ingrid

We named her Eva and she is about the cutest thing ever.

Eva is a modern game hen, which means she is tiny, long-legged, and super friendly.  Here is a comparison photo so you can see how she measures up in our backyard—

This is not a fantastic photo of course, but you can see the stark contrast between Eva and the other monsters around here.  She’s the one who looks like a little crow.  She’s small.

And I got her at church!  After church I usually have a lot of “business” to do—volunteer positions that I have stepped into, people dying and needing attending to, babies to rejoice over, music to learn, friends to chat with or arrange dates with, kids to plan activities for—that sort of thing.  This means that I stick around for awhile chatting while my kids run like dervishes through the community center.  While hanging out, I was approached by a homeless man looking for a bathroom.  When I pointed him towards one, I noticed that he had a CHICKEN poking out of his pocket.

ME  ”Hey!  Tell me about your chicken!”

HIM  ”I got her out on Alberta Street.  I had to chase her all over the place but she is the sweetest thing now.”

ME  ”What’s your plan for that chicken?”

HIM  ”Uuuuuhhhh, I guess take care of her.  She’s so nice!”

ME  ”You know, I have chickens and could take her home and take care of her if you wanted to part with her.”

HIM  ”Oh.  Could you kick me some change for her?”

And so we walked home, Eva snuggled safely in Francis’ coat the whole way.  Poor Eva smelled strongly of alcohol but I knew she would dry up once in our flock.

I’ve got to say, I REALLY like this chicken a lot.  When I walk outside, she jumps up on my shoulder.  If I am sitting still, she snuggles into my lap.  She puts our numbers over our permit limit, her breed are not particularly great layers, and she would make a really quick lunch for a passing hawk, but she is the sweetest thing.  And that was not just the alcohol talking.

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I love my chickens.  Well, of course I do, right?  But unlike horsey people who are always professing how SMART horses really are, I am under no similar delusions.  Chickens are kind of stupid.  They have teeny-tiny brains to match their teeny-tiny heads.  Despite this, or maybe because of this, I feel benevolent towards them.  Like a class of retarded young adults on the city bus, they remain charming even while freaking out.  I forgive them when they peck my toenail polish thinking it is a treat.  I forgive them for shitting on my welcome mat at the back door.  They are forgiven all sorts of poor behavior because of their quintessential ludicrous chicken nature.

The other day I was working in the yard when the chickens suddenly bocked-pocked-fwocked (credit to Big Chickens by Leslie Helakowski) and took off for the henhouse.  I saw nothing alarming.  ”Those silly birds!” I thought.  ”They must wear themselves out being so skittish all day.”  Much later in the day, I spotted it.

A good distance away at 9 o’clock was this dude:

I couldn’t get a good shot at him from so far off, but he is probably a coopers hawk.  Maybe they aren’t so dumb?  Nah….

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I spent my free time today trying to figure out how to hang up the ceramic heads in the bathroom.  This involved math.  Math that I find I am still not so great at.  Fortunately I have learned to measure thrice and drill once… or twice.  Okay, so I mis-drilled in one spot, but I figure I can fix that eventually with some spackle, right?  The spot would have been fine if only there was a stud behind there like I remembered.  (Where did that stud go?  Where?)

It made me think about how some math is really taught all wrong.  It would be useful to have math like this:

You had a very beautiful and expensive remodel done in your bathroom.  Now you find that you need to add towel hooks.  The wall space measures 31 3/4.  If you are trying to hang three hooks equidistance a part in this space, where will the first hook hang?  Give the measurement that marks the center of the hook, which measures 4 1/2 inches wide.

