Good Friday Chicks

They're here!

For a long time, it has been my dream to own a few hens – like 3 or 4 max. Last week it came true when 25 baby chicks arrived in a box at the post office early one morning. I rushed over like the deranged mother I’ve become and rang the buzzer repeatedly until someone let me in the back door and eventually brought a little box of peeping fluff. True,  I only needed four, but I had this idea it would be easy to get rid of extras via Craig’s List. So far eight have gone, and today, on Good Friday, another seven will be picked up. That still leaves five that need a home.

Setting up temporary digs in the basement wasn’t hard. An appliance box lined with a plastic garbage bag and covered with shavings is doing nicely. According to the website “MyPetChicken” the temp needed to be an even 95 degrees for the first week. Testing before they arrived proved I needed to adjust the height of the heat lamp to keep from broiling their little tushes at 120 degrees. These girls are unavailable however tempting they look.

I’m mesmerized by their little chicken-y antics. From day two they made clumsy efforts to scratch like big mamas do. When one finds something interesting to peck at – an odd colored shaving, the rings on my fingers – several run to investigate and steal it away if possible. They have tiny primary feathers sprouting from their wings which they preen and flutter. With breakneck runs they launch themselves one half inch above their neighbors landing on heads with no regard for whether one is napping or drinking.

They are a mix of breeds and it is difficult to decide which four to keep. So far I’ve decided on an Ameracauna that will lay the green or blue eggs I’ve always marveled at, a Black Astraulorp, a Barred Rock and a Buff Orpington. A friend identified them for me. I don’t know if I should trust her or not – she has fainting goats and to her surprise two of her does dropped three unexpected babies – one of the mothers had twins. Among the 25 chicks are three unusual brown-egg layers –   

Turken

Turkens. They have naked necks and are more common in Europe than here. The lack of feathers makes them look like they need a good moisturizer one their skinny little necks and a boost of vitamins, but they are supposed to be calm, friendly and good egg layers, and if its any indication these three readily run to my hand to see what I’m about. They have grown on me.

Beauty is often linked to the visual and isn’t always an advantage. Many ugly things, on inspection, reveal a depth of beauty that can go unnoticed unless time is taken to listen and watch. John Fowles observes in The Collector that “a lot of nice things are ugly and a lot of nasty things are beautiful.” This also being Good Friday – I’ve always wondered what Jesus looked like – especially on his way to the cross, since Isaiah described him as having no beauty or majesty that would attract us to him, and yet, and yet, here we are 2000 years later where like iron filings some of us still cling to the power of his love. So maybe I’ll keep a Turken to remind me.

New Year - with Leonard Cohen

January 1. 2012. Am still alone. In the quiet of this evening spent with Leonard Cohen watching the concert video again – Live in London. Cohen is in his 70s, a gracious man, and this is obvious as he kindly and often turns to members of his band to praise and introduce them. It's uncanny. His smile is so like Jerram Barrs, another hero of mine. I’ve always loved his music from the first time I heard Suzanne Takes You Down years ago, sung by a young woman who lived in our commune. It was so different from the Christian choruses I grew up with, or any other music for that matter – it was mysterious, sexual, beautiful.

This concert is filled with common Grace and Truths that are powerfully strung in Cohen’s poetry and music. Though I’m quite sure he doesn’t share my faith, still through his art, he does me great goodness. I am linked to spiritual concepts that can sound weak and boring if I tell you them outright. Like: “Believe me, one day things will be different. Jesus is coming back to fix things.” Well, yes. He is. And I believe it, but how to express it?

When I listen to Cohen sing one particular song -  Democracy  everything together – the inexorable rhythm, the drum of time, the lyrics, the wind instruments that march on, the voice harmonies that rise – I sense in its richness this is a little like how the Holy Spirit might come to us. On the day when Jesus returns, when all injustice, and illness, and the poverty of people, and the dearth of shelter and love, and the corruption of nations; people everywhere will see that Someone coming through all the static. If “Democracy” is what this poet wants to call it, that’s okay. But, to me, “Democracy” speaks of Christ. About the longing to have things be right, of being human and made whole in  our essential selves, our bodies, in our loves, “We'll be going down so deep / the river's going to weep, / and the mountain's going to shout Amen!”

