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As Mom slid two bowls of cornflakes across our breakfast table toward my brother and me, she announced, “Tonight your father is returning home from work, and I want you to go out to the chicken pen and get me one of those roosters for dinner.”
Jim was just 9, and I was 10 years old. It would seem like a pretty tough assignment for kids that age, but we had watched Dad kill, pick feathers and gut a chicken for dinner many times, and so we thought we were ready to be “big boys” for Mom.
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