Travel With My Ego

I recently traveled to Houston, Texas for business. I did not want to go. It takes so much energy to travel against my will. Going was in my best career interest, so of course, I went. I kept a few notes, lest I forget what a great time I had for three whole days.

Notes On Direction: One of the worst things about flying - aside from the fear of falling six miles out of the sky in flames, or the impossibly tiny and odorous airplane toilets - is losing my innate sense of direction. What direction am I facing? I always need to know so I can have confidence to not get lost.

There is no hiding the hayseed trail I leave in the big city, so I do not even try. As I was careening through miles of residential Houston streets in the airport shuttle, literally at high noon, I did my best to get oriented. When I felt certain I knew what direction we were heading, I asked the driver if we were traveling south. "West!" he barked. They must be touchy about their directions in Texas or something.

Once I knew we were heading west, I tried to keep up. It was difficult with the curves and interstates and towering buildings faced at various angles. By the time I got to my hotel room (with a 15th floor view across the city of Houston), I felt I knew what direction I was facing, though.

A plains person always longs for a glimpse of the ocean. I strained my eyes toward the horizon as the plane neared Houston, hoping to catch a distant line of blue water. I did not know if the Gulf was too far to see even if the sky had been clear, but I kept trying, just in case. Maybe I could see a distant bank of clouds and know they were over the ocean.

From my hotel window, I scanned the distance for a tiny indication of the ocean. All Sunday afternoon and evening, I admired the view. I was confident I was looking southeast, toward Galveston and the sea. Even if I could see no sign of the water, I knew it was out there. I could feel it! I admired the slow descent of the sun over Houston all afternoon. The fact that it was setting in the east did not occur to me until the thin slip of moon appeared - the very same moon I had admired the night before as it sank behind the hills due west of my house in Kansas. What a dolt! I was so disappointed that I had a room facing northwest, back toward Ok-la-hom-a.

Notes On Communication: I had planned to purchase a toothbrush and toothpaste at the hotel in Houston. I knew there would be a little gift shop selling a few items of convenience but I did not know it would be CLOSED on Sunday afternoon!

I was also starving by the time I reached the hotel - airlines pretzels and peanuts notwithstanding. I had to eat in the lobby bar, alone, watching an infomercial on the widescreen. I asked the waitress if there was a convenience store or drug store close to the hotel, so I could get a toothbrush, among other things.

She said, "Oooooh, you forgot your toothbrush."

I said, "No, I didn't forget. I just did not want to bother with it through airport security."

She gave me a look, but assured me the hotel had toothbrushes for their guests who forgot their own.

What the hell, I thought. Was everyone in Houston a bunch of jerks?

Later it occurred to me that the waitress did not know I had an electric toothbrush. She must have thought I was daft.


Notes On Craziness:
I have a black knit dress made with spandex, so it is very comfortable to wear and impossible to wrinkle. I look as good in it as I do in anything. Even though it is black, it is surprisingly comfortable to wear in hot weather - perfect to wear on the plane to Houston. The problem is that I have not worn it for about a year because it needed a side seam sewn up. I got up at 4 am Sunday morning so I could mend the seam and wear it on the trip.

I wore that dress to Kansas City International Airport, walking all over, standing in line, bending over to pick up my bags. I wore that dress all over Houston's Hobby international airport. I got in and out of the airport shuttle. I walked all over the hotel lobby, visiting with the concierge and the waitress and the hostess. I wore that same dress Tuesday, visiting with the clerk in the gift shop who was from Ethiopia. I walked by the shoe shine man, exchanging pleasantries with him. I walked around the fourth largest American city for an entire morning wearing that dress.

Back in Kansas, I was late to work on Wednesday morning - jet lag. I threw that dress over my head with a clean shirt and tore off to work. A guy in the meter shop watched as I hurried across the parking lot in a pouring rain wearing that dress. As I finally made it to my desk and flopped down at last in my chair, dripping wet, I saw there was a GAPING hole in the front seam of that dress - which meant I had it on BACKWARDS - - - which meant - - - oh yes, boys and girls - - - the whole time I was wearing that dress in the airports and hotel and on the streets of Houston, Texas, the home of NASA, my ass was showing through that gaping seam. And I was clueless.

