. The guy in the Santa House probably is just a phony Rent-a-Santa. An imposter. A charlatan. A man with a pillow under his red felt coat and a thick black plastic belt. And I bet you he has a fake clip-on white beard as well. Probably just a 40-year old bald man with tobacco breath with holes in his underwear. A guy who couldn’t even get up on your average steep roof. Much less go down into a narrow sooty chimney. He could never make it to the kitchen table to claim his cookies and milk. Never mind hauling down and leaving boxes of wrapped presents under the Christmas tree. But anyway Just a play-Santa. Fake as plastic tinsel on a tree. A come-on to get moms and kids into the store to buy expensive electric trains and messy Betsie-wetsie dolls. Have a Merry little Christmas. Thanks for shopping at Sears. Ho-ho-ho.

Published by Okie Beyond borders

I come from a family who migrated from the parched red dirt Plaines of southern rural Oklahoma. Migrating to blue collar working class community of East Los Angeles. There is where I was born. I am Mr. Writermelon. I can only write what my grammar and spell checker allows. I am neither profound nor profane. Boy howdy! Send comment to: Mr.writermelon@gmail.com

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