Those you who worry, and I believe there may be two or more of you, will know
it’s an impulse that is hard to calm. Possibly the most ridiculous statement
anyone utters to people like us is, “Don’t worry.” About as useful a statement
as telling a chicken not to look for food.
“Whaaaat?”
The Hereabouts was delayed this week by “weather.” I use the quotation marks
because as we headed to the airport in San Diego, we received texts offering us
large sums of money to give up our seats on the only flight headed toward
Portland. We did not take them up on the offer. Next there came a text saying
that the flight had been canceled (double the “l” if you prefer British
spelling) due to weather. It is true that snow was in the forecast, but said
precipitate was not supposed to arrive until several hours after that flight
had landed. Americans will be nodding sagely at this point; if weather is at
fault the airline is not obliged to offer compensation of any sort. And so
they didn’t.
Some of you, in the wee hours, will have wondered if Mimo’s position is
tenable. “What will happen?” asks your annoying brain. “I wish I didn’t have
to wait a whole week to find out. Perhaps I need a glass of water? Or the
bog?” Isn’t that the way of things when you’re trying to quiet mental chatter,
explaining to yourself that it’s actually the middle of the night and the bit
that enjoys sleep has registered on the "do not bother list"?
Chickens are not inactive in the dark hours. When I close the chickens in for
the night I cover all visible output with wood chips, on account of the fact
that if you close chickens in an enclosed space with too much poo. chickens
develop some sort of lung complaint. This at least is what daughters tell me.
But no matter how much late night covering you do, open the door in the morning
and voila—evidence, facts, dollops galore.
This week we had an Episode. At work I spent an “in-service" day silently
noting resemblances between administrators and chickens-- the fluffing of
feathers and the preening…all that--and so was anxious when I finally got home
to go play some tennis. L. had checked any number of things off her to-do
list, and so was anxious to relax. As in that moment when a tennis ball is
drilled between doubles partners, we failed to figure out whose job it was to
close the chickens in. Fortunately no one ate the chickens. In the morning I
found them sheltering beside the northerly kitchen door, giving us the beady
eye. I made no attempt to blame the weather and provided compensation from the
fridge: old rice, pasta, vegetables. Appreciative comments followed.
The reveal: Mimo has re-negotiated her position. Supreme politician that she
is, she has convinced the other two that all three of them are now equals.
What was said, I do not know, but you have to admire her ability not only to
come back from the dead but to re-invent herself several times over. There’s a
lesson for us all in there somewhere.
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
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