Harley Power Disks

Sunday, our friends who own and operate the Ramblin' Rose Cafe in Paxico, Kansas hosted the first Ramblin Scramblin Biker Breakfast. My daughter and I rode our motorcycles over, and the son-in-law met us there for breakfast. We ate a generous breakfast then hung around talking to other riders and an assortment of local folk. It was fun.

We also met with three of my daughter's friends. Steven and Tiffany own a big v-twin motorcycle, and David who rides a new Sportster.



Dave, my daughter, Tiffany, Steven

We struck up a conversation with Louis, a Paxico local, when he cruised by in his electric scooter. He admired all the bikes, with the exception of my daughter's Kawasaki, but he admired my daughter. Louis shared a bit about his biking glory days as a young man riding his Indian motorcycle to every state but Maine. He said he missed Maine by eight miles.

I told Louis he needed a Harley sticker for the back of his scooter. He was not sure but the VA might frown on that. Louis asked if he could ride my motorcycle, right out loud and in front of everyone. I was so shocked that I stuttered. He was just giving me a hard time.

If you have never had the great adventure of visiting Paxico, Kansas, it is a small town on the banks of Mill Creek. The business district consists of three blocks along perpendicular roads lined with mostly turn-of-the-last-century buildings hosting antique shops. There is a single stall open air car wash, and a tiny bank with some of the friendliest people in the world working there. Paxico holds a blues festival and a polka fest every year - two different weekend events. They also hold wiener dog races every fall. The local champion blazes past all competition, usually one or two other wiener dogs, to win the block-long race. There are some world class antiques in Paxico, but mostly there are tons of lesser antiques, items more accurately identified as simply "cool old stuff".

Making his usual rounds in his scooter, Louis found a set of cool old brass Harley Davidson drink coasters in one of the sidewalk displays Sunday morning. He surprised David and me by giving one to each of us in admiration of our Harleys. My daughter did not get one, since the machine she rides only resembles a Harley by technically being a motorcycle. Louis admitted he took the coasters without paying because the proprietor was not around. When David expressed dismay at accepting stolen goods, Louis assured us he would of course pay for the items. We accepted those gifts in good faith...

Soon enough, the five us of had decided on a route for our morning ride and left for Alma, down 99 highway en route to Eskridge, Kansas. That is always a beautiful ride, but with so much rain this year, the prairie was spectacularly green and lush, even mid-August. We stopped in Eskridge to while away a few pleasant moments. David explained the Harley coasters possessed special powers that could be triggered by holding them face to face. (I think David watches Power Rangers.) It was then that Steven dramatically revealed Louis had bestowed a Harley coaster on him, too!

Louis had to be convinced that Steven and Tiffany deserved a coaster despite the fact they were not riding a Harley. Tiffany used her feminine powers of persuasion, assuring Louis that although their motorcycle was not a Harley, it was a big v-twin and certainly a Harley in its heart. Louis could not resist and gave Steven and Tiffany a Harley power disk, too. We discovered the disks do indeed have special powers, turning five adults into laughing idiots.

Seeing if my mouth was as big as the coaster - it's bigger!

Louis kept a disk for himself. I suspect he is going to figure a way to attach it to his scooter. When we return next month for the Ramblin Scramblin Biker Breakfast, we will find out for sure if Louis paid for the Harley power disks.

I am also going to ask Louis how he missed Maine by eight miles.

MegaBrain the V Twin Superhero

Stop by and eat at the Ramblin Rose Cafe. Call ahead for hours. Tell'em I sent you!

Coming Home to the Flint Hills

When I left behind the concrete roads in town to live in the country, I escaped the constant noise, lights, and the troublesome intrusion of neighbors. I traded away some conveniences for peace and quiet. I left behind constant sirens and traffic and regular occurrences of property theft, but welcomed intimacy with the phases of the moon and an unobstructed view of the sky.

