By Greg Riccardi (Contact / Staff Bio)
October 31, 2009 - 08:39 a.m. EST

This is a true Halloween story, circa 1995.

I worked a DJ job during Halloween weekend at the Bay Port Hotel (aka the Booze Bar…said so right on the sign, and probably still does). My full-ton van was parked behind the building and I was ready to head for home at about 2:30 a.m. after having loaded up my equipment.

One problem… the van wouldn’t start (turned out to be a clogged fuel filter; the cost?—about $4). Everyone at the hotel was long since asleep, and, even though I should’ve banged on the door to get back in, I opted instead to sleep in my vehicle since it was a reasonably warm night. Quite uncomfortable, but I managed a few hours of fitful shut-eye.

There wasn’t a whole lot going on at 6 o’clock on a Sunday morning in this town, but I had to find a way to get back to Caro. A few blocks away from the hotel was a restaurant--the only place that was open, and it had a pay phone.

After telling a few locals about my situation, they unanimously agreed that I should wait for Bob to come in. Bob, a regular at the restaurant, was a local farmer who owned a flat-bed trailer—perfect for transporting my big vehicle.

(Enlisting a tow truck from Caro would’ve cost me just slightly less than what I had earned Saturday night.)

Within an hour or so, in walked Bob, a very genial older gentleman, who would be happy to haul me and my non-starting van back to Caro. It was right on the way to Saginaw, where he planned to sell some chickens that afternoon.

That’s right… Bob raised chickens—and would I be so kind as to help him save some time by assisting him in preparing them for market?

(Did I really have a choice? Nah…)

I’m not a hunter. I’m not a cook. I don’t fish, so I’ve never cleaned any. Because of these factors, I already knew that whatever role I would be playing in this process would not be one I would remember fondly.

As dawn was breaking at Bob’s place, I finished stuffing the last of the bloody, newly-beheaded chickens into plastic bags for delivery (it felt like a hundred… it was probably about 25 or so).

We were not quite halfway to Caro when Bob modestly revealed that he had a rare musical talent. He handed me a business card, which read:

Bob (whatever his last name was, I forget)—The Whistling Chicken Farmer.

He then proceeded to favor me with whistled musical selections—most of which had been popular in the early part of the 20th century—for the remainder of our journey together.

Actually, he was pretty good (not that I’d ever heard a ‘professional’ do this before). But, you know, I was functioning on very little sleep over the previous day and a half; not to mention still a bit queasy from that morning’s chicken experience. And, as grateful as I was for his help, one or two songs would have been plenty.

If Bob is still alive and happens to read this, I hope he’s doing well.

And I’ll always have a sincere appreciation for his kindness and assistance that weekend, and his part in a (for me) unique experience.

But once was enough, thank you.