Not everyone likes chicken. Colonel Sanders might bristle at the assertion, but it's true. I know of at least one person who quite literally could not stomach barn fowl. I was sixteen when I met him. His name was Petra L., a Romanian opera singer who provided the "special music" for my grandfather's revival campaigns. The two of them had traveled to N.B. to conduct a week-long series of revival meetings at our church.
Even when he was not singing, the short, barrel-chested Petra had a lot of...gusto. When, for example, on a visit to our home he discovered my father's dislike of the stray cat that was hanging about, he strode up to the unsuspecting feline and punted it across the yard! You can imagine the cat's (and my father's) surprise when, expecting a scratch or two behind the ears, it found itself suddenly airborne, twirling end-for-end in a long arc into the shrubbery! But this was par for the course for Petra. He had an impact wherever he went.
Well, late in the afternoon as I was just finishing washing the mountain of dishes that often resulted from the Sunday mid-day meal, there was a commotion at the front door of our home. "Let me in! Let me in!" a voice roared. There was some bumping and thumping and then, "The bathroom! Where is it?! Where's the bathroom?! Hurry! Tell me!" Someone made a reply, their words indistinct from my place at the kitchen sink. A rush of heavy footsteps followed and then Petra careened through the kitchen into the bathroom. I had little time to ponder the nature of his distress. Almost as soon as he entered the bathroom, Petra began a very operatic rendition of "Vomitus Supremicus" (an unpopular musical number familiar to many of us). I can't say I appreciated the lyrics. His version was short, resonant and vigorous. You could tell he was really working from his diaphragm. His notes were positively explosive!
Several very noisy minutes later, Petra, face waxy and pallid, exited the bathroom and sagged, spent and grim, upon the nearest chair. Having heard his thunderous performance in every part of the house, the entire family had gathered in the kitchen to discover what had provoked it. Petra fished a crumpled hanky from his pocket and, with trembling hand, wiped the sweat from his brow. "What's happened?" my father asked, "Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"No. No. She gave me" - he swallowed in a forced and vaguely revolting manner - "chicken! Chicken!" Petra exclaimed. All of us being lovers of chicken, we failed to comprehend the problem. "It had maggots! There were maggots in the chicken!"
"What? Really? Eleanor C. served you rotten chicken?!" my father said in a horrified tone.
"Yes! I had eaten a couple of mouthfuls and was cutting another piece when I saw these...things in the meat!" My sister began to gag. She covered her mouth and scurried from the room. Petra licked his lips. "I need a glass of water."
After he had related the whole ghastly story to us, Petra left for the church to prepare for the Sunday evening service. He had remarked that his voice had been badly strained by his violent yodel into the toilet and he doubted he'd be able to sing at all.
When we arrived at the church, Petra was on stage testing his vocal chords. There were only a few people in the sanctuary. One of them was his dinner host, Eleanor C.. As he squealed, and coughed, and warbled, Eleanor looked on with deepening concern. Finally, Petra announced, "It's no good. I can't sing. My voice is too damaged." As he descended from the stage, Eleanor met him and said, "What's happened? How have you hurt your voice?" For a moment, Petra regarded her with much the same expression as he had the stray cat but, mastering himself, he replied, "I have strained my voice. I will be fine. I just need to rest it for a day or two."
"Oh, that's too bad." Eleanor said sympathetically, "I so wanted to hear you sing! Well, I'll make you some home-made soup, shall I? Something to soothe your throat. Do you like chicken noodle?" Suddenly very pale, Petra goggled at her for a moment, whipped his hanky to his mouth, and then, without a word, spun on his heel and staggered away. Eleanor watched him exit the sanctuary, then turned, walked up to me and with a grave look murmured, "Poor man. He wasn't feeling well at dinner, either."
"Yes, I replied, "He's had a foul experience."
Even when he was not singing, the short, barrel-chested Petra had a lot of...gusto. When, for example, on a visit to our home he discovered my father's dislike of the stray cat that was hanging about, he strode up to the unsuspecting feline and punted it across the yard! You can imagine the cat's (and my father's) surprise when, expecting a scratch or two behind the ears, it found itself suddenly airborne, twirling end-for-end in a long arc into the shrubbery! But this was par for the course for Petra. He had an impact wherever he went.
Well, late in the afternoon as I was just finishing washing the mountain of dishes that often resulted from the Sunday mid-day meal, there was a commotion at the front door of our home. "Let me in! Let me in!" a voice roared. There was some bumping and thumping and then, "The bathroom! Where is it?! Where's the bathroom?! Hurry! Tell me!" Someone made a reply, their words indistinct from my place at the kitchen sink. A rush of heavy footsteps followed and then Petra careened through the kitchen into the bathroom. I had little time to ponder the nature of his distress. Almost as soon as he entered the bathroom, Petra began a very operatic rendition of "Vomitus Supremicus" (an unpopular musical number familiar to many of us). I can't say I appreciated the lyrics. His version was short, resonant and vigorous. You could tell he was really working from his diaphragm. His notes were positively explosive!
Several very noisy minutes later, Petra, face waxy and pallid, exited the bathroom and sagged, spent and grim, upon the nearest chair. Having heard his thunderous performance in every part of the house, the entire family had gathered in the kitchen to discover what had provoked it. Petra fished a crumpled hanky from his pocket and, with trembling hand, wiped the sweat from his brow. "What's happened?" my father asked, "Do you need to go to the hospital?"
"No. No. She gave me" - he swallowed in a forced and vaguely revolting manner - "chicken! Chicken!" Petra exclaimed. All of us being lovers of chicken, we failed to comprehend the problem. "It had maggots! There were maggots in the chicken!"
"What? Really? Eleanor C. served you rotten chicken?!" my father said in a horrified tone.
"Yes! I had eaten a couple of mouthfuls and was cutting another piece when I saw these...things in the meat!" My sister began to gag. She covered her mouth and scurried from the room. Petra licked his lips. "I need a glass of water."
After he had related the whole ghastly story to us, Petra left for the church to prepare for the Sunday evening service. He had remarked that his voice had been badly strained by his violent yodel into the toilet and he doubted he'd be able to sing at all.
When we arrived at the church, Petra was on stage testing his vocal chords. There were only a few people in the sanctuary. One of them was his dinner host, Eleanor C.. As he squealed, and coughed, and warbled, Eleanor looked on with deepening concern. Finally, Petra announced, "It's no good. I can't sing. My voice is too damaged." As he descended from the stage, Eleanor met him and said, "What's happened? How have you hurt your voice?" For a moment, Petra regarded her with much the same expression as he had the stray cat but, mastering himself, he replied, "I have strained my voice. I will be fine. I just need to rest it for a day or two."
"Oh, that's too bad." Eleanor said sympathetically, "I so wanted to hear you sing! Well, I'll make you some home-made soup, shall I? Something to soothe your throat. Do you like chicken noodle?" Suddenly very pale, Petra goggled at her for a moment, whipped his hanky to his mouth, and then, without a word, spun on his heel and staggered away. Eleanor watched him exit the sanctuary, then turned, walked up to me and with a grave look murmured, "Poor man. He wasn't feeling well at dinner, either."
"Yes, I replied, "He's had a foul experience."
