The Hottest Day of the Year


In 1938, Grandpa decided to raise chickens in the back yard. He reasoned that food was scarce and money to buy food even scarcer, so having his own eggs and some chickens to slaughter would keep food on his table through these bad times.

He got himself a rooster and some laying hens and some fertilized eggs to hatch in his homemade hatchery. He built a lean-to chicken coop at the back end of the garage and fenced in an area to keep the chickens safe from starving dogs.

(Also, to keep them from leaving his yard and taking up residency in someone else’s yard. He didn’t want to see one of his chickens ending up as a neighbor’s Sunday dinner. )

These were tough times for Grandma and Grandpa. Grandpa worked three jobs almost nineteen hours a day – just to keep his family fed and sheltered.

Grandma packed him his lunch and his supper in one bag. Baked bean sandwiches with a slice of raw onion and a dab of catsup were his favorites, but he’d eat anything between two slices of Grandma’s homemade bread, he’d always say.

Grandpa worked and worked while the chickens got bigger and bigger.

They went from youthful chickens perfect for sautéing or frying -- into tough, old birds only suitable for stewing, that is if they could fit in Grandma’s largest pot.

Hungry as his family was, chicken-hearted Grandpa couldn’t bring himself to kill a single one of them.

So instead of supplying his family with food, all he’d done was spend money on chickens, chicken wire and chicken feed. They’d have been better off with no chickens Grandma would complain.

Day after day, Grandma would plead, “Please, would you kill one of those chickens! They’re huge and ready for stuffing and roasting and we haven’t had meat since last week.”

Grandpa would reply, “Not big enough yet.”

But, Grandma knew, it wasn’t their size that bothered Grandpa, he just could not bring himself to kill a living animal.

As the chickens got bigger and bigger, the lone rooster became louder and louder.

He cockadoodledoo-ed all the time. Apparently he hadn’t read the rooster handbook that said only cockadoodle-doo at dawn.

Grandma’s ironing money went for chicken feed while her family was eating less and less. She was tempted to go grab a chicken and do the deed herself. But, she couldn’t do it either. After all, they still had bread, eggs, crackers and one-quarter cup of precious bacon fat in the icebox.


One night, Grandpa came home exhausted after working 17 days in a row at three jobs. He was a “cutter” for a bra and girdle company downtown. He was a machinist at an auto parts factory and he also worked loading boxes down at the docks – his favorite job only because it was his last one for the day.

He started his work day at 6 AM and ended it at midnight. Sometimes he even had to work past midnight, if a shipment was very large or late coming in.

Grandma says it was August but she couldn’t remember which day – only that it was the hottest day of the year.

She’d slaved all day ironing rich men’s shirts while Grandfather “sweat bullets” as he’d call it, guiding the arm of the cutting machine, working on the drill press and finally working on the dock.

Usually the cool night air made this last job almost pleasant in the summer.

But not on the night of the hottest day of the year.

Naturally, he had to work late on the hottest day of the year, and didn’t return home till almost one in the morning. He stuck his mouth under the sink faucet and drank till he’d killed his thirst, then dragged himself down the hallway and into his bed – the image of the bed had helped him get through that last hour of work.

Although the windows were open wide, the lacy curtains did not move. But heat or no heat, he was too tired to care and he fell asleep only minutes after his head hit the pillow.

2:45 AM

Cockadoodle-dooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Grandpa stirred.


3:10 AM

Cockadoodle-dooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Grandpa rolled over on his other side.

3:30 AM

Cockadoodle-dooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Grandpa got up from the bed and bare-ass naked ran outside leaving the screen door to flap, flap flap until it closed.

Grandma thought Grandpa had lost his mind. The heat, little to eat and no sleep for days had probably turned him mad, she thought.

3:40 AM

Cockadoo

That was it. No more.

Grandpa came back in the house and flopped into bed.

“What happened? Where did you go?” Grandma asked.

“I went out and killed that fucking rooster, that’s what I did. I wrung his bloody neck - now go to sleep!”

In later years they would laugh as they remembered the incident. The man who couldn’t kill a chicken to feed his family was capable of manually strangling a rooster who had woken him up.

We sometimes wonder if Grandpa would have murdered that rooster if it hadn’t been the hottest day of the year.