Chickening Out

 

Carolyn J. Rose

When he was growing up in the Catskill Mountains during the Depression, one of my father’s chores was cleaning the chicken coop. Another was getting the chicken ready to be the main dish at Sunday dinner. He wasn’t a fan of either job.

 When he joined what is now the Air Force on the day after Pearl Harbor, he made a vow:  when the war was over, he was done with chickens. Then he went a step further—he swore he’d never eat chicken again.

 

I never saw him break his vows. Even though my mother sometimes returned from the store and, in a voice implying scandal or a travesty of consumer justice, complained about the price of eggs, the conversation never turned to raising chickens to cut costs.

 

Consequently, my experience with these birds was limited to spotting them pecking in farmyards or seeing them packaged and ready to cook. My lack of a comprehensive resume, however, didn’t discourage my neighbors. They entrusted me with the care and feeding of their four hens while they went on vacation.

 

Three of the hens tolerate my excursions into the run and my egg-gathering activities. They cluck and mill about my legs and lead me to the bin where the mealworms are stored. Fortunately for them, and for me, the mealworms are not alive and wiggling, so I often scoop some out as a treat. I also—after searching the Internet to determine what chickens can and can’t eat—bring them kitchen scraps. Kale, spinach, peas, and blueberries are big hits.

 At least they’re big hits with the brown hens. The fourth one, a large white bird with a crooked beak, views me with the kind of disdain I reserve for Hawaiian pizza, fennel, and litterbugs. 

She would rather peck at me than at the provisions I offer. She’s the reason I wear heavy rubber gardening clogs and gloves into the coop.

 I tell myself a 75% approval rating is pretty darn good—at least it is in the political arena. I tell myself it’s okay if not everyone likes me. But I sometimes wonder what I did to offend her.

 No, I don’t lie awake at night reviewing our interactions to determine what I said and did, but incidents have come to mind. There was the time I mentioned she evolved from dinosaurs. And the time I inquired if she’d like to be fried or baked. And the time I wondered how she’d like a one-way ticket to almost anywhere. And the time I wondered how far a drop-kicked chicken would travel.

 Okay, so we have baggage. And I’m not blameless.

 But, what to do?

 I can’t imagine lugging her to a therapist to resolve our issues. And I won’t call in a chicken whisperer. Our relationship, such as it is, will end when my neighbors return. In the meantime, however, a needy little part of me wonders if there’s some way to win her over.

 If you have an idea that doesn’t involve installing air conditioning in the coop, providing designer water, or worms that are still wiggling, let me know.

 

 

 

 

 

Another Watery Workout in the Lagoon of Perpetual Gossip

         

I am a creature of habit. Which, I must tell you, doesn’t mean I regularly take to the streets garbed in nun’s clothing. (Although, I would admit, the impulse has crossed my mind more than once.) What it means in this case is that every weekday morning, at somewhere near 8:15, I’m staying atop the water, (flotation belt-aided) in the rectangle of deep water occupying one corner of the community center swimming pool.

        There, with my trusty water-weenie (or noodle if you prefer) I conduct a carefully designed set of “core” exercises designed to keep me from becoming any more of a wrinkly, paunchy old man than I already am. I refer to this as my workout. My wife calls it aerobic wallowing. The truth lies somewhere in between.

        Occupying the dead center of this liquid gymnasia are three, occasionally four and on one occasion six full-figured older women, treading water in one place (water weenie-aided) and moving their mouths twice as rapidly as their legs. They use up a lot of watery acreage, making trans-pool crossing challenging.

Now, I don’t want to come across as a chauvinist. It could just as easily be three to half a dozen men hogging the space, talking about, oh, I don’t know, tractor pulls or barbecuing ribs or ammunition, instead of the chatter about uncomfortable brassieres, cock-a-poos or bitchy daughters-in-law that I overhear every time I dolphin kick past the scuttlebutt mongers kvetching mid-lagoon.

Despite wearing ear buds connected to my waterproof mp3 player I can still hear the stream of mindless nattering floating in from the stationary gab fest as I kick past as rapidly as my chubby little legs will churn. Ironically the song thundering from the mp3 player is “Talk Talk” an oldie but goodie from The Music Machine.

“I told her that would happen over my dead body!”

“If I can get him off the couch, maybe he’ll mow the lawn!”

“Nathan’s a good kid, even if he’s a little unsure of his—

Kick kick splash, kick, kick splash. I successfully clear the conversational cloud, only to enter the perfume miasma created by another substantial woman. I’m pretty sure she buys her eau d’ cologne in the handy five-gallon power spritzer at Costco.

Whew! I make it to the far side of the pool, turn around and shove off to begin another lap of stomach-crunching flagellation. I approach the lip-flapping legion again.

“You wouldn’t believe what she puts in the lasagna!”

“You’d think the man would have the decency to draw his curtains. I almost dropped the binoculars when he . . .

“Her hair looks like she was attacked with a weed-eater.”

Whew again! I make it to the near end of the pool and hover there for a moment.

For a mini-moment I regret changing over my exercise plan from swimming laps to my current deep water core regimen. Or aerobic wallowing. What Ev !!! But I got tired of watching middle-aged water nymphs and old guys in speedos (they should know better) zoom past me like I was standing still. Which, to be perfectly honest I nearly was.

        Oh, well, if I’m going to live forever (so far so good) I’m going to have to suck it up and paddle past the tongue-taggling triumvirate treading treacherously thereupon. I start my next lap.

        “That teenage lifeguard looks like a young Brad Pitt.”

        “And if she does that again, I’ll bitch-slap her so hard she’ll have to—"

I turn up the music and redouble my dolphin kick.
“I’m a little red rooster. Please drive me home!” Muddy Waters

moans through my ear buds. Giddyup dolphin!!!

        “You won’t believe who’s sleeping with Mandy Morley.”

        I can’t help myself. I slow down and lean toward the center of the pool. Hold on. Hold the H20 on. This I gotta hear. This could be really juicy. Something I can pass on to Marvin on the other end of the pool.