They say rabbit tastes like chicken. After spending a considerable amount of time (one and three-fifths seconds) I have come to the conclusion that I will have to take their word for it. I can’t recall having ever eaten rabbit. What I can say with full knowledge having tested the subject personally is this; chickens are tougher than rabbits.

Back in seventy-three, my brother-in-law Jimmy and I spent our time together hunting. It was one of the things we had in common, and it was something country boys did to pass the time. Most of our rabbit hunting was done at night. One of us would drive while the other was on the passenger side with a 22 rifle. My old green Ford pickup had a spot light mounted on the drivers’ side which left the man with the 22 free to fire when ready. On this particular occasion however we were hunting in the afternoon.   As I was driving west from the old home place we encountered a few chickens pecking around out by the dirt road we were on.  I suppose you have guessed what happened next.

Suddenly two normally responsible young men, or old boys if that’s what you want to call us, were completely eat up with a case of the stupids. We shot one of the chickens. We knew better, and that’s why it wasn’t being completely eat up with a case of ignorance. Ignorance is doing something when you don’t know any better; stupid is doing something when you do know better. Wouldn’t you know it? The dumb chicken didn’t just drop over into a “better place” she continued to run. Which called for another shot, and then another. We finally realized we had to get moving. The chicken owner’s house was less than a hundred yards from where the attack was taking place. Friends, I am offering no defense for our actions, we screwed up…royally.

Graften Smith was my granddaddy. I only saw him a handful of times in my life. He was backwoods Alabama. His house had holes in the walls between the planks, and it had no running water. He didn’t even have an outhouse that I can remember, if you needed to go you just went out behind the chicken coop like the livestock did. Graften was a moon-shiner; he ran a still up in the hills. If he is the man who actually ran the shine once it was made I never knew it. If he did, he must have kept his shine running car hidden because I never saw a vehicle that could run more than thirty miles an hour at his place. However, a few years after I had last seen Graften Smith, I was about to find out what it must be like to run shine.

A few days after the great West Texas chicken massacre, Jimmy and I were at it again, only this time it was dark out.  Somewhere during our evening of spot lighting rabbits I noticed a set of lights heading our way at a very rapid speed. I pushed the peddle to the medal and tried to get away, but I soon realized that my old six cylinder four speed was not going to out run what must surely be the deceased chicken’s owner. I turned off the headlights and made a run for it. It took us more than an hour to make our escape. I was running sixty and seventy miles an hour on dirt roads using no headlights. I down shifted the four speed in order to make my turns so I didn’t have to use my breaks, and give away our position with the stop lights. I knew I was stirring up a trail of dust but I couldn’t afford to slow down.

We got away. I don’t know if we actually lost him, or if he simply decided that he had made his point, and knew that we wouldn’t be sending any more of his chickens to the great pecking ground in the sky. You know, I really don’t think we got away with it. I honestly believe he knew who I was.

You remember Adam and Eve don’t you? Member how they tried to hide after disobeying God? He knew what they had done then, and He knows what I do now. I can’t run fast enough, or dark enough, or down shift enough to get away from God. So, what I am I to do? The answer is simple. I can’t allow myself to be completely eat up with a case of the stupids.  

Till next time,

Grump