When I first moved to Spirit Creek Farm, there were no rural road signs at every intersection. My address was a mere route box number. I loved it. After turning off the highway, for almost five full miles of road, there was nothing man-made to reflect the truck lights in the dark. It seemed as if the headlights were not bright enough but it was just miles of natural surroundings absorbing the light.

Noticing the way the prairie reaches unevenly into the edge of the gravel road was a small and constant delight. Nothing was a straight line, not even the fences. The soil moves constantly, slowly pushing the fence posts out of alignment. The cattle rub and lean on the wire in their quest for the proverbial greener grass, and the prairie constantly encroaches on the road. Nature abhors a vacuum.

Even the road itself is natural, being only dust and gravel that constantly shifts with the rain and baking heat and the cursed attention of the road grader. A deluge of rain will sculpt the gravel into ruts and wide washes, and melt the shoulders into the ditches.

For several seasons Venus was particularly prominent in the winter western sky. Her brilliant silver disc reigned just above the lowering final glow of sunset. Descending into my valley hidden in the rising night, only a skyline of hills was visible. The flaming point of Venus against the deep orange and violet of sunset was immensely beautiful. I often stopped for a few transcendent moments. The deep shadows of twilight hid every trace of anything man-made, revealing the entire vista as the living memory of the prairie as it existed in millions of untouched seasons - long before human eyes witnessed its grace. Oh, it was beautiful.

It is beautiful.

More Amazing Stuff....

Amazing thing #1: My daughter and I recently began attending a meditation class held in a private home just a few miles from my house. The woman holding the classes has at least one teacher who studied directly with the Dali Lama. Imagine the significance of a spiritual teacher from Tibet whose influence extends all the way to Wabaunsee County Kansas.

Amazing things #2 and #3: One of my favorite authors has long been Doug Boyd. He wrote Rolling Thunder, Swami, Mad Bear, Mystics Magicians and Medicine People - all biographical, non-fiction books. Rolling Thunder was a Shoshone/Cherokee medicine man. Mad Bear Anderson was a Tuscarora shaman. The Swami came to America to participate in scientific research into his amazing capabilities. The studies took place at the Menninger Institute, a pioneering psychiatric hospital and research center located in Topeka.

Doug Boyd's parents were Elmer and Alyce Green. Dr. Green was the former Director of the Voluntary Controls project at the Menninger Institute. He and Alyce were pioneers in the field of biofeedback, co-authoring the book "Beyond Biofeedback".

At the first meditation class I discovered the teacher and her husband were close personal friends of Doug Boyd. They both knew (and know) Dr. and Alyce Green. Through the teacher I was able to purchase Dr. Green's latest book "The Ozawkie Book of the Dead". It is an autobiographical account of the final years of Alyce's life afflicted with Alzheimers, and Elmer's extraordinary experience and conclusions.

I would not go to the universe, so the universe came to me, so to speak.

Amazing!

All Roosters But One...

Saturday morning I hauled all the boy chickens, except Evil Rooster, off to a swap meet in Topeka. I was really sad, I have to say. All the little roosters that Mrs. Peckins patiently hatched this summer were so cute. Once they lost all their baby fuzz, they were just like little boys on the playground, pushing one another around, bumping chests, and messing around instead of paying attention.

Of the ten surviving chicks, six were roosters, so I had to do something. The Silver Sebright rooster also went. He was the meanest of the babies, even whipping up on everyone else in the cage, so he had to go in his own cage.

I did not think anyone would want any of the boys except maybe the Sebright, but I was wrong. There was a lot of interest immediately. Several men asked me what I wanted for the roosters. I had no idea what to ask, so I said, "Make me an offer."

Men are strange about wheeling and dealing. It is some form of ritual and there are rules my XX genes simply are not coded to unravel. No one would make me an offer immediately.