Why am I doing this job?  The truth is that I’ve been played by my contractor.  He is smart and I am not.  I showed my hand too readily, eager to show off—I asked what type of cordless drill I should buy, I made small talk about hardware places I had been in town, I told stories about cabinetry work I did with my dad.  In short, I tried to be cool and competent, so at the point where he said, “You can totally handle hanging those heads, right?”, I was stuck.  And I thought, “Yes I COULD handle doing it, but I sure don’t want to.  That will truly take me forever.  Forever.” But what did I say?  ”Oh yeah.  I think I can manage.”  Eager to impress handy men, I really overstate my skills.  A good looking man with a hammer will get me every time.

He could have done this in an hour tops, and here I am going on trip two to the hardware store and month two after the finish date for the remodel.  And so I drill.  I break bits.  I strip screws.  But I think I just might make it.  I’ll let you know next month when I finally finish this damn thing.

I need to put two more of these under the window sill. The plan is that next I will slather the spindle part with epoxy and then attach the ceramic heads to that. I then have decorative screws that I will CAREFULLY put in to further attach the heads to the wall.

1 Comment | In: Defies Categorization, Projects That I Do With My Clever Little Fingers | | #

Those of you who know me well know what an amazing addition the St Andrew Gospel Choir has been to my life.  It is rare that something you have to do regularly (like a meeting) can so thoroughly nurture the soul.  Once having kids, I sort of shunned these more regular events, but gospel choir has been nothing but good to me.  Sometimes I go to practice feeling sort of downtrodden and tired, but it never takes long before I am smiling and belting out the tunes.  The whole thing is truly cathartic.  I love it.

We’re doing a concert on Saturday.  It is a sort of rare thing, so if you can at all make it, please do!

Gospel concert flyer half page

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It is always an adventure welcoming these kids into your life.  A birthday for a little one is almost more of a marker for the parents than for the child.  Zephyr is thrilled with his new presents while I am reflecting on the last few years and getting accustomed to this new person in my life.  

I was afraid to have a boy.  I didn’t know anything about boys and wasn’t sure how I would mesh with a little man in my life.  I didn’t have any brothers to reflect on, and I worried about the (pardon me here, but there is no better phrase!) assholes in the world, who generally seemed of the male persuasion.  How do I keep a son from becoming one?  

All these worries seem to be for naught though.  Zephyr is nothing if not sweet, and like his name, is a soft and gentle wind in my life.  He is indeed a capable little person, but is also kind and silly, amiable and easy-going.  He falls down a lot, he smiles really big, he is loving and a great nap partner.

Here are some of my photographic memories of these last 3 years:

Zephyr was born at Alma Midwifery Birth Center in Portland.  It took forever.  At the beginning of the labor, I could hear another woman laboring next door, screaming a bit, throwing up a bit, and I felt cocky and overly confident.  ”That won’t be ME!”.  The midwives said the other woman was a first time mother, so I thought of myself as a pro.  ”You’ll have this kid by lunch time.”  Sort of.  Labor was excruciating.  Zephyr had about a 4 inch umbilical cord and slowly ripped it off the uterine wall during labor.  It was a blood bath.  Not pretty, but at the end all was good.  Brad was in shock and remained full of tears and horror for a bit, but once I saw this smooshed little red face, I was instantly comforted and in love.  He was fat and strong and vigorous, everything you look for in a baby!

Zephyr was the easiest baby.  At six months he was a good sleeper, flexible, funny, somewhat self-entertaining…. really the easiest kid.  

Zephyr had an awesome sleep schedule, which largely continues to this day.  The kid is out by 7pm and sleeps like a champ until 7am.  Round about noon or so, he can sleep another 3 hours.  I love it.  Zephyr became my number one nap partner.
At one, Zephyr is a chunky little smiley kid.  He loves to be around his sister and her preschool class.  He races to play with the toys and just be with the big kids.  He has an infectious giggle.  He starts scrunching his nose as he smiles.  He is not very coordinated.  He is slow to learn to walk and once he does, he starts a two year campaign of falling.  People in our neighborhood or at school say, “That kid NEVER cries!”, which is not quite true, but almost.

