Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Rich As Midas, Rich As A Rockefeller
Look at that handsome boy. I love the way the feathers on his breast make an almost netting effect. He is moulting, as all of the chickens are, and I find his tail feathers everywhere and they are things of beauty, black and green, iridescent and shimmering in the light, curved and shaped so nicely.
Town was fine. The stupid doody-head Costco wasn't sampling one damn thing. Not even one damn thing I didn't want. (Bottled smoothie- ick.) I had to run down the aisles and do 360's and crazy zig-zags to keep Owen happy in the cart. "More," he'd say, "More running," and I thought, Jesus, here I am, a grandmother in a long skirt, running down the aisles of the Costco.
When we went out to lunch, whenever someone would come by to ask if everything was all right, Owen would look up and say, "No," which cracked me up. One time the waitress asked if we needed anything and he said, "Chicken." I think his quesadilla needed a refill.
I also went to Publix. I am rich now. I have toilet paper galore and new shaving cream and a new bar of soap and a new toothbrush and frozen baby peas and cucumbers and red and orange peppers and organic sweet potatoes and apples and peaches and a chicken to roast and Viva Pick-A-Size paper towels. I have a lot of other stuff, too. In short- I am rich. I am also rich in that my sheets will be clean tonight. And that I have four fresh eggs, two of them in my pocket as we speak.
I saved two tiny lizards who were drowning in a bottle where I had rooted a plant. They were swimming and did not look as if they would have lasted for long. A teapot's tempest is as big as one in the Pacific if you are only an inch and a half long. This may be something we need to remember when we think that someone is throwing a fit for no reason. They may be only an inch and a half long and are treading water in a sea made in a green bottle with a thin neck and walls too curved to climb. It can happen. I know.
Well. I have those sweet potatoes in the oven. Mr. Moon is just pulling in the drive. It is a Wednesday evening and the hurricane lilies are opening up.
It is as dry as a bone here, dry like an old woman's parched and wrinkled skin. Dry like an old woman's crackly voice as she tells her grandson the nap story and he falls asleep as her hand traces his back so softly. Dry as the sheets I am about to put on the bed.
I am washing the chicken waterer. It is so dry and the chickens can go without food but not without water. I intend that my chickens shall go without neither. Something has died by the pump house. It smells bad and when I walk by it, my nose crinkles up. Death has a smell like nothing else. So does water, and lizards who are thirsty may find themselves drowning when they only wanted a drop or two.
I am rich. I have toilet paper. I am insanely rich. I have rolls to spare. And a bar of lemon verbena soap. And a rooster of white and black and red.
I am so rich. And I know it.