Firewood Chickens

Bubbie has returned home form a tour of obligation in Indianapolis; a very nice city as cities go. It is clean with pleasant architecture and the folks there are courteous and polite; a pleasant experience that one could get used to in a hurry. But back home is where the heart is and there are things there that a fella just can’t get in the city like a country road the winds through a tunnel of live oak trees, strong and majestic straining to hold up their green canopy draped in Spanish moss like military sentinels with swords crossed honoring passersby and occasional cracker houses. The other end of the tunnel breaking forth among vast green pastures waiting patiently to be nibbled down by unhurried horses and cows. No, in the city one doesn’t get the pungent scent of manure or the distant waft of a burning leaf pile. You won’t glance down a crossroad and see a nervous deer on the edge of a wood line looking back at you. You won’t see an oblivious Mr. & Mrs. Sandhill Crane silhouetted against a grassy mound posing as God’s own lawn ornaments. No, in Bubbie’s view one won’t see all these beautiful things or the unintentional folk art of the country businessman the likes of which might be trying to sell firewood chickens.


Bubbie chuckled to himself when he saw the sign, “that would be a good name for a group of country pickers.” He could almost here Porter Wagner announce, “And now ladies and gentleman, WSM and the Grand Ole Opry welcome the Firewood Chickens to the stage, here to play some of y’all’s favorites! Take ‘er away boys!”