We live on a slope, which means that when snow comes you need only step
from the side of the house with your sled, and you’re off. If, that is, you
have a sled. E. moved to within walking distance of a good, safe sledding
slope. Ours is good and, with attention to detail, as well as adults to check
for cars at either end, safe-ish…but sledding on that slope is probably not the
best of activities for a man in his sixties whose brother broke his ankle not
long ago… while sledding. So E. has the sleds and I am a looker-on.
It still looks fun.
Snow this week did not please the chickens. When it first began to
fall I decided to put the girls to bed just a little earlier than usual.
“Wind is from the east, snow is coming down, how about bed?”
“Whaaaaat?”
I had armed myself with a noisy bag. “Follow the crinkly bag of tortilla
chips. Come along.”
Mimo, “I spotting a falling chip! Come on girls.” Down the slippery steps we
went, in procession. Beside the jacuzzi, I picked up the water container and
carried it to their roost. I placed it and some chips where they could enjoy
them without fear of freezing.
Appenzeller stepped into Fort Squawk. “Don’t get where the chips are?”
“They’re inside the roost.”
Mimo, “No, no, we never get chips in bed.”
“You do today, jump up.”
Pecorino, “It could be a trap.”
Mimo, “But he’s crinkling the chip bag. How could that be a trap?”
I lifted Appenzeller up and she set to on the scattered chips.
Pecorino, “I hear eating. Where could that be coming from?”
I rattled the bag. Dropped chips within view of the two of them.
Mimo, “Nope, altogether too much of a mystery. I’m going for a walk.”
“It’s freezing, you eejuts. Hop up. Up!”
Eventually I caught them and lifted one and then the other.
Mimo, “There’s chips up here!”
“Who knew?”
I asked the chickens what they might propose to celebrate my father-in-law, M,
turning ninety.
Mimo, “Have we met him?”
“Oh yes. He visits from time to time.”
Appenzeller, “Old guy? With legs?”
“He’s more senior than me.”
Mimo, “Wise, then?”
“Oh yes.
Pecorino, “How old?”
“Ninety.”
Pecorino, “Ninety what?”
“Just ninety. Not ninety-one or ninety-two.”
Mimo, “What she’s asking is what units we’re counting.”
“Years. How else do you measure how old anything is?”
Appenzeller, “By the flex of the knee and the alacrity of the leap.”
“Meaning?”
Appenzeller, “An older chicken sometimes has trouble making it all the way up
to the perch and so chooses, from time to time, to sleep below, in the hay.”
“Ah.”
Mimo, “Does Marty sleep in the hay?”
“I don’t think so. It’s gone out of fashion among our kind, sleeping in the
hay. Used to be quite the thing.”
“Well,” said Mimo, clearly an expert on such matters, “when you’re ninety
you’re bound to be up with fashion. I mean, look at how highly-fashionable we
are compared to, say, robins, and we’re probably nowhere near that old.”
“How do you know?” asked Pecorino.
“The gods would have informed us if we were ninety,” Mimo said, with
confidence. “Or a crow. They keep count of that kind of thing.”
Appenzeller nodded, “Very big on counting, crows.”
Mimo, “I believe birds organize parades when you reach landmark ages.”
“You three could do that for Marty!”
Appenzeller liked the idea, “That could be fun!”
“I’m not entirely clear on the principle,” said Pecorino.
“Generally,” I explained, “a parade involves walking up and down, in
procession.”
Appenzeller, “We do that all day long.”
Pecorino had an idea, “Maybe there could be special food!”
Mimo, “Birthday pizza?”
“Cake is more common.”
Appenzeller, “Do we like cake?”
“I believe you would. If I had any.”
“Get thee to a cakery,” Mimo commanded.
“Quick now,” Appenzeller improvised.
So that’s how we’re going to celebrate. With cake, and chickens, marching up
and down in the snow. And a Zoom call. Gotta have a Zoomy with our homey when
he’s turning ninety.
David Ritchie,
the Frozen
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