At two Zephyr has become a bit more introspective (although he still flings himself headlong into dangerous situations).  He slims out, although it is hard to believe what with that strawberry shortcake his parents keep feeding him!  He is charming and sweet and fairly cooperative.  He is kind to his sister, talkative, shows great rhythmic abilities with the drums, and can sing any song back after hearing it only once.  He still falls a lot.

And that brings us to this week.  Zephyr turned three (yesterday).  We woke up early to do a birthday breakfast as it seemed that Brad would have to work late.  6am had us opening presents and eating the food that Zephyr likes best— a puffed oven pancake.  

At three Zephyr is interested in being with “the pack”.  He is an independent kid, not too worried about being away from mom and dad as long as Francis and Dog are nearby.  He is finally a better walker and can even run for a bit, but he is somewhat sedentary by nature.  He likes to ride in the car and never seems tired of sitting in his car seat.  He also likes to sit and “read” books by himself.  He likes music a lot and can entertain himself for a long time with playing drums or piano.  He still has an impressive command of lyrics.  He loves pointing out flowers, especially flowering plums which he calls “the purple ones!”.  He is still a good napper and has become cooperative enough about napping that he can even put himself to bed.  He is finally out of diapers!  (Thank the LORD!), and he can mostly dress himself.  I think he is smart, although his reasoning skills are a bit immature.  He is social and charming.  He loves going to religion class once a week (Atrium), and also accompanying his older sister on her many outings.  Zephyr is kind with his siblings and gentle with babies.  He is enthusiastic about his baby sister Inez.

It has been a very good year.

9 Comments | In: Defies Categorization, family, My super freakin' cute kids | | #

Bet you are all wondering  how Hildy is getting along…

Well, things have calmed down.  You know that phrase “pecking order”?  I never really understood it until watching my flock adjust to a new member.  As you know, we added Hildy to our flock shortly before Christmas.  At the time, I had been working with the idea that if you added a chicken to the henhouse in the middle of the night, the bird would wake up with her and think she had been there all along.  I got that from a novel, and it turns out that the idea is fiction.

Hildy was harassed from the start.  Pecked, jumped, feather-rippin’ meanness! The worst perpetrator was Rosey, a small chicken who had never seemed overly aggressive before.  Rosey went after Hildy with such vigor that I had to race out to the henhouse in the morning to let the chickens out so that Hildy had some room to GET AWAY from Rosey.  I think it might have been because Rosey was already at the bottom and wanted to make it frickin’ clear that she did not intend to stay there.  Oh dear.

After reading around a bit about flock integration, I found the theory that you must introduce the new member to your flock with supervision.  The idea is that the flock has a pecking order and YOU are at the top.  You are like the rooster or chicken god or something and you must show approval for your new baby.  What this meant was standing out in the yard near Hildy and shooing away the aggressors with firm “No!” and maybe a feigned kick.  Did it work?  Uhmmmm sort of.

Pecking order decides who gets what first.  It is a strange thing too as in my flock, Atilla is now the largest AND she gets the first choice for food.  Isn’t that symbolism for the world?  The strongest who need the least get the most.  That makes Atilla a nasty American.  When I bring treats to the backyard, she stands nearest to me.  Then Agnes, then Rosey, and then poor Hildy sort of circles and darts in to grab what she can.  Here is a picture that shows their usual formation:

 As you can see, Atilla keeps Agnes close by her.  Rosey (with her butt to us) is next nearest.  Hildy is just watching Rosey to see what will happen.  Will she be able to eat some corn or will she just get jumped again?

I try to thwart this problem by spreading two piles of corn.  Then at least Hildy can have a better opportunity to find something.

This is what happens when she gets too close to me, the Chicken Goddess who bears chickeny treats:

I know it is blurry, but you get the idea.  Atilla is putting Hildy in her place… again.  I feel so guilty for bringing Hildy into a violent environment, but I guess it is the way of nature.

