A good Friday

Friday, Good Friday, I woke early, 4 am early, to the light of a full moon glowing through our bedroom window. When I got up to see that it wasn’t the dawn, that it was indeed the light from la bella luna, I had to see it in its full glory. So I tromped downstairs to the kitchen for a better view and gazed up smiling. There she was, high above the silhouettes of the tall firs across the road, shimmering proud and boastful in the clear indigo sky. Quite a sight. I was instantly wide awake. (As I had been, I realized later, at exactly the same time a month ago with a similarly accompanying full moon when I sat down to write my first installment to this blog.) I did go back to bed, though, not for sleep but to engage Richard in conversation (he was sort of awake) and we lay back and trekked through various topics – praise for his continuing construction on a new chicken coop, debate over whether or not to move forward with some other renovation work, our cats, love stuff, and, of course, chickens. Richard informed me that today was the day we would go down the road to our neighbors where our 2 Rhode Island Reds and 3 Barred Rocks have “wintered.” The plan was to catch them and transport them back in plastic pet containers to their refurbished and fenced-in coop, one that Richard had built last year. In the electric rush I feel most every morning when I see all the possibilities the day holds, my mind grabbed onto a topic that really didn’t need to be revisited, but I bulldozed ahead regardless, grilling Richard about the specific plans to keep “his” chickens penned up and seeking assurance that they would NOT be allowed to shit all over the front porch in great profusion like they had last year. Richard stared back at me with Medusa eyes and I stilled to stone. I had hit “a chord”, a familiar dissonant chord, and just before he let go with a stream of “we’ve been over this before, I’ve given you countless assurances, what more do you want? They won’t be on the front porch, I’ve made all plans and preparations, what more can I say or do?” I saw visions of him imagining my head on a chicken chopping block as he stood nearby, wild-eyed, wielding a big ole chicken chopping hatchit. But the anger passed quickly, as it usually does these days. We tend to laugh it away. What helped ease its passage this time was Richard ushering me to his gopher-bator where I saw a teensy-tiny piece of eggshell pipped by the Wyandotte chick within. Richard estimated that by tomorrow morning it would be out. All was right with the world, again.

I sat down to write for a couple of hours while Richard went outside to continue coop construction, and then we took a break and set off down the road with carrying cases at our side to pack up our pullets and bring them back home. We knew the main obstacle was going to be our neighbor’s rooster, a gloriously plumed bird who had welcomed our hens into his harem and wasn’t about to let them go without a fight. Very territorial, he. One of Richard’s favorite television shows is HBO’s Mormon soap opera “Big Love”, and yesterday we found ourselves cast as unwelcome guest characters in an altered version of that show. We soon realized that threats of legal charges regarding polygamy rings hold very little weight in the bird world. Also we found that making a raid at midday played right to the rooster’s advantage for not only were “his hens” outside and not in the barn, making them harder to catch, but they would follow their hypnotic paramour wherever he urged them to go, which yesterday turned out to be mostly swampland, flowing with winter thaw. Richard and I smooshed and slopped our way back and forth through the gloppy terrain, billing and cooing, shaking cups full of feed, anything to entice our chickens away from that feathered Bill Paxton. And he was something to see alright, decked out like an Incan chieftan. If I’d been a hen – hell, another rooster -- I would’ve followed him through a swamp; well, come to think of it, I did. Finally by hook and by crook we managed to nab 1 Barred Rock and our 2 Rhode Islands and steel away home, where we penned them into their new and secure home as the rooster fumed and keened in the distance.

A flurry of activity followed - a quick lunch, more writing and construction, a power nap - and then, as we were rushing to get Richard to the local garage where his car was being serviced and which he needed to drive to an afternoon class an hour away, we discovered that the Barred Rock was out. He’d flown the coop, EASILY flown OUT OF the coop and was pecking away nonchalantly nearby. In a fluster, Richard quick-fixed a chicken wire covering, we corralled the Barred back in, and tore off.

