In Game: at St. Joe's
Posted: Fri Mar 08, 2024 4:49 pm
I have always been fascinated by the St. Joe's mascot: the hawk that never dies. Part of it comes from my knowledge of Redtail Hawks, because the St. Joe's mascot is unlike anything in nature. Its color is more that of a Rhode Island Red chicken; or, come to think of it, the color of my avatar, Henery the Hawk from the old Warner Bros. cartoons (only redder).
That got me reflecting on a story told to me by my maternal grandmother when I was in the seventh grade and she was approaching 90. She lived her entire life in the farming community of Dysartsville, near the Burke County line and in the shadow of the South Mountains range. She and Grandpa raised ten kids, shepherding them through the terrors of the 1918 Spanish influenza and the perilous Great Depression. She was a diminutive woman but powerful in spirit; in those days farm families had to be entirely self-sufficient. As far as I know, they farmed without any motorized mechanization, relying upon a single mule. Grandma did everything but the plowing; she looked after the family milk cow and tended to a flock of 25-30 chickens. Apart from bantam chickens, she relied on the big Rhode Island Red breed for eggs.
They had a hen house, of course, and she had fenced in an area around the hen house that was the size of a residential lawn. She said "chicken hawks" were a constant threat to her flock. (At the time, I didn't know what species a chicken hawk was, but I've later come to learn that it's a colloquial name for Redtails.) She also used the chicken enclosure to chop pine kindling on an old tree stump inside the fence, using a small hatchet.
One day, she heard a commotion inside the enclosure. Her flock was clearly upset by something. She rushed to the fence and saw that a chicken hawk had caught one of her prized laying hens. The hawk had attached itself to the chicken's head and was about to tuck in for its meal. She knew from prior experience that her Rhode Island Reds were substantially larger than chicken hawks and that the only way this hawk could enjoy a chicken dinner was by staying put on the ground. (Think of the Monty Python skit about African swallows and the two-pound coconut.) Infuriated by these constant hawk assaults on her flock, she took up her hatchet, and when it was apparent that the hawk was adamant about not giving up its grip on the chicken, she snatched it up by holding it between its wings, marched over to the tree stump, hawk, chicken and all, and promptly chopped off the hawk's head.
With the hawk dispatched with the efficiency of a medieval executioner, she assessed the chicken. Alas, it was not merely shagged out from a long squawk, it had expired; it was stone dead; it was no more; had ceased to be; had gone to meet its maker. So she wielded her hatchet and chopped off its head, too. She then plucked and cleaned it (the chicken, not the hawk), and put it in the pot for supper. The family ate well that night.
While I don't wish any such drastic harm to the St. Joe's hawk, I wouldn't mind if the 'Cats plucked a fair number of hawk feathers so that at the end of the contest, it looks a bit roughed up. GO CATS!
That got me reflecting on a story told to me by my maternal grandmother when I was in the seventh grade and she was approaching 90. She lived her entire life in the farming community of Dysartsville, near the Burke County line and in the shadow of the South Mountains range. She and Grandpa raised ten kids, shepherding them through the terrors of the 1918 Spanish influenza and the perilous Great Depression. She was a diminutive woman but powerful in spirit; in those days farm families had to be entirely self-sufficient. As far as I know, they farmed without any motorized mechanization, relying upon a single mule. Grandma did everything but the plowing; she looked after the family milk cow and tended to a flock of 25-30 chickens. Apart from bantam chickens, she relied on the big Rhode Island Red breed for eggs.
They had a hen house, of course, and she had fenced in an area around the hen house that was the size of a residential lawn. She said "chicken hawks" were a constant threat to her flock. (At the time, I didn't know what species a chicken hawk was, but I've later come to learn that it's a colloquial name for Redtails.) She also used the chicken enclosure to chop pine kindling on an old tree stump inside the fence, using a small hatchet.
One day, she heard a commotion inside the enclosure. Her flock was clearly upset by something. She rushed to the fence and saw that a chicken hawk had caught one of her prized laying hens. The hawk had attached itself to the chicken's head and was about to tuck in for its meal. She knew from prior experience that her Rhode Island Reds were substantially larger than chicken hawks and that the only way this hawk could enjoy a chicken dinner was by staying put on the ground. (Think of the Monty Python skit about African swallows and the two-pound coconut.) Infuriated by these constant hawk assaults on her flock, she took up her hatchet, and when it was apparent that the hawk was adamant about not giving up its grip on the chicken, she snatched it up by holding it between its wings, marched over to the tree stump, hawk, chicken and all, and promptly chopped off the hawk's head.
With the hawk dispatched with the efficiency of a medieval executioner, she assessed the chicken. Alas, it was not merely shagged out from a long squawk, it had expired; it was stone dead; it was no more; had ceased to be; had gone to meet its maker. So she wielded her hatchet and chopped off its head, too. She then plucked and cleaned it (the chicken, not the hawk), and put it in the pot for supper. The family ate well that night.
While I don't wish any such drastic harm to the St. Joe's hawk, I wouldn't mind if the 'Cats plucked a fair number of hawk feathers so that at the end of the contest, it looks a bit roughed up. GO CATS!
