During the Hurricane

    They are all there, the Fowl Family, on the wall, in formal portraiture, arranged by the patriarch Rusty Rooster who placed himself in the middle, where he could keep an eye on everybody. He claimed that roosters, aka adult chickens of his size and prominence had eyes in the back of their heads and the Little Red Hen, for one, believed everything he said. For that matter, so did Chicken Little who had shamed the whole family just a week earlier, by yelling "The sky is falling!" in his shrill Chicken Little voice. "The sky is falling! The sky is falling!"

    Well, as we all know, it was just a hurricane, the sky was not falling, showed no signs of falling, but because of C.L.'s shrill warnings, most of the fowl fled.  Chicken Big and the Wise Little Hen made a strategic retreat early during the so-called emergency and are now living, safely and happily, on a farm in Idaho. Henny Penny and Cocky Locky stayed put, determined to weather the storm, staring deep into each other's eyes, soul to soul. Nobody has seen them since the storm, so they are probably at the Pearly Gates, the first to arrive which will please the always competitive C. Locky.

    Goldie Hen, of course, kept her cool during the storm and emerged picture perfect, every feather and comb in place. . . which could not be said of Brewster Rooster, who was so unsettled by Chicken Little's shrill warnings that he simply froze, depended on his sharp beak to keep danger away, and still hasn't moved as far as anybody can tell.

    It is true that Chicken Licken kept her eyes closed during the entire storm, then, when the wind and rain finally died down, opened both eyes, ruffled her feathers, and clucked, "What's for dinner?"

    "I hope it's not one of us," the Wise Little Hen said, which lightened the mood (one of her gifts), produced a few nervous squawks,  and most went back to clucking, cawing, and scratching in the dirt.

    Not Brewster, the Rooster. He kept his sharp eye and pointed beak ready to deter intruders ... and, of course, nobody could stop Chicken Little from continuing to race around, hither and yon, shouting, "The sky is falling, the sky is falling!"

Some chickens just don't know when enough is enough.

Un-Hooked

Un-Hooked

The coffee was cold, the toast was cold, stiff and cold, and she was out of jam. Peanut butter was not the answer even though her brother once proclaimed that pb (as he called it) was the solution to everything, especially minor discomforts such as boredom and hunger, which he equated despite her arguments to the contrary.

She was not that hungry, but eating, especially first thing in the morning, was a habit, one that kept her stable (relatively speaking) and ready for the day. The coffee that same brother, speaking authoritatively (because of his appearance on earth 13 months before hers) pointed out that coffee has no nutritional value, so, of course, he didn't drink it.

She did, probably in reaction to his disdain and now a habit. She was hooked, as he would say, hooked, one of his favorite words.

She stood up, poured the coffee back in the pot to warm it up, changed her mind, poured it in the sink, threw away the stiff toast even though it was already buttered, opened the freezer, took out the pint of Ben and Jerry's Coffee Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz and ate it right out of the carton, sparing herself another dirty dish and proving again that she was an independent spirit, well able to take care of herself, thank you very much. 

Dreamer

     There in his back yard the boy swung the bat like a pro. Nobody pitching a ball to him. No ball at all that I could see, just a boy with a bat, swinging it like a star, like Joe Mauer, Kirby Puckett, Rod Carew, long gone heroes he's never seen or heard of, but practicing the swing, the stance without the ballet of a ball heading his way, getting the swing right before he encounters a ball.

    Practicing.

    And dreaming. 

    Another form of practice, of getting ready for the moment, the opportunity, the hurtled orb of possibility arriving when you are ready, when you most expect it: proper stance, eyes wide open and on the ball, ready to swing at the right moment, prepared for the crack of bat on ball, the slight thrust backward as ball meets bat, then rises in a perfect arc as you circle the bases, one, two, three, and home.

    That's how he'll get there, to ahs and cheers, and his mother, father, brother rising in the stands, shrieking "Go, go, go Boy!" and he does because he practiced in that narrow back yard, because he dreamed, because he believed in himself, in himself and the dream.

    He knows you never let go of the dream.

Ritual

The old dog is asleep, noisily asleep, twitching in a dream, breathing too heavily, audibly recording her dream so that when she wakes up, smells my coffee brewing, stretches, asks in that polite way she has--not looking at me, not directly, warm snout on my leg, waiting with uncommon patience for me to realize she is there, waiting for me to open the box of milk bones, the only doggy treat she deigns to eat, take out two, put one in her open mouth, put the other on the floor next to her water, not in her dish, open the back door to let her out to make water (as I say so as not to embarrass her), but stay by the door so she can quickly come back in for the second treat which she will wolf down (in a nod to her lineage), have another lap of water before going to her place by my chair where she expects me to be as soon as the coffee is perked, one spoon of sugar, a scant spoon, and a drop of skim milk stirred in, and both of us sitting near the window, up, awake, happy, even content, ready to begin a new day together which is as it should be and, actually, is how it is.