[lit-ideas] Sunday Wotsit
- From: David Ritchie <profdritchie@xxxxxxxxx>
- To: lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx
- Date: Sun, 3 Aug 2014 12:08:43 -0700
Two gems from this week's reading:
Jo Nesbo, "Nemesis," page 128, "The noise of the traffic in Kierkeveien drowned
the peeling of the bells."
Forrest Bryant Johnson, "The Last Camel Charge," p.337, "At the start of the
Civil War, Kane organized a Union regiment of mounded riflemen."
When you're in management, even fowl management, you anticipate some volume of
complaint. It's normal. Thus when one night this week we suffered a huge
thunderstorm, I lay awake at four, knowing that the chickens would have things
to say come half past dawn. And they did.
Mimo opened, "In re. godly committee meetings...we're not in favor."
"All of those not in favor, say 'Aye.'"
A chorus of, "Aye."
I wasn't following, "Divine committee meetings?"
"What we heard last night. We assume the noise was managerial."
"Managerial," they all nodded.
"Not in favor," said Cheddar in a distracted manner, her attention caught, as I
opened the door to their compound, by the possibility that some of yesterday's
bread crumbs might yet be discovered among the gravel.
A day passed. The next morning, after a night with no storm at all, the
complaining redoubled.
"Whaaaaat's with the slow service?"
"We've been up for hours."
"Hours."
"And the food's just the same every day."
I pointed out that the compound had at one time been their only exercise area.
"Wensleydale says you have to scratch clay while the sun shines," said Cheddar.
"And there's no clay in here!"
"Wensleydale!"
"Wensleydale!"
"She who Knows!"
From peripheral figure to political icon, how far has Wensleydale come!
Sitting on an empty nest doing nothing except brooding apparently can convince
a crowd that you have political acumen, wisdom or possibly both. But the same
has not been true for Appenzeller. While doing exactly the same thing as
Wensleydale, she's fallen in the pecking order. White chicken, black chicken;
different outcome. "What if," Appenzeller thought, "instead of merely jumping
down from the sleeping hut, one day I took off flying, soared high above all
the other chickens and went up, up, up? Then we'd see about scratching clay
while the sun shines!" It didn't quite happen like that. The audience were
treated to a spectacular beginning--whoosh-- some excellent tight flying out of
the sleeping hut and through the open door of the pen. It was really quite
spectacular, for a chicken. The plan then called for what in the Second World
War was known as "hedge hopping." In fact what we got was not so much hedge
hopping as bush whacking.
I went to change their water and check for eggs and found Rocky in the coop,
preparing to lay. Wensleydale and Appenzeller had finally decided to take a
break from their political campaign, or whatever, and go wander. I rattled the
food can to dislodge any jams, but otherwise moved around in a quite and
respectful manner. Laying an egg is a private thing.
"Foood," Rocky said, using the chicken equivalent of a reflective purr.
"Yes, we'll have to buy more soon."
"Buy?" she cocked her head to one side.
"In a shop."
"Is that where you get worms too?"
"Not worms. Worms are free."
"Vegetation?"
"No that's more or less free too."
"Popcorn?"
"Indeed."
"Breeead?"
"That comes from a store too."
"We knew! Wensleydale says you spend the whole day making it. I'll tell her
it actually comes from your shop."
"Right," I said and left, before she could ask what a shop is and why it's also
called a store.
As I reached the house I heard, "Bug, bug, bug, BUGGER!"
That would be the egg.
David Ritchie,
Portland,
Oregon------------------------------------------------------------------
To change your Lit-Ideas settings (subscribe/unsub, vacation on/off,
digest on/off), visit www.andreas.com/faq-lit-ideas.html
Other related posts:
