I had a conversation this week with E. She once loved e mail, but now she
regards it as a chore, an intrusion. If that is the case with you let me know
and I’ll cease and desist; the last thing I want is to add to anyone’s stress.
To be clear, that’s not what she was saying; the idea to offer an opportunity
for relief has been banging around my brain for several weeks.
Several discoveries this week. The first was that both Iran and Turkey claim
to be the source of the tulip. We get the word from Turkish. It’s a reference
to a head wrap, a turban. I wanted to know how many years one could expect a
bulb to bloom. The answer is not straightforward: it depends on what it was
bred for, and how you treat the bulb and the climate and soil…
I turned my attention to chickens in the Bible. Put that query into your
search engine and you’re bound to get the Judas story, a cock crowing and all
that. But not much else. A couple of references that confirm chickens were
known in the middle east—probably eating the tulips—but they seem less
well-noted than say sheep or asses. Which I think may mean something, but I
don’t know quite what. That chickens were closely associated with paganism and
so Christianity put the schtum on them?
The third question in my mind was why chickens don’t sing. And, by extension,
why some birds are the equivalent of Mahalia Jackson nailing, “A Closer Walk
with Thee,” while others keep mute. There is so much I’ve yet to learn.
I thought to ask the birds themselves, but when I stepped outside the chickens
were in deep debate, so I sat down with my coffee and listened.
Appenzeller, “What do we think of this house plant the god has put outside?”
Mimo, “Empirically, I’d say it doesn’t taste great.”
Pecorino, “No…I see what you mean.”
Mimo, “Why say, ‘see’ when you are biting it? No logic to that.”
Appenzeller, “Well then, thumbs up or down?”
Pecorino, “What do you mean, thumbs?”
Appenzeller, “It’s a metaphor, borrowed from the gods.”
Pecorino “Ooooh, top quality one, then. Which is good?”
Mimo, “Do you mean that the metaphor is a good one, or are you asking if an
uppy thumb is better than a downy one?”
Pecorino, “Do they have feathers?”
Appenzeller, “Metaphors?”
Pecorino, “No, thumbs. You said ‘downy.’”
Mimo, “I think you’re missing the point.”
Pecorino, “No, you’re the one who’s missing the point.”
Appenzeller (looking up at the sky), “I was asking a question.”
Pecorino, “Oooooh, philosophical!”
Appenzeller, “My question, if any of you feather-brained twits could
concentrate for a minute, is whether we yank the plant out by the roots, or
leave it alone.”
Mimo, “By the roots.”
Pecorino, “Definitely.”
Appenzeller, “Why?”
Mimo, “Why what?”
Appenzeller, “Why be destructive?”
Mimo, “Does one have to have a reason? We’re chickens.”
Pecorino, “Asserting our place in the world.”
Mimo, “Taming danger.”
Appenzeller, “I don’t see how that works. The plant’s not a danger.”
Mimo, “Yes, but it’s all we can control. Can’t kill a hawk…so rip the
houseplant by the roots.”
Appenzeller, “Makes sense to me.”
Pecorino, “Absolutely.”
I stepped forward too late. My plant had already been edited out of life. I
said as much.
Appenzeller, “You could put it back.”
Pecorino, “With your thumbs.”
Me, “I put it outside because it wasn’t doing well. I don’t think it’s likely
to recover now.”
Mimo, “All for the best then, a short, sharp shock.”
Pecorino, “Saves lingering.”
Me, “Is that how you’d like to end?”
Pecorino, “Ooooooooh, good question.”
Me, “Let me know when you arrive at an answer.”
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
