Balm for a sore and weary heart, David. The only word I don't believe is that
you set out to mark theses with only a glass of water at hand. Really?? I
never!!
On May 15, 2016, at 5:10 PM, david ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx> wrote:
The house is quiet, so I’m thinking of fish. And not the dog. For the first
time since we got the puppy, I’m home with no dog to attend to; E. has taken
him hiking. My mind reaches through the silence, tries to interpret it. Is
he maybe chewing something, going where he should not? I tell my mind to
shut up and think of Arsenal. Who won today. Yay.
After dropping J at the airport I tried to get to Costco before the
late-risers and those who are coming from church to Costco. I was hoping for
a piece of fresh halibut and there were a couple of things to return. I
ignored the shopping list members of the household had written. I figured
searching the aisles for nuts and such would take the quick, direct manliness
out of the mission. Get in, get beer, bananas and fish, go home. No, I
wasn’t planning to cook the fish with bananas.
Mimo greeted me at the gate, “Have you brought weeds?”
I said. “Back off. My hands are full.” She thanked me for holding the
gate, “Much obliged.”
“Oi!”
She strode forward. I put down the case of beer. She returned, to inspect
it. Pecked a little at the cardboard.
“That’s not a weed.”
“No,” I said. “It’s barley and hops. An IPA.”
“That’ll do.”
More manly than my shopping raid was the estate sale description I read
yesterday. The accompanying photos showed a few bits and bobs of clothing
hanging in a largely empty closet. The other photos were of: a Chevy
truuuuuuuck with a five point seven liter V8 engine and a pop up camper, a
Colt Model 1861 black powder rifle with a bayonet, ammunition, several gold
teeth, a hand-carved marble state of a naked lady (still in the crate), a
smoker, a giant gas barbecue, a riding lawnmower, a rototiller, a chainsaw, a
chipper-shredder, a log splitter, an electric fence charger, a drill press, a
compound saw, a band saw, a pneumatic staple gun, a cement mixer, some
guitars. And, finally, a few koi fish and motor bikes.
Earlier in the week I chose a garden spot, set down a glass of water,
attacked a stack of theses. Hamish set about beating up a plastic milk The
house is quiet, so I’m thinking of fish. And not the dog. For the first
time since we got the puppy, I’m home with no dog to attend to; E. has taken
him hiking. My mind reaches through the silence, tries to interpret it. Is
he maybe chewing something, going where he should not? I tell my mind to
shut up and think of Arsenal. Who won today. Yay.
After dropping J at the airport I tried to get to Costco before the
late-risers and those who are coming from church to Costco. I was hoping for
a piece of fresh halibut and there were a couple of things to return. I
ignored the shopping list members of the household had written. I figured
searching the aisles for nuts and such would take the quick, direct manliness
out of the mission. Get in, get beer, bananas and fish, go home. No, I
wasn’t planning to cook the fish with bananas.
Mimo greeted me at the gate, “Have you brought weeds?”
I said. “Back off. My hands are full.” She thanked me for holding the
gate, “Much obliged.”
“Oi!”
She strode forward. I put down the case of beer. She returned, to inspect
it. Pecked a little at the cardboard.
“That’s not a weed.”
“No,” I said. “It’s barley and hops. An IPA.”
“That’ll do.”
More manly than my shopping raid was the estate sale description I read
yesterday. The accompanying photos showed a few bits and bobs of clothing
hanging in a largely empty closet. The other photos were of: a Chevy
truuuuuuuck with a five point seven liter V8 engine and a pop up camper, a
Colt Model 1861 black powder rifle with a bayonet, ammunition, several gold
teeth, a hand-carved marble state of a naked lady (still in the crate), a
smoker, a giant gas barbecue, a riding lawnmower, a rototiller, a chainsaw, a
chipper-shredder, a log splitter, an electric fence charger, a drill press, a
compound saw, a band saw, a pneumatic staple gun, a cement mixer, some
guitars. And, finally, a few koi fish and motor bikes.
Earlier in the week I chose a garden spot, set down a glass of water,
attacked a stack of theses. Hamish set about beating up a plastic milk jug.
Peccorino came over. She was evidently in a chatty mood.
“It’s about the egg.”
“Egg?” I asked, innocently.
“Yes, the hard one. It’s disappeared.”
“I know,” I said. We had put a fake egg in the coop to encourage the girls
to lay where we could find the booty we wish to steal. A couple of weeks
back the fake egg disappeared. Peccorino said she knew where it was.
“Cheddar is going through a bit of a Babylonian period, if Babylonian is the
word I want.”
I strung her along, “She does tend to babble.”
“She believes that an egg fell from heaven into the Euphrates river…”
“…hatching the goddess Astarte. Yes, that’s the Babylonians. It’s one of
the theories about why we call Easter, Easter. And hunt eggs.”
“Odd thing to hunt. Well anyway, Cheddar is convinced that it was a chicken
that laid the egg which fell into the river, and so this makes her a deity
relation.”
“Have we a palace coup in our future?”
Peccorino looked puzzled, “The coop is right behind you. And I think
‘palace’ would be a bit of a stretch."
“What I meant to ask was whether Cheddar is thinking of taking over our role:
cleaning out your coop, providing water and food. I’d be happy to cede all
powers vested in me if that’s what’s wanted.”
“You’ll have to ask her directly, but no, I don’t think so. As far as I
know, she’s just buried the relic.”
“The fake egg? She buried it?”
“Yup.”
“Must have taken a bit of effort.”
“She had help.”
“So when you say, ‘she buried it,’ you actually mean, ‘we buried it?’”
Appenzeller came up, “Whaaaat?”
The others arrived, “Whaaaaaaaaat?”
Peccorino said, “Schtum!"
I explained that the subject of relics had come up. Cheddar got a solemn
look in her eye.
“With the snake's embraces, it shall become an Typhon. And on the solemn
day…”
They all took a step back. Gave her space.
Cheddar puffed herself up, “And yea verily on that day…”
“Whaaaaaat? Whaaaaat? Say what will be.”
“And on that day…”
“Oh get on with it.”
“And on that day...There will be quite a lot of awe.”
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
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