Oddly enough, a television show about war gave me a sense that everything was right in the world. Some of my fondest childhood memories were hearing the M*A*S*H theme song playing. By the time I was old enough to watch M*A*S*H it was in reruns that came on after Carson. I don’t think I actually saw an episode until I was into middle school but that wasn’t the point when I was a young boy. If I was hearing the theme song play it meant that I had gotten to stay up late with dad. Most of the time I was asleep before the final note played, but I still tried. I was going to cherish every second I had to stay up late. The warmth of my memories of the show meant that I did eventually start watching M*A*S*H. The show fed into my nostalgic personality and love of history. By the time I was a sophomore in high school I had seen every episode at least once and most of them multiple times. As an adult, once a year, I rewatch every episode of the TV series. Like everyone I have my favorite characters, Sidney Freedman, Father Mulcahy and my preferred era (Potter, Hunnicutt, and Winchester seasons).
One of my favorite episodes is found in season six – The Light that Failed. We find the 4077, low on supplies and morale, in the midst of a bitter winter. When the supply truck arrives it’s filled with summer gear and a small package addressed to B.J. Hunnicutt. B.J. rips open the parcel to discover he had been sent a mystery novel – The Rooster Crowed at Midnight. Over the course of the episode the book if torn apart and pages passed around so the entire camp has the chance to solve the mystery together. The problem arrises when Captain Hunnicutt finds the last page and, subsequently, the reveal of the murderer are missing. Eventually they called the, 97 year old, author Abigail Porterfield.
Though they never discovered who the villain was a noticeable change had swept through the camp. Doctors, nurses, and support staff came to life and were talking about the book. A book at the right time in the right place restored the waining spirits of a small displaced community.
A few months ago, my town had its own, “The Rooster Crowed at Midnight” moment. Except for us it wasn’t a book or a rooster. For us it was the painting of a hen named Rose.
Once upon a time ago my town was a center for the art of stone carving. We had carvers that did brilliant and beautiful things with limestone. Our stone works were famous the world over. Limestone is what put us on the map. During the years between the limestone boom and the modern era our heart for art was mostly forgotten. We still talked about it and acknowledged it, but it stirred neither passion nor excitement in the community. We had grown too familiar and too distant. Then the hen appeared. It wasn’t unexpected, the piece had been commissioned. The artist did his work in the middle of the day with onlookers watching him give life to a blank concrete block wall. When all was said and done, looking back at passers-by was a hen speaking love.
Much like the book in M*A*S*H, our hen lifted the spirits of all who saw it. It got us talking about the future again and who we could become as a community. For a moment it reminded us that we have talent and joy and life floating around in our small burg. It gave us a moment of hope that we might continue to come out of the stagnation we have lived in for more than a generation. It’s only a chicken, but it’s also a beacon of hope. We can be a source of greatness again.
I believe in my town.
Ronnie S. McLain