Just when you think you know chickens, they do something surprising. After a
poor night’s sleep I was late opening to the door to Fort Squawk and so
expected,
“What time do you call this?”
“We thought you’d lost the plot.”
“I’ve seen milk turn quicker than you.”
But no! All was ululation, trilling, gratitude. If they were Irish chickens
they might have said, “Top of the morning to ya.” If, indeed, that’s what’s
said there. Ever.
Robert Burns is supposed to have composed long and short poems in his head as
he walked behind the plough and did other farming work. I’ve seen in the Burns
museum manuscripts with amendments, so the words did not come complete and
without need of revision, but when I’m walking Hamish I often think, “Wouldn’t
it be fine to be able to compose a whole Hereabouts while I’m out and about?”
I don’t have that kind of memory, but such perambulations sometimes contribute.
Take just now, for example. I decided while chucking the ball to introduce a
link about here. Everyone should know that the following footage exists:
https://www.theatlantic.com/video/index/542499/marshall-curry-nazi-rally-madison-square-garden-1939/?fbclid=IwAR37q6qGzZsgt0525ERWzcLI7VpPoXzmGFlwfCArEJTxM3QWAPeaqDg8TKI
<https://www.theatlantic.com/video/index/542499/marshall-curry-nazi-rally-madison-square-garden-1939/?fbclid=IwAR37q6qGzZsgt0525ERWzcLI7VpPoXzmGFlwfCArEJTxM3QWAPeaqDg8TKI>
One of my early professors wrote a book with a goal of reminding readers that
Fascisms were plural: there were French fascists, British fascists, Belgian
fascists and, of course, American fascists. Here’s a reminder.
I had an e mail last week from the New Yorker. It was a standard rejection,
but it had taken so long to arrive, I couldn’t remember what I’d submitted. It
turned out to be a poem which, when I read it again, I think I would reject
too. Time is a great healer, but the other spelling, “heeler,” applies also.
Grind old wordage into the ground and carry on.
Now and then something about Bob Dylan catches my ear. I disliked his singing
when I first heard it but have grown into a fan. Now that I’m past the post
mortem Pavarotti period, on my way back from getting our knives sharpened maybe
I should stop at the used CD store to see if I can buy me a little more Dylan.
I talked with Mimo about the chances of a hard rain falling. Her view—I’m
quoting the minutes of the meeting here—was that earthquakes and volcanoes were
more likely to do us all in hereabouts. Bugger nuclear bombs, Hanford, all
she’d heard from little birds about that kind of apocalpse. The great divide
between gods and chickens, she opined, is not in their vulnerability to giant
threats, but in re. the size of predators. Were a mountain lion or bear to
move into the neighborhood, we’d all be equally in peril. Rhinos and so on,
escaped from the zoo, which is just up the road…well that’s a shared issue.
But when it comes to birds of prey or possums, gods have an unfair advantage:
no matter how useless or late we are, like the cavalry we have an ability to
make others think twice merely by showing up. I had to agree, but I made sure
that the minutes showed no moral or other claim to advantage; which is to say
that I checked my privilege.
Appenzeller, Yes, yes. Quite right; we check ours too. Always good to keep
privilege clean. Prevents diseases.
Mimo, Nasty things diseases. They can damage your bottom.
Me: How did we get to diseases?
Pecorino: Getting forgetful in your dotage, are you god? You said that you
checked the privy hedge.
Me: I did not.
Mimo: Well you should. Sanitation is civilization.
All: Yes, yes. S equals C.
Me: But we don’t have a hedge…of any sort.
Appenzeller: What do you call the thing we shelter under?
Me: Juniper? Oak-leafed hydrangea? The plant that has no name?
Mimo: That’s the one, the plant that has no name.
They were referring to one of my garden joys, which a web photo calls “pink
purple shrimp plant.” Frankly, I don’t know what it is; it was given to me by
a gardening friend.
https://www.alamy.com/fruit-berries-and-flower-of-pink-purple-shrimp-plant-beloperone-guttata-image217616695.html
Perhaps you can enlighten us all? Audience participation.
For my wife’s birthday we went to a place where you have to book months in
advance. We were offered a “tasting menu,” which turned out to be wonderful
but, if I may be so bold, somewhat over-described. It was as if the wait
people had been charged with memorializing the food; not one item’s demise went
un-noted, no small ingredient’s source unadjectivized. We did not eat
anchovies; we ate “baby anchovies.” You could tell by their size.
There’s no harm in finding new things out. I did not know there was a fish
called a pike mackerel. Or that “locally harvested” could actually mean,
"sourced from Japan.” Mostly though I prefer food that arrives with less
chatter; if it’s wonderful, I might ask how it’s made. Or I could just enjoy
it.
For fun, the next day I stepped outside and threw the chickens a stale corn
tortilla each. They ran over, looked puzzled, asked, “What’s this?”
“It’s fridge-aged flatbreads, with naturally-sourced bacterial decay. Enjoy!”
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