Within ten minutes a woman and two girls purchased the Silver Sebright rooster. I think he went to a good home. The woman sells chickens and her young daughters are a big part of caring for the chickens. She gave me her card. I felt alright letting the rooster go off in the arms of a young girl. I held him one last time in farewell, but he is not the sentimental type whatsoever.

Several more men came by and asked what I wanted for the Porcelain D'Uccle roosters, who are about the size of robins now. Finally, one young man offered me fifty cents apiece for all of them. I am sure I am totally ignorant, and innocent, but I did ask him if he had fighting roosters. If he did, I assured him, it was none of my business and I was not judging, only that I could not allow my chicks to go to such an end. He assured me he did not fight roosters but sold many chickens to 4-H kids. I hope that is true.

He scooped up four of the babies, remarking how tame they were. I took the other two in my hands and we walked to his vehicle where he was selling a variety of poultry and fowl. When we got there, there was an aquarium of SNAKES for sale! The guy quickly assured me the snakes were not his. Oh great - another bad end I had not considered!

Sold out, I was packing up a mere 20 minutes after I had arrived when a couple came by, disappointed that all the little roo's were gone. We chatted for a few minutes and they seemed like nice people. I said they could surely get some of my roosters from the guy who had bought them all from me. After they walked away, it dawned on me that I could give Evil (formerly known as Elvis) to them! It was too late by the time I caught up with them. They had already bought one of my little guys - for $1, I might add.

Even though they had already purchased one of the little roosters, we talked for some time and I felt that they would give Evil a good chicken home on a farm belonging to the man's parents. He was sure his parents would greatly enjoy having a rooster named Elvis. As they walked away, I couldn't resist, and in my best Elvis voice, I said, "Thank you. Thank you very much!"

It was agreed that I would bring Evil to them the next day. But when I got home, I spent a lot of time watching the chickens. Even though Evil and I do not get along, I admire his roosterly bravery, especially in such a tiny little body. He is a gentleman with all of his ladies, and does not peck his children. He struts around crowing all day in the short grass and the gravel of the driveway, keeping an eye on things, while his wives and children scatter in the tall grass to feast on worms, grubs, seeds and insects. If he and a hen or a peep go for the same bug or morsel of food, Evil always defers to the hen or the chick. He is a real father, a warrior.

He is not as flamboyant as the little red cochin roosters were, nor as vocal. There is nothing comical about him the way there was with Big Man. I have never felt much affection for him as an adult rooster, but ultimately I could not take Evil away from his home and his flock. It will not be hard to impose birth control now - just gather the eggs daily (and eat them) and there will be no more problem of too many roosters.

The swap meet was fun, but I drove about fifty miles round trip. I sold a $13 rooster for $5, and had to hand that $5 over as a vendor fee. I sold the six peeps for $3 and bought three day-old guineas for $7.50. $17.50 in the red, not counting gas. I am such a wheeler dealer!

When the Hen is Finished Raising the Chicks

It has been fun this summer to observe my little chicken flock, Mrs Peckins in particular, who hatched the first brood of baby chicks. Mrs. P's patience and perseverance was impressive. She sat on the nest for such a long time but the eggs did not hatch. When I took her off that nest for good, she could not walk very far without resting. Evil Rooster stood over her gallantly. That chivalry softened my heart toward him, the evil little bird that attacks me every chance he can.

Once the babies hatched, I kept the hen and chicks separate from the rest of the flock for about a week. Mrs Peckins is not a high ranking hen, and I was afraid the others would abuse her or the chicks, but I need not have worried. She was all business and no one was allowed to mess with her peeps!

She shepherded her little brood about, clucking and murmuring to them, calling them to eat and bringing them to the water. After the sad accident of one of the chicks drowning in Duke's water bowl, Mrs Peckins did not bring her babies around that bowl again - at least I never saw her do so.

She knew to lead her babies into the chicken coop at night well before the bossy hens came in, thus insuring her family had a warm, safe nest every night.

