This morning, the Nearly Perfect Husband and I headed out the door that hangs out just beside these windows.
We passed the roses, showing off their newborn leaves, and then the little cherry trees. Through the garden gate, we made our way by the barn to Granny’s little mini-cooper whose name is now June (named by her new owner, Mac (June Mackenzie), for Granny (our original June)).
We climbed into the little car, and the driveway stones crunched softly as we made our way out onto the road and toward the General Store. From there we would park and head off on a morning walk that would take us past garden views and ocean views and lighthouse views and… oh yes…
Okay, so there is this thing.
The Nearly Perfect One and I have very few languishing disagreements in our lives.
However, there is this one and it has to do with chickens.
I want them.
He does not.
And it has gotten to the point where I, a very seldom swear-er, got so revved up – years ago – during a chicken argument, that I added the word ‘freakin” in front of the word chicken… as in, “I want a freakin’ chicken!”
I figured asking for a single chicken would be step one in my crusade (and, yes, ‘crusade’ is an appropriate term because, A. I feel that the importance of adding chickens to my life has reached the level of a religious belief and, B. If JoHn isn’t willing to convert to my belief system, I’m willing to off him).
It was during that particular argument that JoHn threw down the gauntlet. He said, and I quote:
“Read my lips. You will never have chickens.”
It was like he didn’t even know me.
Thus began the Dingle Dance of the Chickens.
It wasn’t so much a literal dance as it was a series of psychological manipulations, via me, of him.
For instance, my kitchen counter now contains a two foot tall ceramic guard rooster.
And I’ve got a smaller, married pair, who sit in my china cabinet just a short distance away.
The dreaded blue Dawn dishwashing detergent now sits in a poultry themed oil dispenser (the image of the freakin’ chicken on this particular dispenser bearing a startling resemblance to Bloom County’s Bill the Cat).
And, yes, there are other freakin’ chicken references throughout The Inn*.
So, the walk this morning.
This particular walk has you passing – you’ve got it – freakin’ chickens!
When I walk all by myself, JoHn is regaled with a morning freakin’ chicken report when I get home. But today? Today he was with me and had the delight of experiencing, first-hand, my never-ending excitement at seeing and listening to them.
So, we saw the chickens on the first loop through, and then again on our second loop through (and two loops was enough), so we were heading back to the car and JoHn pointed up the road and – with great excitement – asked, “Hey! Why did the chicken cross the road?!”
Sure enough, way ahead of us, a single freakin’ chicken was making its way across the main road and toward the General Store!
I watched like a hawk (a very benign and gentle hawk who would never harm a freakin’ chicken), and I did not see said chicken make her way back across the road. So when we got to the General Store, I was looking for the chicken in the woodsy, brushy area beside the road.
But no chicken.
So we made our way around to the car, and got our coffee money and headed into the store and that was when I saw it.
Right there, in the parking lot, stood two young store employees, and a small pile of golden seed-y powder-y stuff… being eaten by the freakin’ chicken!
I was so excited!
I went inside and rushed through getting my coffee so I could get back outside (first coffee of the day totally trumping the chicken).
And, when I saw Janet – who owns the General Store – I said I’d seen the chicken outside and how cool was that and then she got all excited and asked if the chicken was really there. And I said yes and then Janet said, ‘excuse me!’ and hurried out back where I could still see her and she grabbed a bag and spoke to the young people outside and made sure they knew that the bag held seaweed and other stuff for Lucy.
So now I live on an island.
Off the coast of Maine.
Which I share with a Nearly Perfect Husband, two shepHerds, friends (and friends I’ve yet to meet), a roving gang of freakin’ chickens, with one rather special member.
And her name is Lucy!
On the way home, the sun was doing such a good job that we lowered June’s convertible top.
I sipped my coffee and breathed it all in.
What an embarrassment of cool stuff to be grateful for.
Not the least of which is that, one day, I’m gonna have a freakin’ chicken.
Thanks for readin’.
*The Inn is not really an inn. It was once, like in the early 1900s, but isn’t now (so if you show up looking to sleep here, it will be wHeird).
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