Rooster Summer Read online

  Rooster Summer

  Robert Heidbreder

  Illustrations by Madeline Kloepper

  Groundwood Books

  House of Anansi Press

  Toronto Berkeley

  Text copyright © 2018 by Robert Heidbreder

  Published in Canada and the USA in 2018 by Groundwood Books

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Distribution of this electronic edition via the Internet or any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal. Please do not participate in electronic piracy of copyrighted material; purchase only authorized electronic editions. We appreciate your support of the author’s rights.

  Groundwood Books / House of Anansi Press

  groundwoodbooks.com

  We acknowledge for their financial support of our publishing program

  the Canada Council for the Arts, the Ontario Arts Council and

  the Government of Canada.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Heidbreder, Robert, author

  Rooster summer / Robert Heidbreder ; illustrated by Madeline Kloepper.

  Poems.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-55498-931-7 (hardcover).—ISBN 978-1-55498-932-4 (HTML).—

  ISBN 978-1-77306-137-5 (Kindle)

  I. Kloepper, Madeline, illustrator II. Title.

  PS8565.E42R66 2018 jC811’.54 C2017-905303-5

  C2017-905304-3

  Jacket and interior illustrations by Madeline Kloepper

  The illustrations were created using inks, gouache, graphite

  and digital technique.

  Design and jacket design by Michael Solomon

  To my grandma and grandpa and all the hard-working farmers of yesterday and today.

  RH

  For the long summers in the cul-de-sac.

  MK

  Table of Contents

  A Noisy Good Morning

  Egg Hunt

  The Chicken Coop

  Back

  The 11:58

  Our Watermelon

  Barn Play

  Barn Cats

  Barking the Cows Home

  After Suppertime

  Mom and Dad

  The Storm

  The Fox

  The Stranger

  Spilling the Beans

  Corn Talk

  Ginger-Tea

  Making Amends and Friends

  Kittens

  The Attic

  Treasure

  A So-Long Hayride

  Good-Morning Goodbyes

  A Surprise

  School Reports

  Seed-Sack

  Rexster

  Now

  A Noisy Good Morning

  A cocky morning crowing

  and a daybreak braying.

  A snappy-tap rapping

  and a nose-nudge tapping.

  Grandma ups

  the window sash,

  and in struts Rexster,

  up off Seed-Sack’s back,

  over his head,

  straight across the floor,

  fluttering onto beds.

  “He’s gonna peck!

  He’s gonna peck!”

  we both shout as we spring up and out.

  But one last rooster-doodle-doo,

  and Rexster swooshes through the window,

  past Seed-Sack’s swaying,

  straw-hatted and still-braying head

  and back onto his back.

  Our summer days of farming fun

  have noisily begun.

  Egg Hunt

  “Egg hunt! Egg hunt!”

  Grandma grins, handing us

  straw-softened baskets

  for morning eggs.

  “Be quick now!

  Quick sticks! Quick sticks!”

  Rexster greets us in the hen yard

  on the slow swaying back

  of Seed-Sack.

  Then, with a feathered swoop,

  he’s up off Seed-Sack’s head, up over ours

  and down to the ground.

  Gently, we squiggle up onto Seed-Sack,

  baskets upended in hand.

  Seed-Sack slow-steps

  off toward the chicken coop.

  We hug-hold tight

  for a few steps and … down he sits.

  We slide off in a bundle of chuckles.

  He turns, brays a big toothy smile,

  shakes his old straw hat —

  bits drift off like summer snow —

  and then stands back up.

  Again, again, again

  we ride and slide,

  slide and ride,

  till we tumble down,

  smack-front-dab at the chicken-coop door,

  upturned egg baskets now hats on heads

  and Rexster roo-da-doodling at our sides.

  The Chicken Coop

  We stoop

  into the chicken coop.

  This is quick work,

  a stinky-hot, feathered fluster-bluster.

  Cranky hens flip-fly off their nests,

  filling the air with fuss and feather.

  Robbers, we scoop and dash

  with the biggest and best.

  Covered in a flurry of feathers,

  like rowdy-night pillow fighters,

  we rush out to the fresh, bright morning

  and to Rexster and Seed-Sack waiting.

  Back

  Back up on Seed-Sack’s back,

  we soft-shimmy,

  patting his hatted head.

  Seed-Sack grabs

  both eggy baskets in his big teeth,

  and off we set, slowly,

  back to the farmhouse.

