Remember the Alamo! Rang in my ears.

I stood under the sun and puffy-clouded blue in my pj’s with a feed bucket handle in the crook of my arm, a pitchfork in one hand, and the latch to the chicken coop in the other. The dogs yapped in their usual way during the normal critter feeding on the ten-acre plot we rule. That’s when it happened.

The dumb dogs quieted. I heard the rattle of a diesel engine and looked up to see a big dually pickup stop at the end of the drive. A man jumped down out of the driver’s seat and began his approach.

Crud! I’m out here in my pajamas. What should I do? As I thought, I felt, “Remember . . .” I puffed up my feathers like I was bigger than life, stepped slightly aside the coop into full view, and then reached down into the best hick voice I could find.

“What can I do fer ya?” Figuring that if he felt I was part and parcel of this here domain, he’d know I knew how to fight for it and myself. I am Texas stock, you know.

He halted his advance, slightly lifted both hands palms out, and began his spiel.

As he began talking, I decided I would go down fighting to protect all that is. My pj’s became bulletproof armor and that pitchfork would have to be good enough for spurring roosters of all kinds.

The dogs were useless. The dumb things seemed to have their tongues ripped out. Like they’re going to protect anything. By the way, do any of you loyal blog readers, all three of you, want a registered German Shepherd wuss? Free. Really.

“Yes ma’am, I just dropped by to see if I could pump out your septic.”

As he finished his sentence, I thought he must be a local as well. He gave a respectful response including the term “ma’am.” It once was said, in that Dennis Quad baseball movie something about Texas women being strong. He must’ve clearly understood that truth from experience, the learning of a local.

In larger-than-truth style I hollered, “Naw!” And moved the pitchfork to the other hand, once again reaching for the coop latch. I kept my eye on both roosters, the one with feathers and the one climbing back into his truck.

No blood for the pitchfork, the armor melted into pj’s, and our ten-acre piece of God’s green earth was safe again.

On the breeze, I barely heard, “Remember . . .”

PS. I can speak hick when necessary, but I don’t write it very well. I hope you enjoyed this trivial/not-so-trivial confession of a preacher’s wife. I just had to write it down. Oh, if you want the dog, I’ll ship her, send her, bring her to you. Email Robin@RobinBryce.com.

Rooster picture from animalartstickers.com