It has improved.  Hildy is only harassed when there is food involved.  Other than that, she seems to enjoy relative peace and belonging in the flock.  They all peck around next to each other during the day.  She doesn’t seem too traumatized.  

And I do think that Hildy is basically happy.

She is a lovely and sweet chicken.  She is very gentle, as well as beautiful, so in a medieval world, she is the perfect princess.

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My heart is full of joy today.  

Zephyr and Inez and I just returned from a very moving inauguration party at a local coffeehouse.  I didn’t expect many people to be there as it was an 8:30am party, but the place was packed with smiling faces, listening rapt to our very eloquent and gracious PRESIDENT.  How proud I was to hear his speech, to hear his intelligent message to our country and the world.  When he finished speaking, the crowd at the cafe joined in a rousing national anthem.  Here we were, miles away from where President Obama was sworn in and people were singing and dancing.  

Thank you Dr. MLK jr.  Thank you Fredrick Douglass.  Thank you John Lewis.  Thank you Susan B. Anthony and Sojourner Truth.  Thank you Cesar Chavez.  Thank you everyone who works for justice wherever injustice is found.  

What a proud day to be American.

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Get it? Get it?
I guess a joke is no good if you have to explain it.
We’re taking off for Brad and my parents’ places, so we have a whole raft of stuff to do, as well as trying to fit all our crap and all the Christmas presents in our tiny Japanese car. It’ll be a challenge.
We’ll be gone for a good week or so, in a land that high speed internet forgot, so you won’t hear from me for a bit. In case you are interested, now is the time to rob our house. There isn’t much here though. And please check on the chickens while you are carting off my mannequin, plastic bags of old clay, and vintage hat collection. I have a kid feeding them, but the guy is only 10 and might forget.

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Clementine & Mohammed's courthouse wedding

This week.  I swear, forces that be were trying to kill me.  I got sick, like really, really ill with a viral infection.  Then “the weather” descended on us, socking us in with inches of snow even in urban Portland, and Francis was home from school and looking for me to entertain her all day long.  The courthouse wedding happened Wednesday, quickly followed by a Gospel choir practice.  I raced from place to place, trying to smile, trying to have a good attitude, but mostly just wanting the week to hurry up and pass!

Wednesday’s courthouse wedding was a bright spot for us, as it was simple, lovely, and we had very little to do to make it happen.  Mohammed and Clementine were happy, although Brad and I had the sense that they wondered why all the Americans were making such a big deal out of this ceremony.  Bantus just have a party and call that “the wedding”.  All this paperwork and such didn’t mean much to them!  After the service, Mohammed caught a ride back to Seattle to complete his training for a new forklift job.  When Clementine was asked if she was going with him, she replied, “No, why should I?”.  To Clementine and the Bantus, maybe they weren’t really married yet?!  The next day at our house, everyone seemed exactly as they had the day before:

But not for long!  Saturday came with gale force winds, a few inches of snow and ice.  We thought the weather was bad before, but we hadn’t seen anything compared to this!  Calls started filtering in either saying that they wouldn’t be able to make it or asking if the event was still on.  I had never seen such a storm in the city.  I actually don’t remember such snow since 1996 when I lived in Toronto.  But this is Portland!  It is mild as the day is long!

“The girls” showed up at about 11am and commenced to wait around.  The girls were like Clementine’s entourage of unmarried friends, but as she is “older” for Bantu marriages (almost 21!  Gasp!), these girls weren’t really her actual peers.  She seemed to find them remotely irritating, (which I related to even as I was struggling to be open to this different culture).  I guess waiting around was sort of expected as no one seemed too surprised.  Did I mention that Clementine was gone during all this?  She was off getting her hair done professionally for the first time, as feat that I would have loved to see myself.