The babies followed her about for many days, never straying far from her protective wings. In a flash, they would all run to her if some signal of danger was given. Though one of the other hens tried desperately to adopt some of the peeps as her own, the babies all knew Mrs Peckins was their mother and did what she ordered.

Everything was as usual one particular morning when I opened the chicken pen. The babies spilled out along with Mrs Peckins as they scurried out into the grass for bugs and other goodies. I went up to the barn and worked for a couple of hours. When I came back, the babies were no where to be seen. Not one tiny little white fluff was in sight. I panicked. Some horrible predator must have eaten them all, like so many little fluffly chicken McNuggets! I ran around searching for any survivor. At last, on the far western side of the yard, there were the peeps, in a little flock of their own, busy with their chicken business. Just like that - they were no longer Mrs. Peckins' responsibility. After that day they were on their own.

The other hens would peck at the babies for getting too close to them at feeding time. Mrs Peckins did not peck her babies until they were all fully out of their baby fluff, and then she began to peck them, too. If they had not gotten the message that they were on their own, she helped them with a well-aimed peck right on their little backs. Peck! Squawk! - and a baby would go skittering away. I never saw Mrs. Peckins ever peck one of her babies more than once. It only takes once and a chicken knows it needs to straighten up and fly right, apparently.

I was thinking about this natural order of leaving the nest the other day when my son called with another life emergency. I should have been pecking him a long time ago:

"Mom, I wrecked my car." PECK!

"Mom, I needed a 2.50 GPA to get off academic probation, but I ended up with a 2.25!" PECK!

"Mom, I left the keys in my car and it was stolen." PECK!

"Mom, I am in jail for Disorderly Conduct." PECK PECK PECK PECK PECK PECK PECK PECK ....

Suffering In the Heartland

Today, at almost ten o'clock in the morning, the temperature is only sixty eight degrees, even though the sun is shining from a cloudless sky. It is "human being" weather. Perfect summer weather for me and my old dog, Duke. Not too hot. In fact, it is not hot at all. It is beautiful. So naturally, I am sitting indoors writing on the computer.

Usually on this date in Kansas, a person can not breathe from the hot humidity suffocating everything in a moist blanket of suffering. The older I get, the less I can tolerate it. Same goes for Duke. In an effort to help ease his suffering through the typical ungodly Kansas heat and humidity horrors this year, I had him professionally shaved. Dropping him at the vet's I carelessly said "Do not shave his legs, since he runs through the tall grass."

Will I ever learn that careless speech leads to catastrophes?

When I returned for Duke, I was met with a miscarriage of responsible pet ownership that brought tears to my eyes. Duke's normally thick, beautiful coat of Chow/German Shepherd genes had been reduced to the same stubble left on a new Marine's head. His flabby old belly was exposed. His wrinkled neck seemed too vulnerable for such a good old dog. Worst of all, he had been given a poodle cut! The thick silky fur on his shoulders and hips had been left in place, giving him the look of a silly city dog with no common sense. All I could think to say to this poor animal was "I am so, so sorry!"

He looks horrible and it is all my fault. I know he is far more comfortable without that smothering dog fur that keeps him perfectly comfortable in the snow and ice of January. But he looks so silly, even the chickens do not give him a lick of respect.



I know precisely how he feels. When my mother remarried, I had to move to Wichita and go to a new school. I was doing okay until my aunt graduated barber school. My aunt and my mother forced me into getting a haircut - a "pixie" haircut. The shoulder length hair that I had valiantly defended against my mother's constant assaults, fell in long strands from my aunt's shiny new scissors. When I looked in the mirror, I knew the entire rest of sixth grade was going to go so very, very badly for me. My bangs were a mere 1/2 inch, emphasizing my high forehead. I was almost bald. No one can wear a hat in school, or a head band, or a scarf. You just have to go, pink ears shining, white forehead beaming, humiliation complete.

A moment of silence for the abject abuse suffered by me that year... and another moment for the Dukester. Cruelly, a humiliated heart continues to beat....