Stories from Rural America Roasted Chicken By: Gary Gray      When I was a teenager in the early 1970’s I used to tag along with my older brother to what was then called “moto-cross” races. We had a Dodge van that had a converted interior with all the trappings of the day; the paneled interior, shag carpet, bed, eight-track stereo, the works. The cherry paint job, the shiny chrome mag wheels and side pipes were guaranteed to attract attention. I think they were referred too as “sin-dens” back in those days. It was one groovy van.      We used this van on our trips to different parts of the region, attending moto-cross races for the most part. One of these trips was to the small town of Seymour, Indiana. Seymour was a nondescript town in Southern Indiana, a farming region for the most part. The main roads in and out of town were simple two lane highways that wandered across lightly rolling hills.      On this particular trip, my older brother, two of his friends and I were jammed into the van, the interior of which smelled pungent of gasoline and two stroke engine oil and was filled with assorted mud spattered leathers and biking gear. We were pulling a trailer of dirt bikes and we were lost. We had never been to this particular race track before and of course none of us thought to look at a map prior to leaving, so there we were in Southern Indiana, driving about the country side listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival on the eight-track tape player and lost as hell. After about 20 minutes of wandering the country roads near Seymour, we decided that perhaps we could find somebody or some place where we could stop and ask directions.      Our wish came true. About this time, we were emerging from a small gully in the road and proceeding up a hill. At the top of this hill, perhaps two hundred yards away, we spotted what appeared to be smoke coming from the vicinity of the road. Traveling further up the hill, we could tell, the smoke was definitely coming from the road. “A car crash perhaps?” That would be neat; guys love a good car crash. No, there were no vehicles to be seen. With each passing second, the picture was becoming clearer. There was a gathering of some sort in the road ahead of us, but the purpose was still unclear.      Finally, as we approached the source of the smoke, we noticed what appeared to be an automobile tire along the side of the road. This tire was on fire. Not a blazing fire, but more of a slow steady burn. Enough fire to create a long tall steady stream of black smoke into the air, noticeable from a significant distance. There were two people standing next to the burning tire at the side of the road and a dog too. A scruffy yellow hound dog that looked as if he actually caught the cars he chased and also looked as though it had rolled in dirt for six years.      My brother who was driving, rolled down the driver side window and decided that these people are the ones to ask for directions. Coasting the van to a crawl, we crept to the scene and took closer stock of the situation. Something was not right about this. It was not normal for people to be standing at the side of a road next to a burning tire. There must be more to it.      A woman. An older woman to be exact. She appeared to be 50 perhaps, it was hard to tell, her weathered face so full of wrinkles, her matted and snarled grey hair hanging from beneath a ragged old hat. She was grinning as we approached. It was a poignant grin, a toothy grin, or should I observe, a tooth grin as she only had 3 or 4 teeth total, most of which were obscured in the sides of her gaping mouth. At her feet stood the yellow hound dog, scarred and bedraggled, his tongue hanging loosely across his slobbering jowl. In her hand she held by it's feet, a chicken. A dead chicken with half the feathers plucked out.      My brother and I must have simultaneously observed this amazing site as we turned to one another and dropped our jaws in amazement. With the van still creeping slowly toward the group, we also observed a man standing with the woman and dog. He was a grizzled old man wearing a grey jacket and baggy trousers. His hair was cut short and his face contained a week’s growth of knurly whiskers. My brother and I continued to gaze at this sight in amazement. Looking back and forth between ourselves and the couple along the roadside, we had no idea what we were observing.      “Keep going. They may eat us or something.” I told him, but in truth, I wanted to linger on scene as long as possible to take this in. The guys in the back of the van were starting to giggle.      “Shut up.” My brother barked with a whisper. " What the hell’s going on?” I whispered.      My brother stopped the van and poked his head through the open window.      “We’re looking for a moto-cross track. Do you know where the moto-cross track is around here?” He asked.      The grizzled old codger stepped up to the van and held up his arm. At the end of this arm was…nothing. He didn’t have a hand. He had a stump. Not just a stump, but a stump covered with masking tape. Not fresh masking tape, but masking tape that looked as though it had been in place for several days. It was dirty and peeling, wrapped neatly around the stump on the end of his arm and protruding from the old grey jacket.      Time froze. What probably lasted only 30 seconds felt like an eternity as each of us gazed at the knurly stump armed man and his toothless wife and bedraggled yellow dog as they stood along side the road next to a burning tire, plucking a chicken.      “The track is over that-a way about 2 miles.” The old man said.      “Thanks allot.” My brother replied, and with that he stomped his foot on the accelerator and we sped away from the scene in the direction the old man had pointed.      True as not, the old man was right. The moto-cross track was exactly where he had pointed with his masking tape covered stumpy arm. We had a great day at the track that day. My brother won both the open and 250cc class races he entered. We joked about the scene from the roadside the whole day and found our way back to Kentucky with no effort afterwards.      To this day, my brother and I both tell this story, though seldom together. We live far apart now and have for many years so we do not get to see one another very often, but still, we have the same basic version of this story.      When ever I go to a Kentucky Fried Chicken restaurant or to the grocery and see the roasted chickens, my mind will drift back to Southern Indiana and to the disheveled old couple standing by the roadside roasting a chicken over a burning tire and I wonder.      I wonder if those folks were homeless and that was the only food they had to eat.      I wonder if those folks were often found roaming the country roads of Southern Indiana.      I wonder if the people that lived around there knew of these folks strife and what if anything was ever done to help them.      I wonder each of these things, but more often than not, I wonder if that scruffy yellow dog got any of that chicken.       Gary Gray is a Veteran of the US Navy and has worked for The Wall Street Journal since 1981. He presently lives in Denver, Colorado. He is a student of the Paranormal. He writes short stories, some of which you can view on his website at http://home.earthlink.net/~radiodenver/ Be sure to check out Gary's website and send him a note telling him what you think of his stories, and don't forget to tell him that we said "howdy" Click Here To Send Gary A Personal Message