            Perhaps you’ll give his work a listen one day and join me in my obsession?

Democracy

It's coming through a hole in the air,

from those nights in Tiananmen Square.

It's coming from the feel

that this ain't exactly real,

or it's real, but it ain't exactly there.

From the wars against disorder,

from the sirens night and day,

from the fires of the homeless,

from the ashes of the gay:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It's coming through a crack in the wall;

on a visionary flood of alcohol;

from the staggering account

of the Sermon on the Mount

which I don't pretend to understand at all.

It's coming from the silence

on the dock of the bay,

from the brave, the bold, the battered

heart of Chevrolet:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It's coming from the sorrow in the street,

the holy places where the races meet;

from the homicidal bitchin'

that goes down in every kitchen

to determine who will serve and who will eat.

From the wells of disappointment

where the women kneel to pray

for the grace of God in the desert here

and the desert far away:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Sail on, sail on

O mighty Ship of State!

To the Shores of Need

Past the Reefs of Greed

Through the Squalls of Hate

Sail on, sail on, sail on, sail on.

It's coming to America first,

the cradle of the best and of the worst.

It's here they got the range

and the machinery for change

and it's here they got the spiritual thirst.

It's here the family's broken

and it's here the lonely say

that the heart has got to open

in a fundamental way:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

It's coming from the women and the men.

O baby, we'll be making love again.

We'll be going down so deep

the river's going to weep,

and the mountain's going to shout Amen!

It's coming like the tidal flood

beneath the lunar sway,

imperial, mysterious,

in amorous array:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Sail on, sail on ...

I'm sentimental, if you know what I mean

I love the country but I can't stand the scene.

And I'm neither left or right

I'm just staying home tonight,

getting lost in that hopeless little screen.

But I'm stubborn as those garbage bags

that Time cannot decay,

I'm junk but I'm still holding up

this little wild bouquet:

Democracy is coming to the U.S.A.

Everyone does ten of something these days

Ten Sounds I love mostly in winter

Snow whispering

The whomp of the furnace igniting

Radiators ticking

Coffee grinding

Pages softly turning

Denis’ footsteps on the stair

Bacon sizzling

English Sparrows chirping in the hedge (I've made my peace with them.)

An infant nursing

The east wind that howls in our bedroom window at night.

Take this body

Today I had an hour between appointments so I stopped home before I went to 12^th Street Dental Clinic. It seemed a good idea when I set them up one after the other. Go to the surgeon get a few basal cells removed, no problem, then get over to the dentist. It wasn’t like I was getting a mastectomy, but the incision was a little larger than I expected. And having loaded needles stuck in your nose is not the little “pinch” they promise. Then came the yanking and hitting a squirter followed by the  smell of grilled flesh and what with the lidocaine not being quite enough, I left feeling more disheveled than usual. It wasn’t a big deal, of course, but it was starting to smart. I wanted to call my dentist and say I need to cancel, because I just had a basil cell carcinoma removed from my outside left nostril which would be like saying the dog ate my homework. The thought of the hygienist resting her vacuum pumps and tooth polishers on my face made me want to throw up. However, I can imagine dental people teaching you a lesson the next time you do show up, clinking their tools on your nerves and popping the drill under your tongue, so I actually drove over to the office to cancel. Luckily the stitches were still oozing and I hoped they would add credibility to my story. I’ll bet they think I’m a piece of work.

The stitches hitched up my left nostril so I look a little like Jack Nicholson with a sneer. Hoping it’s not permanent.

