I got my first job at age five.

Chicken foreman.

My dad explained how important chickens were to the family. We sold their eggs for money. And we fried 'em up for a good meal when the pastor came on Sundays. They had to be protected, fed, watered, and just generally looked after.

Eggs must be gathered carefully and not broken. A broken egg would cost me a penny.

My salary was a nickel a week, so I figured I could save enough to buy something neat if I didn't break too many eggs.

I had to make sure nothing harmed the chickens. I could not go near a fox, but I could yell at him and scare him away.

I should not try to take an egg away from a chicken snake, but I could tell my dad and he would pop the snake's head off.

During my tenure as chicken foreman I never saw a fox, but I did see a chicken snake, curled up asleep in a hen's nest. From then on, I always looked before I reached into a nest to check for eggs.

The fun part of my job came just before dusk each evening, when I went to the barn, grabbed my 4-gallon galvanized bucket, and several ears of corn, shucked 'em, shelled 'em, and fed my chickens.

And within a few days, I also began ministering to my flock's spiritual needs as well, which was even more fun. For a while.

I invited my chickens to join the First Chicken Baptist Church of Cottage Hill, Texas. And, I learned quickly that they would flock down the aisle if I tossed some corn into it.

So, for several weeks, I joyfully served as pastor and music minister of my own chicken church.

I would bring out my 4-gallon galvanized bucket, flip it over, and climb up on it and lead the chicken choir in singing all the songs I could remember, primarily "Jesus Loves Me" and "Red, and yellow, black and white, Jesus loves the little chickens of the world."

I also would have sung "The Hadicol Boogie" and "Pistol Packin' Mama," but once when I sang those in Sunday School. Miss Perry had said they were not good Baptist songs.

The chickens didn't sing all that great, but they did get excited when I started preaching and tossing corn in front of the altar.

I told them about sin and heaven and that other place that my mom didn't want me to say, because it was so bad and so hot it would burn their feathers right off.

Then, about the seventh day it occurred to me, these chickens needed to be baptized.

I decided my 4-gallon galvanized bucket full of water would work great, but it was too heavy for me to carry. So I'd just have to carry each chicken over to the cow's water trough and baptize them there.

I was practicing my baptism speech, "I baptize you my ... uh  .. chicken..."  I would say "my brother" or "my sister" but I didn't know how to tell which chicken was a brother or a sister.

It didn't matter because my dad overheard and wanted to know, "You're not planning on baptizing any chickens are you?"

"Well, yeah, some of them are kind of ornery, I said, "I figure they need baptizin'."

Then, my dad, who was very good at explaining stuff, explained that chickens could not take water like we could. That's why they never took a bath. or even washed their face. He reminded me, when I was four, how some chicks had been caught out in the rain, and drowned! Just in the rain! So a chicken could not be baptized.

Seeing my disappointment, he quickly added, "Of course, they could be sprinkled .. lightly...  like a Methodist."

So, the First Chicken Methodist Church of Cottage Hill, Texas, was created the very next day.

I thought the chickens would be thrilled, but actually, they didn't like being sprinkled either.

Wet chickens just don't like church, and I'm pretty sure they would not have even showed up if I had not served corn every service.

Another thing I learned about singing and preaching, if you get too excited, you can fall off your bucket.

I was preaching to the chickens when I lost my balance, slipped and flipped both me and my bucket, and came down mouth-first on the steel gadget that held the bail.

Blood everywhere!

Scared the chickens, and created such a ruckus my mom came running out of the house.

I had cut a large gash in my tongue.

Had to rush five miles into town to see Doctor Walker and get some mouthwash that burned like the place I couldn't say.

My dad felt so sorry for me he bought me some ice cream. Which, of course, I couldn't eat. And I really tried so he wouldn't feel bad.

I continued to take care of my chickens, but didn't preach to them as much.

And today, over 65 years later,  I can still see the scar every time I stick my tongue out at myself in the mirror.

And you know something? I have played church a lot during my lifetime, but it never turned out to be much fun.

Church, it seems, is fun only when you're not playing.

So go ahead, if you've never done it, try taking church seriously sometime.

C/mon!  You can do it. Don't be a chicken.