[lit-ideas] Chickens and San Francisco

From: David Ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>
To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
Date: Mon, 17 Feb 2014 12:52:08 -0800
        San Francisco is a hick town where bartenders still pour ales into 
frosted glasses and do not know how a head should sit.  San Francisco is a 
cosmopolitain city wherein a police lion dance squad (of a hundred or more) 
bring up the rear of the Chinese New Year parade.  In San Francisco some people 
believe there is no harm in being rude; our Korean Uber driver was kind and 
spoke lovingly of his family's Japanese restaurant.  On a very dark street we 
were overtaken by a big black man wearing dark glasses.  He was carrying a 
brick, but he did us no harm.  On a bright, sunny Sunday, seals and tourists 
shuffled along, barking loudly.


        Earlier, on the day when the snow began to melt the chickens decided to 
make the best of the light.  They were under the impression I think that I have 
a black and white movie camera and that I wanted to re-create the famous scene 
in "Battleship Potemkin" in which a pram comes slipping down a staircase.  The 
granite steps covered in ice and snow, they reasoned, would be perfect for what 
they had in mind.  "But," I objected, "I've neither camera nor pram."  
        "Don't worry," Rocky said, "while we rehearse, you can look for one."  
        They preened and posed at the top of the staircase, content because 
they'd eaten their fill of dog food and finally had some warmer breezes under 
their feathers.  "Warmer" may be an exaggeration.  "Not quite so bloomin' cold" 
is closer to the mark.  I arrived outside armed only with a Nikon and a long 
lens.  Let the record show that I did not deceive them; I said nothing about a 
cinematic project, but theatrical chickens will be theatrical chickens.  
Pecorino led the way, speeding on a curvolinear descent that made for fine 
compositions in the stills.  Rocky and Mimo were disconcerted to see that she 
had started before them and soon challenged for leadership, but in this 
endeavor Pecorino was not to be upstaged.  Mimo tried flying past her, but from 
the photographic evidence we know that, from "action" to "cut" the leading 
thespian perambulator was Pecorino.  Whether this means anything in terms of 
poultry politics, I do not know.

        A theory developed by someone is that revolutions occur not when the 
world is at its worst but instead when things have begun to improve and 
then...boom... once again something bad happens.  It's the frustration of 
rising expectations that *really* annoys people.  Also, it seems chickens.  In 
the cold one might compare our chickens to Napoleon's Imperial Guard, murmuring 
not a whit when death by freezing seemed a possibility, keeping themselves 
going on the road to Moscow with jokes about the beer always being nice and 
cold.  And when the chickens finally emerged from being cooped 
up--literally--they continued to behave like veterans, stepping gently like men 
after a battle, as if they wanted to express with their bodies one simple 
question, what was *that* about?  To ease their transition back into the wider 
world I decided to leave the dog's food in place, so that when they again 
climbed the granite steps there was a reward.  
        "Dog food!"
        On the next day, however, I took it in.  
        Rocky had a shrieking it, lost it totally.  At first I thought she was 
only calling to the two--Appenzeller and Cheddar--who hadn't joined the 
expedition.  I thought she was warning them not to waste their breath, or maybe 
rallying them to her flag.  My next idea was that she might be telling 
Wensleydale, who had gone her own sweet way, that a mud bath and a dust bath 
were not the same thing.  But the crowing went on and on, like Eric Idle 
complaining about how bad the beer is on the Costa Brava, (or me on the same 
subject in San Francisco).  Twice I went out to investigate.  Maybe all the 
loudness meant someone had spotted a predator?  I walked from the coop all the 
way up to the dog food, risking the slippery steps.  Rocky and her followers 
emerged from under the juniper and stood in sudden silence beside me.
        "It was tough," I said, knowing that with veterans it's best to say 
little.
        The nodded.
        "Maybe you'd be more comfortable in the coop?"
        They looked at one another, shrugged, nodded.
        Like Napoleon's guard, they trudged home in silence, leaving me alone 
on the high ground, saluting their tenacity.

        We were away for several days, some of which were windy.  Tree debris 
covered the yard.  I opened the door to the coop to find six very subdued 
ladies.
        "You might want to wear a helmet," Wensleydale advised.  "We've annoyed 
the trees."
        "It was Rocky's shouting that did it," said Cheddar.
        "Was not," Rocky protested.
        "Was too," said Mimo, anxious to avoid blame.
        "Ladies," I said, "the weather will do what the weather will do.  
Neither I nor you has any control over weather."
        "Really?" said Pecorino, taking a step or two out and looking skyward.
        "God's truth," I said.
        "Well in that case," said Wensleydale, pushing past me, "last one to 
the dogfood's a sissy." 


David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon

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[lit-ideas] Chickens and San Francisco

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