  Rexster leads the way,

  king of the morning parade.

  Without once sitting down,

  Seed-Sack delivers us to the kitchen door

  and sets the baskets on the porch.

  We pat-pat Seed-Sack and carry the baskets

  into the kitchen to Grandma.

  “My two quick sticks!

  You were slow as new calves

  at fresh salt licks!

  Hmmmm?”

  “Seed-Sack. He kept …” we start explaining,

  just as Grandpa, home from chores,

  comes in, wide grin, and says,

  “You can’t tell with a mule.

  They follow no rule.”

  We giggle, giggle, say it again, again,

  over and over, till breakfast finally quiets us down.

  The 11:58

  A flutter and a flap —

  and Rexster’s in the barnyard,

  high on Seed-Sack’s hat.

  They fast-foot it to the farm gate,

  Rexster egging them on,

  Faster … faster!

  Grandma grabs the wheelbarrow.

  We cram in with loud laughter

  and thump-bump after.

  Grandpa’s already there

  with pots, pans,

  rough and wild hats

  and a wobbly chair.

  He has a corncob pipe behind each ear.


  Train tracks cut the farm in two,

  front and back,

  like two shiny silver slivers of a stream.

  We hear chug-chugs, choo-choos

  getting nearer and nearer.

  We stuff our shoes

  onto our hands.

  Pots, pans, funny hats on heads, we wait there.

  Grandma rocks on the wobbly chair,

  banging more pots, high in the air.

  Rexster sits a-doodling on the topmost fence post,

  while Seed-Sack turns his hind-end to the tracks,

  wiggle-waggling, his tail swipping

  back and forth, back and forth.

  Swift as water, the train whips by.

  Shoe-handed, pan-and-hat-headed,

  we wave, shout and clang out Hi!

  Faces stare, fingers point, necks crane.

  One man drops his soda pop.

  We see his mouth open and eyes bug

  in a big OOOOPS!

  Then it’s over.

  The train heads off to the city,

  as we double up in laughter-bright delight.

  “City folks on the go

  need a barnyard show,”

  Grandpa says.

  In a rag-tag line

  we shuffle back,

  singing high and low.

  “City folks on the go

  need a barnyard show!”

  Our Watermelon

  Grandma’s garden grows colors:

  strawberry reds, cauliflower whites,

  eggplant purples, watermelon greens.

  One watermelon is bigger, rounder,

  longer than all the others.

  We love seeing, feeling this watermelon.

  If we’re in the garden,

  or just rumbling past,

  we sing out:

  Grow, melon, grow—

  big, sweeter, sweet!

  For a treat … to eat, eat, eat.

  Yum! Yum!

  Sometimes we dance

  around it in a ring, chanting,

  but sometimes we just pat it,

  softly humming,

  “Grow, grow, grow.”

  “When will it be ripe?”

  we often ask. “When?”

  And Grandma always riddles us back,

  “When summer days grow

  low and slow, slow and low.

  Then you’ll know.

  Then you’ll know.”

  So we wait.

  Barn Play

  We scurry up the ladder to the steep hayloft,

  grab the long thick rope

  and send ourselves flying —

  singly, doubly or triply —

  while Rexster claw-grips ahold,

  fling-fluttering away.

  Sometimes we hurl ourselves

  into the spiky pile of hay.

  Sometimes we just swing

  fast to slow to slower to slowest to stop,

  and then we hop-drop

  as near to Seed-Sack as we can,

  full-body patting him as we land.

  He loves to try to pull

  our shoes off as we fall.

  We loosen them for an easy grab.

  When he gets one,

  he tosses it wildly or squat-sits on it

  for a game of mule hide-and-seek.

  We giggle-grin, Seed-Sack barn-brays,

  Rexster roo-da-doodle-doos.

  Barn Cats

  The barn hides cats.

  Not too far away,

  some invisible cats

  softly mew-mew

  in work and in play.

  “Them cats are workin’ cats.

  They catch mice, bugs, rats,”

  Grandma and Grandpa warn us.

  “Don’t make ’em your pets.”

  But we do, or try to.

  Most scat-cat away

  when they sense us near,

  but not the one we call Tuftin,

  a spiky-haired, white

  and light-brown girl cat.

  If we lie very still, silent, calm

  and put a few grains in hands,

  sometimes, just sometimes,

  she will pad near, purr, lick us and cuddle.