What can I say about the girls without sounding like a jerk?  Not much I guess, but I guess it is valuable to reflect on your interactions and assumptions when dealing with another culture.  The girls are teenagers, so they didn’t interact with me willingly unless they needed something.  That is not so different from some American teenagers, but I still struggle with my newfound identity of “old person” that I have gained in the African community.  Mohammed and his people need to have some context for Clementine living in our household, and they can only seem to conceive of me as “Clementine’s Mom”, which is just SOOOO NOT ME!  Come on people!  I am young and hip (right?).  I guess for the purpose of the wedding, they need a “mom”, so that is me.  (As a side note, Clementine HAS a mom who lives in Burundi.  Clementine hasn’t seen her since she was 8 years old as they were separated during the war in Congo in 1996, but as this woman actually birthed her and nursed her and fed her, THAT woman deserves the title of “Mom” of this lovely young bride.)

Anyway, My sister pointed out that the Somali Bantus are some of the most tribal of Africans, and have limited interactions with Americans or people of other cultures.  I had noticed that Mohammed and his family don’t eat different foods or try new things.  They don’t come with the same Pan-African experience that someone like Clementine has.  She is Congolese, but has lived in Zambia, interacts with Burundians, Ugandans, listens to music from across Africa (and other places in the world too). ” The girls” were hard to read sometimes.  At one point, they stood around the stove starring with visible disgust at what I was cooking.  They were also impressed and shocked at the natural gas stove.  ”How do you do that?” one girl asked me.  They brought their own food in one big bowl which they plunked down on the floor in the kitchen and crouched around eating it with their hands.  Even though they did not want to touch my food, they are open to some recognizable sweets.  Everyone was amazed with my chocolate chip cookies.  ”Can you teach me to make these?” a girl asked.  I chuckled thinking of how I dutifully followed the recipe on the chocolate chip bag…  I am just NOT a baker.

The one charmer was Amina, the littlest girl.  Brad took her sledding with Francis and Zephyr in the morning and she was super cute.  She also helped out a lot with Inez, bringing her to me when she was hungry or needing attention.

The evening came on and we realized that the weather was really a lot worse than we had thought.  Drifts of snow had formed around our car and more was coming down all the time.  My parents were stuck in Sheridan and unable to make the punch or bring the coffee supplies that they had volunteered to take care of.  It was miserable out!

Adding to this, we suddenly had no plan for what to do with the kids when they got tired at the reception.  My parents had been our plan, and suddenly we were on our own.  Luckily Francis and Zephyr had napped adequately that day.  I proposed to Brad that we just keep them there all night.  He didn’t like that idea much as he was already crafting a way to escape the party.  We packed some blankets to try to make the best of it.

We rushed off to the wedding really early as we didn’t know how long it would take to traverse the 8 or so miles to St Johns.  We also needed to stop for punch and coffee supplies and make the drinks once we got there.  

Here is the problem with being me:  I take my responsibilities really seriously.  I internalize them, wanting to do a good job and I define that good job as doing my very, very best.  Sometimes no one cares though, and at those moments, I would be smart to shake off the worry and anxiety that I have put on myself.  I struggle with this though.

I got to the community center.  No one was there.  I was freaked out about making the punch, but there was no punch bowl or cups.  I was freaked out about organizing the tables, but the people with the table cloths weren’t there yet.  I bossed Brad around about the tables until about 20 young men descended upon us and moved everything we had carefully argued about!  They were friends of the groom, or maybe just friends of the DJ, but all of a sudden, the room was a whirl of masculine energy, barking orders (or maybe just talking?) in Somali, moving tables here and there, whisking my coffee table right out from under me to put to service as the DJ table.  ”These guys have a plan,” Brad said.  ”I can feel it”.

And they did.  I told them that I needed to figure out where the punch and cake went.  ”No no no!  We bring out the cake at about midnight and then put it in the middle…”  Woa!  This party was not going until midnight, a detail that the boys seemed in complete denial of.  Plan or no, these boys were there to DANCE, which they started doing immediately.  After their perfunctory moving of tables, they settled in to get down for the rest of the evening with immense enthusiasm.  It was sort of charming, even though I was annoyed as hell trying to find a new home for the coffee maker.

