Richard saw me admiring this rooster, a bird that I never liked in real life, but this one was THE symbol of France. His country. My loving host. His natural generosity instantly made it a gift for notre maison in Yermenonville.
The metal pet needed a name and since Richard’s last name sounded like that early morning crow, he became Coccolo (bit Italian for a Frenchman, eh?).
As a large groups stood around and admired Coccolo that first day at his new home the conversation turned to the true sound of le coq. When I revealed that American roosters say “Cock-a-doodle-doo” peals of laughter rang out. A few gave it a try. More laughter.
Since I had once had a Sicilian father-in-law who raised chickens, I told them his version too: “Chee-ar-ee-chee!”
But Daniel, the last word on true French-isms, defined the correct morning wake-up call that echoes through France: “Coo-ca-roo-coo!”