Mimo was particularly noisy when I let her out on a sunny morning. Reminded me
of a character in a Pinter play, protesting about fate’s inexorable grind.
“You should…well really….I mean.”
“Lovely morning. They don’t make a lot of these you know. The colors!”
“It’s so cold without feathers. What on earth is the point of losing feathers
just when the weather is turning?”
“I wish I knew. Who designed a universe where women bleed and suffer cramps?”
Mimo, “We thought you did.”
“Oh no. Design is another department entirely. We’re just maintenance.”
“How does maintenance work?”
“Well take our broadband provider or the telephone people. They transfer your
call a few times and then they send someone out who says that the problem’s not
one they can solve…it’s your equipment, see? Over which they have no control.”
“I’m lost.”
“Me too. But the weather’s nice.”
Mimo, “You said something once about a president. How’s that going?”
“Isn’t the weather nice? I do love October sunshine.”
“That bad, eh?”
“Pretty much. Not pretty at all.”
“Are we doomed?’
“Not yet, but keep in touch. Between the giant earthquake and the President
annoying everyone, there’s a lot that could happen.”
“Still…”
“Exactly.”
“Weather’s very fine.”
“Very fine indeed.”
“You know I just read something about two Scots, both of whom claim to have
invented the ATM. Do you know how much money they made from their invention?
Either of them?”
“Really nice weather, when I come to think of it.”
I threw out a lamb shank, thinking Hamish might enjoy himself. Up ran Mimo, “I
believe this is for me.” Hamish stared, astonished at the gall. Mimo stepped
forward, “Back off, dog.” It was the first time Hamish has ever barked at a
chicken. Woof, “NO!” Mimo flew up in the air and backwards. Cleared up that
piece of pecking order business. Bones belong to the dog.
The chickens had to spend a day in their coop and weren’t best pleased. We
drove three and a half hours for a pint of beer and a night away. A long way
to go for a pint, but boy was it good. “Wotcha” (names of the beer) from the
hand pump. Brewers Union Local 180 is the name. Drop by. Have a dip in the
hot springs beforehand.
And then we hunted chanterelles. I had been skeptical when people described
mushroom gathering—you only get one liver and just after I moved to Oregon some
people ate the wrong fungi and ended up needing transplants. But it turns out
chanterelles look pretty much like nothing else. When you find them, they’re
almost unmistakable. Last time E. went out she found two. We found eight
pounds. An equivalent to the last time we went crabbing.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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