One of the well-worn stories I've told at parties is the time I was taken to a cock fight as a kid. Looking back, it was an opportunity to experience a bit of Americana, now lost to the passage of time. It was also something most people from the Northeast haven't experienced, at least in this country.
As a kid (I was about 12) my mother flew us to visit her kinfolk in Texas. Her people lived in rural Texas and at least some of them were entrepreneurs. Aunt Willy owned a dairy farm left by her late husband and a washateria where local women came to wash their clothes.
Up the street was Harold &^*&*, Aunt Bug's husband. He owned an insurance company in a small city in East Texas and would later be known as the man who brought liquor to the county. At that time him and his son were persuing fighting chickens as a hobby. I remember walking by the pens full of roosters who were getting primed for the big day. On Saturday, a chosen few were put on a truck and hauled to Oklahoma where cockfighting was legal.
They had to ask my mother if I could go. She said okay, even though she worried that a sensitive boy like myself might get upset at the gruesome antics I was going to witness. Saturday came, and after breakfast of a sausage on a biscuit and some sweet milk I was in the truck with my cousin and his dad.
I remember this small but round building that had the meets. Inside there was seating for maybe 200 people and in the ring were two proud chickens. They had spurs attached to their legs. The chickens would fight, and men would yell bets. "I'll take a dollar on old blue". Some of the fights were ferocious. They could rise up several feet in the air at times.
Walking around the arena I saw "loosies" for sale, cokes and hot dogs. Finally, the formal program ended and the men had impromptu contests. Some of the chickens died. I was told the meat was tough but could be turned into a passable chicken with dumplings.
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