Happy to see some of your photography again, Lawrence. Your two dogs are
brown? Who was the black interloper? Remnants of homeless people off
somewhere during the day? Thanks for posting....and Happy Birthday!
On Oct 16, 2016, at 9:33 PM, Lawrence Helm <lawrencehelm@xxxxxxxxxxxxxx>
wrote:
Happy birthday. I had mine on the 12th, 82 now.
I remember rain. We used to have it years ago, not any more though. Our
river has been dry so long that trolls have set up camps here and there on
the river bottom. Went on a hike yesterday just to see how plentiful they
were: https://lawrencehelm.smugmug.com/RiverPhotography/Oct-2016/i-V88qwd3/A ;
Lawrence
On 10/16/2016 4:26 PM, david ritchie wrote:
It was a dark and stormy evening. The chickens were worried by the high
winds and heavy rain and could see no reason to enter their coop. We were
trying to get away to my birthday party.
“It’s too noisy.”
“We’re not insured.”
“I’m feeling vulnerable.”
This last comment came from Mimo who currently looks like a rat with a beak;
the molting period has not been kind.
E. lured in everyone but Cheddar, who was looking distinctly odd about the
eye, “Blow winds blow and crack your cheeks.”
E. pointed towards a carelessly-dropped chip. To no avail.
“Let the chips fall where they may; this is a health and safety issue.”
E. shrugged, turned away, came to enlist my help. Cheddar made a break for
the woods. Dressed in party attire, I grabbed up some bread and stepped
into the weather. We found Cheddar hiding under a bush. “What ho, Cheddar!”
I was aiming for a reassuring tone. E. circled behind her and drove her
towards where I was being deliberately careless with crumbs. Yard by yard I
slowly lured Cheddar to the top of the stairs but then she turned right.
Because we’d been to a Proclaimers concert the previous evening, I sang,
“She took a right, she took a right turning…”
We rounded the house and found her under the hydrangea.
“I’m not coming out.”
E and I considered leaving her to take her chances with falling branches and
the possibility that a coyote might jump the fence. E. was out of patience
and voted in favor. I said I’d give it one more try in a few minutes. When
I again opened the kitchen door I saw Cheddar striding purposefully through
the storm, headed towards the coop. I hurried past her to open the door.
The chickens all came running out, “Health and safety!”
“Health and safety!”
“Cheddar for ever!”
I waited for them to calm down and clump into an inquiring band at my feet.
I waved the bread slice, which got their attention. With careful tossing of
chunks I got them started in the right direction and steered the outliers
with leg and outstretched arm. “Surely," I thought, "this is why we have a
sheep dog; where is he when work is wanted?” Lying where I’d left him, in
the nice warm kitchen.
Pecorino was the first to notice, “Damn, we’re back in the coop.”
“But there’s breaaaaaad.”
“Breaaaaad!”
Cheddar raised a theological question, “Will this wind be so mighty as to
lay low the heavens and the earth?”
“Breaaaaaad!”
“I’ll have a word with Health and Safety,” I assured them, and slammed the
door.
On the way home from the party we startled a young coyote, who ran up the
road towards our house.
The metaphor that occurred to me immediately prior to this chicken episode
was that life in some respects is like falling asleep on a transatlantic
plane. You know the kind of sleep I mean: you eat your meal after take-off
and have a glass of wine, then doze off. When you wake you’ve no idea
whether you’re halfway across, three quarters of the way, or maybe you were
awakened by the undercarriage being lowered. A birthday can make the
uncertain duration of our journey just a little more obvious.
It was a fine evening. L. organized food and invited people, who came from
far and near in spite of the weather. J. flew in from Manhattan, which was
for me a pleasant surprise. I didn’t give a speech, restricting myself to a
toast to “absent friends” and words of thanks. Today the rain and wind have
abated, which was a help when I opened the coop.
“The night we had!”
“Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching."
“Dire.”
“You should have done something.”
When faced with complaints, a god should always promise prompt action. I
said, “I’ll have a word with the dog.”
“No point,” said Cheddar. “Talk of balls or squirrels is all you’ll get.
Long-winded as Edward Bulwer-Lytton, that dog.”
Mimo added, “He knew a thing or two about stormy nights.”
I quipped, “The dog?”
Appenzeller, “The novelist.”
Pecorino added, a propos of nothing, “Died in Torquay, you know.”
“I am in awe of your detailed knowledge,” I said.
Rocky explained. “We get birds from Lytton, British Columbia. They chat
with members of the Lytton First Nation, who aren’t entirely happy with
their name.”
“I learn something every day.”
David Ritchie,
Portland, Oregon
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