So there we were…. us and 20 boys, no wedding party in sight, no table cloths, no punchbowls, no nothing to do.  I was way stressed out with “my duties” and yet had no way to execute them.  And no one cared.  They just wanted to dance.  Man, I just needed to shake it all off!

The other thing about the boys is that they play their music at a truly skull-busting level.  I don’t think it is just because I am old.  I mean, I love to listen to live music.  I love the crowds, I love the bass pounding through your body and shaking your internal organs.  I can handle loud music, but this was ridiculous.  I worried for my children.  I worried for the lack of fun that we would have if this decibel continued.  I worried.  And fretted about the stupid punchbowl.  In short, I wasn’t having much fun.

Finally, the rental stuff showed up, but the punchbowl was missing.  No matter.  At this point I had actually worked through my emotional freak out and had accepted that nothing this evening was goin to go as planned.  The bride showed up about 5 seconds after the table cloths and flowers were thrown on the table.  Here is the grand entrance:

Francis leads the way as a flower girl

You know how I said that the Bantus consider what we westerners would call a reception, actually a wedding?  Their ritual part is this walking in procession.  They do this two or three times during the party, with the bride and girls changing outfits for each walk.  There is also a sort of circle dance where I was led up to hold hands with Clementine and we just sort of bop back and forth.

Mohammed's brother is upfront with two of the girls

You can sort of see Clementine in this picture.  She has awesome hair and a gold headdress thing.

Clementine and Mohammed are seated at a head table

She looked lovely of course.  Mohammed looked handsome too!  Francis was thrilled with her important job of walking in next to Clementine.

Not much to say about the rest of the party.  We struggled with a variety of inter-cultural communication issues (the other women on Clementine’s side of the “family” dug about 30-40 metal forks out of the trash where party goers threw them.  Why?  I don’t know.  The boys threw away a bunch of sparkling water as “there was something wrong with it”).  A adult friend of Clementine’s harassed the boys every time they turned up the music, so thankfully, it stayed at a mostly sane level.  She marched right up there each time it snuck up!  Awesome!

I did start to have fun at a certain point, but it was an exhausted, over-extended, sick-of-all-of-this, sort of fun.  I wanted to go home, but I also wanted to be there for Clementine.  I wanted to be responsible and helpful, but I also wanted to hide.  I wanted to be understanding and culturally sensitive, but I also wanted people to quit throwing forks in the damn garbage can.

In short, this event really stretched me.  But it is done!  Wooo hoo!

I wish I could show off my dress better...

Clementine is now gone and the house is quiet.  Thank God it is all over.  Thank God for this life.

2 Comments | In: Current musings, Defies Categorization, family, General bitchin' | | #

This morning I looked outside at the chicken run to see a very skinny bird sitting on a roost and struggling against the wire.  At first I thought it was one of our chickens half plucked.  Then I realized to my horror that it was a small hawk, INSIDE the chicken run!  

I threw my boots on over my pajamas, rushed out there, grabbed a rake, and opened the door, (how did that guy get in?).  He was easy to pin against the wall with the rake.  Brad was right behind me, and I yelled for him to get the camera, but we missed our shot.  The hawk wiggled out around the rake and flew out the open door.  If I had been brave enough to pick  him up, I could have had an awesome picture.  Or I could have lost a finger I guess.

Man, I am so sick of predators.  Even though this guy was little (about the size of a really big pigeon), I imagine that he might have been able to wound a chicken.  The M.O. of these Cooper’s Hawks is to run chickens into brush, trap them there and stab them with their talons.  Yeech!

In other news, it is snowing here.  Super pretty.  My chickens seem a bit cold, and even though they looked at me with despair, I am keeping them IN today.  No free ranging when the predators are about.

1 Comment | In: Defies Categorization | | #