  We don’t try to pick her up —

  we just let her find comfort with us.

  We stroke her soft warmth

  and drift off in catnaps with her

  in the dusty dark of the barn.

  Being quiet as mice can also be nice.

  Barking the Cows Home

  “Arf arf ruffy ruff!”

  Grandpa’s barking for us.

  We quick-leap from our catnap

  and bounce up to him, panting

  and barking back,

  “Arf arf ruffy ruff!”

  His trusted old farm dog, Karmie,

  died a few months back,

  and he doesn’t have a new dog yet.

  “Gotta get the right doggone one,”

  he smiles,

  “or herding’ll be no doggone fun.”

  So for now, we’re the dogs,

  two-legged tall,

  barking the cows home.

  We head off to the open pasture,

  Rexster and Seed-Sack at the back.

  We stand far and safe behind the cows

  and dog them back to the barn.

  “Arf arf ruffy ruff!

  Arf arf ruffy ruff!”

  After Suppertime

  Tummies all stuffed,

  after-supper chores done,

  Grandpa grabs a ragged barn blanket

  and spreads it out in the barnyard

  so we can stargaze and star spot.

  We love seeing the Big and Little Dippers

  and trying to count the stars.

  “One, two … skip a few … ninety-nine … ten zillion …”

  Soon we’re tuckered out,

  on the edge of sleep.

  Grandma and Grandpa cradle us in their arms,

  carrying us to beds, softly singing,

  “To beds, to beds, our sleepyheads.”

  We pj up as Grandma pounds pillows.

  We snuggle down in the crinkly sheets

  that smell of farm sun, earth and wind.

  Rexster’s at the window.

  Seed-Sack’s off somewhere,

  still daring to bray the day away

  and having his say at deepening night.

  We drift off,

  wrapped in the farm’s musical sway,

  and hear far, far away

  the 9:53 streaming back from the city,

  whistling, choo-chugging away

  another farm day.

  Mom and Dad

  At summer’s start, Mom and Dad

  visit us at the farm almost every day.

  “Are you okay? Are you okay?”

  they ask again and again.

  And again and again, we say,

  “Yes, yes, we’re okay!

  Plus, plus, plus!”

  So little by little, bit by bit, they leave us

  to our newfound farm life

  with Grandma and Grandpa.

  But every Sunday, at 5:30 on the dot,

  they arrive for supper

  and become part of our summer story,

  of Rexster, Seed-Sack

  and play-away days.

  We know they want us to know

  that we can also grow

  apart from them, in our own ways,

  like crops freshly planted

  in fertile fields.

&nbs
p; The Storm

  Our town friends visit.

  It’s a hot, hot day.

  Down to the creek

  for a bit of cool-water play.

  Rexster follows

  with flaps, flutters and hops,

  roo-da-doodling all the way.

  Behind him Seed-Sack softly mule-sways,

  laughing out his loud mule brays.

  First we wade, then plunge deeper

  where the creek runs fuller and wider.

  Our clothes get soaked,

  so we wiggle them off

  and slosh them into a pile.

  We giggle at the plop-pop sound

  they make as they flop down.

  Suddenly sun’s done,

  the whole sky deepens with dark,

  lightning jags down ragged forks.

  Rough thunder sky quakes all around.

  We know to run,

  flee the trees and water.

  “Lightning’s dangerous.

  It’s sky fire coming to earth,”

  Grandpa and Grandma often warn.

  We grab Rexster, hug him tight,

  wrapping his wings as we hurtle back.

  But the 11:58 is streaming down the track.

  Dripping wet, we hip-hop foot to foot,

  willing it to pass fast.

  Seed-Sack hoot-toots a long song

  with the train whistle,

  head tossed back like a mule playing dog.

  All the train folks stare,

  pointing, laughing, covering mouths.

  We’re not that funny, we think as the train fades.

  We make a dash for the farmhouse.

  Grandma and Grandpa

  break into long, loving laughter

  when they see us.

  “Birthday suiters,” they tease.

  Quickly we realize we have no clothes on.

  They’re still heaped deep at the creek.

  We laugh, point too,

  just like the train folks do.

  Wrapped in towels and sheets,

  we wait for the storm to pass,

  then dressed in fresh clothes,

  we race back to the creek

  to finish our play-away day.

  The Fox

  “Egg hunt! Egg hunt!”

  Grandma beams, handing us

  the straw-softened baskets.