This timing of this is Providential, really. Possibly a tiny joke God has sent me. This weekend Denis and I will be at Zion Church in Lincoln, NB where we will each be speaking. My topic is body image and living with disfigurement, which is a serious matter. Offering my/our “our bodies as a living sacrifice” (Romans 12:1) is a daily effort and grows more interesting by the year. That God desires not only our hearts and minds, but our bodies, too, is a compelling argument for accepting them as they are with all their imperfections and corruptions.

Some days

 

Often when I pray, I use a phrase from the prayer Jesus taught us: “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done on earth...”

What I mean to be  saying is “A bit of Thy kingdom come here, to us, today, please.” I pray, sitting in an Amish bent rocker looking out the second story window where beyond our yard I see people walking to work at St. Mary’s hospital, delivery trucks stopping at the Canadian Honker, patrons leaving Caribou Coffee clutching cups. In this in-between time while we wait for Kingdom to fully arrive I’m asking if God would share a tiny cheese cake of a thing to hearken us, and those we meet, to Himself. I’m saying I welcome a bit of Pasture into this house, into this day, even an atom of it so we remember who we are and where we’re headed.

Night before last I didn’t sleep much because I forgot to set the alarm but didn’t want to wake Denis by turning on the light, and whacking the buttons, so I kept watching the lit numbers until 5 a.m. which I don’t care that you get up that early all the time and think nothing of it, it was EARLY for me.

I was driving to Minneapolis (about 1 ½ hours from Rochester) to pick up my Mom at 7:00. She was flying in on the Marvin Windows plane. They arrive at a little terminal - tucked near the big one - that accommodates small corporate jets. CEOs with leather briefcases and the Minnesota Wild team, for eg, come and go. Security is drive up to the gate pick up a phone and tell them, “I’m here to meet the blah-blah-blah and the gate pulls back. No monitors, I mean none I see, no information, but really nice lounge, fireplace, bathroom with hairspray and shoe polisher, though I have no use for either. And fyi, people up in Warroad who have remote connections to Marvins can get a seat on their plane, for a price, and if they have room. Okay you really wanted to know all this, didn’t you?

So, I arrive and wait until I notice NO ONE is coming or going. It’s 7:30 and no Mom. Can’t reach her by cell phone or home phone. She’s left no messages anywhere. The desk says no plane is scheduled and no info but I can call Marvins. Jodi in Scheduling and Tours answers. Long pause. She says, O no. I think we told her the wrong time. She was supposed to leave at 6 p.m. not a.m.

In Warroad she’d been waiting forever out at the airstrip and there was NO ONE there either, but finally a guy showed, checked the schedule and said, ah. It leaves at 5 p.m. tonight. When Mom finally reached me, she’d hurried 36 miles back home to call as she’d forgotten her cell phone. The leather lounge chairs are pretty nice, but I couldn’t sit all day waiting without computer or book. And shopping for 12 hours at Mall of America is, well, I’d rather eat cockroaches. So I drove back home to work. Returned to meet her late afternoon. Again, I waited and waited, wondering what happened now, I finally got a call from Mom who reported, “We’re on the ground in Duluth! (pause) But we’ll be arriving in Mpls around 7:15.” She did arrive at last and we had dinner together. But I was wondering about God’s Kingdom arriving in my life on “this day” and whether it had.

You hoped I’d have some big message? Sorry. I’ve taken all your time to say I drove six hours and it was kind of meaningless and boring. All I have to report is I saw the sun rise – not an option at Toad Hall even if you’re up early. The colors made me think of melons. Layers and layers of hazy pinks, corals, salmons, purples. Fields of snow reflecting light so soft … so fleeting, it may have been my cheesecake for the day, though having a Mom, especially this Mother is pretty nice any time.

