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Success!!! Many thanks to robertsloan2 for motivating me!!!! You are such an inspiration!!! Feels great to have it done one day ahead of time!!!!
I've been wanting to do this and the ArtSoMoFo for 3 years - this was the year I finally did them both. Yay!!! I've off to celebrate!!!
sad
Through the years, many of the birds won my heart. My favorite chicken was Beethoven, a Mottled Houdan of French heritage with a mop on his head. I hadn’t paid much attention to him until he became the victim of an ice storm.
There is a special beauty when ice encrusts every surface on the winter landscape. I looked out the kitchen window, content to stay in and enjoy if from a distance. Mike went out to check on the animals and found one of the chickens frozen in a heap at the base of the black walnut tree where he had roosted for the night. As he picked him up he was certain that he was dead and mentally prepared himself to dispose of the body. He sighed as he took a final glance and then noticed that his eye moved. Plans changed and he carried him inside.
“Here, want to do something with this?” he asked. I ran upstairs for towels and spent the rest of the morning seated against the walk-in fire place in the kitchen. I held him as the ice melted, changing towels as they became soaked. Eventually I was able to comb his fur like feathers to remove more ice. It took hours of work. There was no struggle from the bird who was still partially frozen, exhausted from being near death, probably frightened and possibly even understanding that I was trying to help He smelled like chicken does when you get it in the package in the store, an odor I had never noticed on any of the birds before. It was chilling in more ways than one.
As he thawed he began to squirm and when I finally put him down on the kitchen floor he had regained his energy and his spirit. Chicken body language made it clear that he was ready to go back outside! As I opened the door I was a little concerned that the shock from warm to frigid would be too much for him but I needn’t have worried. This was one tough little bird!
There is a feeling of intense pleasure in knowing that an animal acknowledges your efforts. He did. From that time on he gave me his attention when I was outside. Seeing him running free, his tousled mop bouncing on his head as he ran toward me, warmed my heart.
Beethoven had another friend – a fluffy chicken that we called Mrs. B. They may not have formally tied the matrimonial knot but they eventually became inseparable, walking across the yard. Beethoven’s tail was long and skinny with a few fabulous long feathers flowing behind. Mrs. B’s hind end was enormous! She must have had millions of feathers on her sizeable girth. He was black and white, she was golden. Their differences may have been stirking but their adoration for each other was unquestionable. They were a lesson in acceptance and love.
When Beethoven died we buried him beneath the weeping willow tree The silhouette of the tree mirrored his cascading plumage. The tree’s weeping mirrored my tears and sorrow, even years later as I write this. I miss you sorely Beethoven.
When I was in grade school Dr. Gabriel, a geology professor at the school where my dad taught, gave me a suitcase. It was such a treasure to have an adult give me a suitcase! It made me feel so grown up! My entire life is in that suitcase - a drawing I did of the 3 bears when I was 4 years old, postcards from my trip to the New York World's Fair with my best friend, notes from school, newspaper clippings, post cards from zoos, the shore, photos of the girls as babies, grade school and through the adult years, journal entries, special cards, etc. We moved a lot when I was growing up and I carry very little with me from my childhood - a cameo ring worn smooth from my grandmother - it was worn smooth long before I got it - my dad's guitar, quilts from my grandmother and this suitcase.
I was looking for a poem that I wrote years ago, prompted by reflections on a lesson my dad taught me.
"In fifth grade we were formally introduced to poetry writing! I was thrilled and shared one of my poems with my Dad. He praised the originality appropriately but then made a comment that my “iambic pentameter was off”. I was insulted and not entirely convinced that he would recognize great poetry if he saw it! After an extensive search I found an obscure (I thought!) poem by William Shakespeare. I copied it – omitting Bill’s name – and handed it to my dad. He adjusted his glasses, began to read out loud – Where the bee sucks, there suck I” . . . A smile crept across his face and he handed the paper back to me, but without pause he continued - “ in a cowslip’s bell I lie . . .” and finished reciting the poem. Busted! Maybe in addition to teaching calculus he had learned a little about poetry along the way."
My dad inspired one poem that he never had the opportunity to read. He died of a heart attack when he was 46 years old. I wrote the poem through tears when I was 13. My iambic pentameter was off. Somehow I don’t think he’d mind.
Today I am reflecting on what I cherish and how to spend more time and energy on the people I value most.
thankful
amused
rushed
quixotic
refreshed
It was absolutely gorgeous here today - I spent all my time outside chasing autumn leaves - but I did take the camera. Today's art is courtesy of Mother Nature via a road side stand abundant with apples, pears, brussel sprouts still on the stalk, swiss chard, pumpkins, gourds and Indian corn.
rejuvenated
nostalgic