When I returned home, the Barred was out again, again nonchalantly pecking and scratching. I was not nonchalant. No. I oh so wanted to be pissed at Richard. This was exactly why I had brought up the topic of chickens on the front porch earlier. What happened to these assurances of preparations and plans and inescapable pens? Of course it would bring out the parent in me. I have better things to do than chase chickens around. And babysit. Yeah. These were HIS chickens, weren’t they? Hadn’t we been over boundaries? And where was he anyway? Not here, that’s for sure. No, after his class he was planning on attending a community theatre production of David Lindsay Abaire’s “The Rabbit Hole”, (a curious Easter weekend option that I’d opted out of ), and he wouldn’t be home until late. He was gone, just as he had been when the baby chicks had arrived 4 weeks ago, and who had gone to get them? ME! OH, YEAH! My inner critic was really rolling up his sleeves. He woke my inner victim and both of them stepped up on my inner soapbox: “If something goes wrong with the chickens, let it go wrong! If the fence can’t hold them, then let them get out and Richard will learn his lesson.” I salivated with visions of foxes and fisher cats trotting up our hill with tubby hens clamped in their jaws.. The only thing missing was me wringing my hands while tossing my head back with peals of Calligula-like laughter. I mumbled about all the indignities being heaped upon me as I trudged up to the coop and figured out a “tented up” jerry rig to the chicken wire covering that would help keep the chickens in. Then I turned to the Barred Rock and gritted my teeth, imagining the horrible task that lay ahead of me rounding him back up into the pen, and I opened the gate and she had the audacity to simply walk back in. She turned and looked at me, “Well?” I stood there looking back at her. My anger didn’t know what to do with this situation. So it just … went away. Disappeared. Flew south.

It must’ve passed the pair of honking Canadian Geese that were coming the other way above me, arcing high over our next door neighbor’s tree line. I wondered if they were “our” Geese, “ours” because a pair have adopted our pond for a future family and have been feeding on the birdseed in the front lawn. I looked out front to check just in time to see their sleek heads periscope up from the other side of the stone wall for a gander at the sky. They always look like very high class feminine bandits to me with their stylish face masks. They soon flew up to join their new friends for an aerial show, all of them out honking one another with delight.

I really didn’t quite know what to do with myself. So to celebrate all the bird action, I decided to Holly-tone some yellowing firs on our property, ones we’d planted a couple autumns ago, and then clear a bunch of small maples and brush that had engulfed the fence row down by our road, a job that Richard had hoped would be done and that I thought would make him happy. It turned out to be tough going, uprooting and tugging, sawing and chopping, lugging, but it was exhilarating. The field was full of blossoming crocus and the green beginnings of daffodils. The air was brisk and inviting. By the time my pile of brush was chest high, I was grubby and filthy and fine. As I sang to myself, sawing away on a hefty crab tree branch, I could feel the presence of someone nearby, looking at me. So I turned to see the 2 Rhode Island Reds right next to me, poking away at the crocus. Now THEY were out! With perfect timing, the branch I’d been sawing on snapped, swung down and BAP! bounced off my lip. There was a brief thought of whether this wound would Elephant Man my natural good looks – ah, vanity! --, but after the initial shock, I thought, of course, the branch bap was as if nature were saying “Hey! Don’t even think about being pissed. You’re having a good time, right?! So shut up!” I went inside for an ice cube for my lip and when I came back, there looking in at me through the storm door were the 2 Rhode Island Reds ON THE FRONT PORCH. Of course. I cracked up.

Now, it wasn’t all fun and games. Much to your amazement, I didn’t take it all in stride. I gave Richard a call with an update on “what was happening IN HIS ABSENCE.” He didn’t answer. The Barred Rock was out again too and both he and one of the Reds really got my goat by sauntering right back in the gate AGAIN with no fuss. How dare they!! The other Red, though, gave me a run for my money, a merry chase all over the property, hide and seeking around and around fir trees, finally dashing under our front porch behind cedar latticework. There was no way to crawl in after her; I had to coax her out. Again the corn meal in a cup, again the enticing shaking of the cup, this time with me commiserating about how hard change is, purring “I know how you feel, I know.” But she wasn’t buying any of it. She just stood there on the other side of the lattice, glaring at me indignantly, giving off this extended cawing kind of growl. I think she was getting back at me for having come between her and her “man.” Finally, I gave up. I got up, and walked away. And off course, soon, curious, she came out. And lo and behold, it was the front porch that caught her. She had gone back up there when my back was turned, and had become transfixed by her own reflection in the storm door. She stood there, frozen, staring at herself. I don’t know if she thought it was a long lost friend or, like Narcissus, she’d become enamored of herself, but whatever the reason, I used the distraction to slowly ease myself closer and closer until NAB! I got a hold of one of her legs. There was a quick squawk and flutter and then she instantly calmed, as if she were glad to have been caught. She seemed soothed in my arms, and she cooed as I carried her up the hill for a reunion. It was past dusk, so I nestled them all up in their coop, treated to the discovery of 2 new eggs in the process! I thanked the girls, telling them it was perfect for Easter. I took the eggs inside, grabbed a beer for a walk up to the top of the hill and a view of the last strands of daylight on the far mountains. Then back down to the house, quite dark now, where I shucked off my work clothes for a well-earned rest.

