Well now, howdy folks, pull up a chair and let ol’ Howe tell you a tale from right here in East Tennessee. You see, sometimes the stories that stick with you ain’t about grand historical events or famous folks, but about the everyday peculiarities that make life interesting. And believe you me, Loudon County had itself a peculiar one in the form of a rooster named Thunderclap.
Now, Old Man Hemlock, he was a fixture around these parts, a man of few words but many chickens. And among his flock, Thunderclap wasn’t just *a* rooster; he was *the* rooster. This wasn’t your average barnyard crower, mind you. Oh no. Thunderclap had a set of pipes on him that could rival a freight train whistle and a foghorn having a shouting match. Folks swore you could hear that bird across three valleys, clear as a bell, even with the windows shut tight.
The complaints, well, they started trickling in, then they started pouring. Mrs. Gable, three ridges over, claimed Thunderclap’s morning serenade regularly knocked her prized porcelain figurines off the mantelpiece. Young Billy Jenkins, who lived just down the road, swore the rooster’s crow was so powerful it once startled a squirrel right out of a pecan tree. Old Man Hemlock, bless his stubborn heart, just chuckled and said, “Thunderclap’s just exercising his vocal cords, folks. A healthy bird, that one.”
One summer, a slick-talking traveling salesman rolled through, peddling all sorts of contraptions. He heard tell of Thunderclap and, seeing an opportunity, tried to sell Old Man Hemlock a “silent rooster” collar. Said it used some fancy newfangled technology to muffle the sound. Hemlock, being a man who appreciated a good show, let the fellow try it. Well, I tell you what, Thunderclap took one look at that collar, let out a crow that rattled the salesman’s teeth, and then proceeded to peck that contraption into a pile of plastic and wires faster than you could say “scrambled eggs.” The salesman packed up his wares and left town with a newfound respect for avian vocal power.
Folks tried everything. One neighbor, a tinkerer named Earl, even tried to rig up a sound-dampening contraption using parts he’d picked up from RADIO SHACK. He had wires and foam and little speakers all over the place, trying to create a “cone of silence” around the coop. Didn’t do a lick of good. Thunderclap’s crow just seemed to *absorb* the silence and throw it back louder.
The whole thing came to a head at the annual Loudon County Fair. They had a “Loudest Crow” contest, mostly for laughs, you understand. But when Old Man Hemlock brought Thunderclap, well, the competition didn’t stand a chance. That rooster let out a crow that made the prize ribbons flutter and the judges jump. He won, hands down, much to the chagrin of everyone within a five-mile radius who had to endure his daily concerts. Hemlock was proud as punch, even if his own windows rattled daily. Thunderclap, the undisputed champion of noise, lived out his days as a local legend, a testament to the fact that sometimes, you just can’t quiet a good story, or a really loud rooster.
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Original source: cantmakethisup.net
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