When I was growing up, we always came home to our grandparents North Todd County, Ky farm for a few weeks each summer. At five or six years old, I was crazy about chickens. For the time we stayed with my grandparents, I was the Chicken King. I fed, watered, gathered the eggs and guarded my flock. Almost everyday I would catch one and pet it like a long lost friend.
My sanctuary was an old stump in the chicken yard. This humble seat, weathered and worn, offered me a front-row view to a world teeming with life and simple pleasures. Hours slipped by as I watched the chickens, I loved watching my feathery friends engage in their endless pursuit of bugs. To an outsider, this spectacle might have seemed mundane, but to me, it was a source of endless fascination. I couldn’t pinpoint what made it so captivating; perhaps it was the unpredictability of their chase or the earnestness with which they pursued their tiny prey. It was entertainment in its purest form, unscripted and spontaneous.
One calm morning, as I was deeply engrossed in my usual observation of the chickens, my tranquility was suddenly shattered by an unexpected sight. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of something bizarre—a creature that resembled a squirrel, yet it was silently gliding from one giant oak to another. I had witnessed countless squirrels make daring leaps from branch to branch, but never had I seen one soar through the air in what seemed like a hundred feet. My heart leapt into my throat, and my initial curiosity morphed into a wave of fear. Without a moment’s hesitation, I sprang from my stump and bolted out of the chicken yard towards my grandmother’s back door, my running footsteps cutting through the morning’s dew. As I rounded the corner to open the back door, I slipped on the grass and busted my knee on a sandstone rock they used for stepping stones.
Bursting through the door, heart pounding and breathless with blood seeping out of my new wound, I recounted my encounter with the mysterious creature, my eyes wide with a mix of fear and fascination. My grandmother, ever the source of serenity and wisdom, listened closely, then gently unveiled the mystery: it was a flying squirrel. Her familiar tone and the ease with which she described this creature eased my anxiety, integrating it into the fabric of our everyday life, just like the chickens in the yard. I had never heard of a flying squirrel, but I was captivated. The idea that a squirrel could glide through the air, defying gravity, opened up a whole new realm of possibilities in my young mind, pushing the limits of what I thought was possible.
Despite waiting and watching, I never again saw that flying squirrel, its elusive presence fading into memory. Yet, the experience remained etched in my mind, along with the scar on my knee