See, there’s this rooster, and I hate him …

For almost a half-century I have believed what I now call the Rooster Myth. The myth, as perpetuated by the American film industry, goes like this: The rooster, king of the barnyard, crows heartily at dawn, and the farmer rises, pulls on his suspenders, eats 15 eggs and 40 flapjacks and plants 100 acres of corn. A distillation of this myth might read: The rooster gives a hearty crow–the crow he was saving up for all night–and people get up.

Why does nobody tell you that the rooster keeps crowing long after dawn and crows at regular intervals for much of the morning? Our first night here, the rooster who lives under my window crowed at about 3 a.m. and went on and on in a call-and-response to the rooster who lives in a neighboring yard. They sounded like a couple of jazz trumpeters in an extended improvisation.

There’s no way to hit the sleep alarm on a rooster–especially a rooster you can’t see. And there’s no way to sleep until you learn to ignore him. Yesterday, Uncle Brian and I both were hanging out in the lobby of the hotel, and I told him, “You know what we could do that’s fun this afternoon? We could find that rooster and kill it.”

“That would leave 10 more just like him,” he said.


1 comment so far

  1. Ann DeRooy on

    I want to see a picture of this alarm clock!

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