[lit-ideas] Sunday Twofer
- From: David Ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 27 Oct 2013 13:37:48 -0700
I am not old. I do not feel old. I played singles on Monday against a guy
twenty or more years my junior and better and still held him, but this evening
I had a twinge in the left side of my chest (surely nothing) and the response
was not as it might have been in the past--a momentary fear of death. I do
expect to go on living-- as everyone will until nearly dead-- but what I note
is this: for the first time in my life I felt I could accept that I've had a
measure. If not a full twenty two ounce pint, maybe one of those horrible
fourteen ouncers bad restaurants serve. Is it because I've been reading about
war and the deaths of so many young people, or because there's an age when this
thought kicks in; there should be a study.
I tried to repair the outboard motor's starter. I have never satisfactorily
fixed anything on that boat, but since the cost of taking "The Quite Vincibile"
to Mr Fixit is a minimum of a hundred dollars, I always try. The chickens,
wandering almost as free as lions, decided to come over and take a look. Maybe
offer some neighborly advice across the fence. Not long ago one of them pretty
accidentally flew over said fence and, quite distressed, had to be herded back
by dog and man. Wanting to avoid a repeat experience, when I gave up ethering
the engine to get it clean, also rewiring a poor connection--this is what was
recommended by the Fixit guy in his shouty phone voice (he's deaf from spending
too much time around engines)--I grabbed a piece of bread. Since I am now
somewhat fluent in chicken, I knew exactly what to say, "Bob bob bob bob bob
bop." This means "to me, flock, there is something of interest over here."
Sure enough the two chicken scouts ran over. "Whaaaaaat?" My error was to
break off a sample and feed them this, causing a furious competition between
the two. "Mine," "no mine." Chickens with trophies ran this way and that until
it was all gone. Then everyone rallied for more. I retreated, as many a
triumphant ambusher has done, waving the slice. Here they came, suspecting
little, yelling all the while about Bob. I felt quite ancestral, a member of
Clan MacCunning. When they were all within the coop, I threw each a piece of
the bread. They have an oddly orgasmic noise when something wonderful comes
their way. "Oooooh. Oooooooooooh. Ooooooooooooooooh."
"Marvelous," Cheddar said, "where does he get this stuff?"
"I dunno," responded Wensleydale, "But next time we're out, we should look."
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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