Frost

Today Anita and I drove back from St. Louis. We left in dreary fog and heavy damp. Hadn’t seen the sun since we’d left home. As we headed north we began to notice clumps of wild grass thick and luxuriant - their heads floating like feathers above the ditches. We wondered how they had remained so intact, so beautiful this late in the season. I wanted to stop and gather armfuls, but immediately deleted that thought. From northern Missouri on up through Iowa they grew and grew, until finally we noticed the bushes, trees, fences had begun to take on the same light fairy look. It was frost. By northern Iowa the ground was deep in snow with frost fanning out, coating every surface, even the highline wires. I said wouldn’t it be wonderful to drive into sun with all this? And then we did, like God said here you are. For perhaps 40 miles it flared across blue sky making such glory. During those miles with the sun we passed a magnificent bald eagle right beside the highway eating road kill. (Very undignified.) We turned around to try to get a pic and as we rolled down the window it slowly took off looking extremely annoyed. No, that’s not true, eagles always look annoyed. All of this – the beauty of creation. And tonight, the beauty of my own bed. Being home. Magnificent in its own way. Much to be thankful for, including a great board meeting. Though I might be more thankful if Denis were here. He stayed in St. Louis at Covenant Seminary to teach a J-term class: Film and Theology.

Romancing the garden

Last week we took a supper out to the garden for Joe, Becca, and their interns Sarah and Nathan. It was a beautiful day and they’d spent it on their knees transplanting lettuces peppers and fennel. Denis and I drove down a lane along side part of the garden, pulled a card table out of the trunk and set up for a simple meal - my hearty version of taco salad (made with their fresh greens and spinach) country French bread I picked up at a good bakery, butter sun tea and lemon bars. As we mixed the salad into a huge bowl, dumping the warm chile and beans from the Dutch oven, Joe came over a low rise saying he knew we had arrived because he could smell the food. Either he was really hungry, has a keen sense of smell, or the garlic and onions were extra powerful. Maybe all three. They had time for about a twenty minute break and then went back to working until dark.

Nathan and Sarah at the "table."


Denis and I wandered around the beds and through the greenhouses where all was quiet except for the swish of water through the hoses and the evening birdsongs. The sun was low but its light still filtered across benches of cucumber vines rising along strings and staked tomatoes setting small fruits - ripening evidence of weeks of work through the cold months of February, March and April.



Outside, small fields, bordered by fruit trees swathed in grasses, were already filled with curving, orderly rows of young green vegetables. Chard, spinach, peas, all the varieties of lettuce, radishes of many kinds, herbs, fennel. On and on they went, the fields rounding toward the fence where the lama stood on a little hillock staring us down amid chickens who scratched at his feet.

I know on this day only an idiot would miss the beauty and potential bounty of this garden. Even I captured a tiny bit with my camera. But knowing the people who work it, I also know the ache knees and suffering that is bound to our earthly existence. In so many ways, we long for the permanence of everything that is healthy and healing. Until then we weed scratch and water hoping in Christ who will one day restore life to what it was intended to be.

Yard News

Yesterday for a second I had a heart attack over what looked like a drowned cocker spaniel floating in the rain barrel. It was just Anita’s sheep fleece soaking in prep for carding and spinning. She’s learning things the books don’t tell you. Apparently the experts leave a few little surprises like if you soak the fleece in cold water for two days, as they suggest, an aroma builds beneath the thin film of lanolin that seals the surface. It reminded me of cleaning the calf pen after three months of bovine elimination and bacterial orgies. But now she has it soaking in my washing machine in a bath of hot water and Dawn detergent so it should improve.

Again this spring, I’m awed by the number of bird species visiting and nesting in the yard. We’ve been on a campaign to control squirrels, (It’s a secret how, but we’ve eliminated 18 so far.) which have no natural predators in the city and, in fact, prey on song birds by destroying their nests and eating the eggs or young. Not that we, in all our wisdom, are able to expressly figure out or balance the environment in our urban existence. But fewer squirrels, plus laying off the weed killer and chemical fertilizers seems to have invited the birds back.

Wrens have moved into the birdhouse that hangs off the back porch and forced me to consider wearing jetway ear protectors. How on earth can something that weighs about an ounce awaken us like thunder from a dead sleep at five am?