But two messages awaited me on our answering machine. The first, our neighbor down the road who said that now would be a good time to pick up the 2 remaining Barred Rocks for they were roosting in the barn, quietly, and the rooster was penned in. The second was Richard asking me to check on the progress of the pipping chick (I’d forgotten all about him/her) and telling me to call and give him an update. I put my work clothes back on, grabbed the carrying case, and a flashlight and headed for the door. On my way, I stepped into the utility room where the 2 containers holding our 25 4-week old chicks reside, as well as the gopher-bator where various eggs are being hatched. Peering in the top window of the incubator, I spied a newly hatched black chick, wet and splayed out on the still remaining eggs as if he’d been washed up on a rocky shore. Okay, this was cool. I cracked open the lid and he/she stirred. It looked up and began chirping, a good healthy peep, its wee little wings flapping the air. He kept trying to regain his balance looking up at me as if saying “Sorry, you caught me in such a state – whoa! -- I really wanted to make a better first impression – woops! -- but HELLO! I’m glad I’m imprinting on YOU, oh parent figure of mine – (slip, slide) -- Life is pretty swell so far, but, boy, I’m bushed!” He was cute and tough and I dubbed him “Spike.” Remembering something about him needing to stay in the incubator until he dried off, I assured him that I would return and went for the 2 Barred Rocks.

There followed a darkened barn, and a slightly perturbed horse watching, powerless to the quiet kidnapping of 2 more birds. The abduction was a piece of cake, both birds were docile, drowsy. The only hitch was a little panic of plastic scrambling when I moved them from the carrying case to the new coop. I apologized for my clumsiness, I think they understood. I checked in with “Spike” one or two more times, while the surrounding chicks in their crates nosed up to their mesh covering to see what was going on. I had a pang that they were feeling left out, so I rolled back the covers and let them use me as a perching post, a human tree with arm branches. I’d have about 4 up on me at a time, the others roosting at other points around the room, a little seventh inning stretch as we calmly eyed one another, shared our day. They seemed content. And not one of them shit on me. But it would’ve been alright if they had. Wait. “Alright?” Well, I would’ve understood, let’s not get carried away here.

I tucked the birds back in, showered, and got into bed for a read. Astrid came up to hunker down on top of me. The phone rang. It was Richard, he was finally returning my calls. He was on his way home from the play, it was around 11, and he wanted an update, especially about the new born. I gave it to him and he asked if I’d go down and clean up the shell in the incubator. The tone of my voice must’ve darkened at the prospect of leaving my nest because his did in response to mine. I agreed to get up though. He said he’d have to come home and find it its own box before coming to bed, etc, etc. I went down and performed my janitorial duties - Spike chirped appreciatively - and I went back up to call Richard and let him know the job was done and to bring back the bounce to his voice. We talked for a nice stretch about the play, the birds, the plans for further coop construction tomorrow, as he drove on, nearing home and I lay back in bed, drifting to sleep. I don’t recall hanging up, but I do remember him coming to bed, smiling and energized after fixing a new home for the new born. All was right with the world. Again.

Friday was one of those days, looking back at its beginning from the perspective of its ending, where it felt as if years had passed rather than just 24 hours, so many events and turns of feelings had been “cram packed” into it: moon waking, bedroom talking, argument laughing, coop building, play writing, rooster fooling, fence fixing, anger fleeing, geese flying, brush clearing, chicken chasing, hill climbing, beer downing, view gazing, birth awing, night nabbing, bed nestling, phone talking, shell cleaning, love lighting, dream drifting. It was truly a good Friday, in every meaning of the word. I even felt a little resurrected afterwards. If there was a learning in all this, I’d say it was a reminder that I always have a choice. Putting it in bird terms, I can either focus on front porch shit or fly with new found wings. Just for today, I’ll choose feathers.