A pair of doves are mourning in the pine tree. I assume that’s their happy sound. There are two pairs of robins. One in the crabapple tree and one in the arborvitae. Denis reached up and snapped a pic of their eggs. They squabble over a boundary and surrounding airspace that seems to run up one side of our house and down the other splitting our lot in half. Last night as we ate on the porch I heard a lot of commotion and ran out to police them. They are fighting again as I write. Denis is skeptical about my involvement here.

We have a bunch of English sparrows in the hedge as usual and I don’t much like them, they not only get on my nerves with their repetitive, tuneless chirping, they like to wait around until the robin parents are off doing meal prep, and then they have at the babies, carrying them off to eat them. Seriously. Not much I can do about that either. Although to shut them up, I’ve been known to run at the hedge and bang it with a broom.


The weirdest thing is a pair of mallards that keep returning to our yard as though they haven’t been able to find affordable housing anywhere else. Last night I tried to encourage them to eat polenta and oatmeal from a pan, but after standing in the street to stop traffic and directing dog-walkers to the other side while the couple waddled across, I felt I was making a nuisance of myself and Denis was definitely getting embarrassed. I’ve thought of setting up the kiddie pool. But that would entail more feeding and policing against stray cats, so I don’t think I should get involved.

Creative Process

Although this was about typography I thought Ned Shalanski captured what is true about other things like writing. Dying yarn. Planting a flower bed. Composing a tune. I’m never far from the voice in my head that tells me – That should be perfect, you slob. Doesn’t matter from email to the lemon curd birthday cake I’m making today.

NS: Mistakes are beautiful. They are such a relief to see in a culture that over-emphasizes perfection. I think it’s so fantastic when the pretenses of a methodology—in this case, clean, straight lines—get broken down. One of my favorite things Ed Benguiat always says is, “You’re gonna draw a type by just looking at the computer? Forget about it! You need paper, man! You need pencils, man! You can’t just go to your computer screen and start from scratch! You’re crazy!” The creative process with hand drawing is more intuitive because you are connecting with that piece in a deeper way. I feel that many budding designers get too easily caught up with the product and forget about the importance of process.

Glory, all glory

On our way to the Yarn Garage today Anita, Sandy, and I stopped to pick up Becca. We ran in for a minute to see her and Joe’s chicks. They’ve got 180 two-week-old peeping babies in a pen in their basement. In about four months they’ll begin laying colored eggs ranging from coffee to chocolate. My favorite might be the araucana’s teal blue egg. Who ever thought of eating so strange, lovely, and nutritious a thing?



When they hear or see a person, they all flee to the far corner, running over the tops of their mates heads, as though we were approaching with an axe.



A continuous chorus of peeping hangs in the air.



Just as suddenly they sit down, fall asleep, and waken to peck at another's eye.


It was worth the hour drive to the Yarn Garage past farms with dairy cows standing in the sun, the fields still dormant in buff and gold, water running in the creeks. I can’t even imagine how this place sprang up in an old farming town just south of the Twin Cities. Who knew? It’s run by a flamboyant designer from NYC, who designed and knitted many of the creations scattered through the store. Crammed and colorful, awed and overwhelmed by choices I stood nearly paralyzed. Corn fiber? Bamboo, wool, cotton?







Becca chooses ochre colors.



Anita likes Japanese Toro and milk fibers.



I thought I could sneak over and try on this amazing red and pink cowl sweater. Hiding behind a small mountain of yarn, I tried to get it on properly and was suddenly surrounded by a crowd giving advice, and a lady, not even an employee, who tried to adjust the sleeves and then the owner arrived, pushed everyone aside to arrange the collar, fussing and buttoning the front “under my girls.” And then yelled, where’s the camera? I think it’s my white hair?



Though I love tones of earth, I’m tempted by glitter so I finally choose these for some little projects I have in mind. Then Sandy surprised us by handing us each a gift certificate right there in the store. (She is moving to New Zealand and maybe we won’t see this dear friend for a long time.)

Feeling creative, beautiful, it’s 50 degrees outside, I think spring may be coming and this feeling may not last. But that’s okay. Just a taste now and then - a precious reminder of impending glory. Tomorrow I leave for Chicago to take care of Aunt Ruth for a week while Marsena works on a screenplay.

Food for the week

I love summer when it’s easy to be a locavore. Last Saturday we came home from the market with this. I stare at it cuz it’s so beautiful and so good. We are blessed and bless the farmers who raised it. Thankyou. The first sweet corn showed up and we’ve been eating fresh tomatoes for awhile. Denis has no stop button and eats 2-3 a day.

About this time of year when it’s hot and humid I like something fresh, tangy, and cool. I admit cucumber yogurt soup with a hint of raisins is a little weird (they surprise your mouth with a tiny “closing note” of sweetness – sorry to talk like that, but how else to describe?), but you should try it cuz it’s a keeper. About 75% – though skeptical at first glance – end up loving this. 25% stir it slowly, steel themselves, look at me with pleading eyes -- would I be offended if they dumped it in the toilet? Yes. Let me eat yours.

Cold Yogurt Soup
1 boiled egg, chopped
½ cup raisins, soaked in water for 5 minutes, then drained
2-3 cups lofat plain yogurt
½ cup light cream (non-fat ingreds are ba-ad for this recipe)
1 cup cold water
6 ice cubes
1 cucumber, grated
¼ cup green onion, chopped
2 t. salt
pepper to taste
1 T. chopped parsley
1 T. dill weed, chopped.
Mix all ingredients except last two. Refrigerate 2 or so hours before serving. Garnish with parsley and dill. Optional to garnish with more chopped egg.
Serve with sliced ripe tomatoes drizzled with olive oil and chopped basil, a loaf of crusty bread, and a light wine.

The delight of hair

Manessah, our granddaughter, arrived for her annual summer visit with hair down the middle of her back. She wants it cut off. All of it. “Too hot,” she says. At the salon she decides to donate her heavy mane to Locks of Love – an organization that makes wigs for kids with cancer. Her hair is so thick and heavy the stylist said it was enough for three wigs.

Writers Talk

Some quotes from the Festival of Faith & Writing. I wrote them down as spoken. I hope I got them right, but can’t vouch for every comma.

….most machines were put on earth to hurt me.
- Mary Gordon. From her lecture: “Is Fiction Moral?”

I was raised a pagan, a savage, and I still need to be careful not to convince myself that Jack Daniels and crack are not sacramental.
- Mary Karr. From her lecture: “Writing & Praying Your Way to Truth.


Last night I [Alan Jacobs] met Mary Karr who asked me, ‘What made you write a book about sin?’
I said, ‘Didn’t they teach you to write what you know?’
‘Oh,’ she replied, ‘I thought they said, you reap what you sow.’

After a lecture a young man approached me and said, ‘Mr. Jacobs, I love your work, it has changed my life. I don’t think I have the talent to be a fiction writer or a poet, but I think I could be an essayist.’
- Alan Jacobs in his discussion on personal essay.

As a historian, I ask: which would be more interesting? A memoir by Louis IV or a memoir by the servant who emptied his chamber pot? The farther down the social scale, the more interesting.
- Carlos Eire. From his lecture: “Where Falsehoods Dissolve: Memory as Witness.”

If you lie in a novel – you’re a terrible writer.
If you lie in a memoir – you’re a terrible person.
- Haven Kimmel. From her conversation: “Writing a Life.”

I followed the mosquito.
- David Athey from Moose Lake, MN, on the 18 years it took to bring Danny Gospel to press.

Eternity is written in the hearts of saints and fools. It’s in their movies, too.
Sometimes we learn of glory through its absence.
- Jeffery Overstreet. From his lecture “Through a Screen Darkly.”

The artist who can’t play, can’t create. Go home dancing – to create beauty in your life and in the lives of others.
- Katherine Paterson. From her lecture “Stories of Beauty.”