I Should Be Paying Attention

Every morning I let the chicken flock out of the pen so they can free range, eating insects, plants, lizards, and anything else good their investigations might uncover. Chickens are an industrious nation, and straightforward in all their dealings. They set excellent personal boundaries. If someone less intelligent, less attractive (or less in any way) gets too close, a well aimed peck restores social order immediately with no hard feelings.

Chickens expect to live according to their consideration for natural rhythms. At first light, they immediately begin their commerce. As the day fades, they slowly gather about their pen for final scratchings, then peacefully go to roost.

Friday afternoon I was leaving for an overnight trip and I needed to leave well before the chickens would be ready to roost. Without thinking, out of habit, I let them out of the pen Friday morning! I have tried before to herd those chickens into the pen early. It can be done, but it takes a lot of time and patience and a very long stick. Duke could be a big help, but apparently the shepherd genes he carries have never activated.

If I leave the pen open all night, not even the Duke can protect them from some silent predator that takes them as they sleep. It was imperative for me to close them in their pen before I left.

The local forecast was for a hard freeze Friday night. It was a good time to remove the old bedding out of the coop and replace it with fresh hay. It is a dusty job, not the worst one on the farm, but in case of mites, I went directly in for a hot shower and fresh clothes. I was worrying about the time it would take to herd the chickens out of the timber and into the pen. After the big round up, I would likely have to shower and change clothes again. I get poison ivy even in the dead of winter, and there is enough poison ivy in the timber to make my life miserable for months.

When I was ready to begin the chicken wrangling, I found, to my surprise, most of the chickens were already in the pen, busily scratching through the fresh hay on the ground around the coop. Some of the hens were going into the coop to inspect the space where they lay their eggs, I guess. Only Evil Roo and one of the young hens were not in the pen. I was flatly amazed. I have never seen them in that pen during the day, even if it is raining. They shelter with Duke on or under the front porch!

The entire flock had been scattered across the yard and by the creek when I had been working in their pen. I had no idea they had been aware of anything going on in their home space. Silly me. As soon as the dust settled, they apparently went to investigate the home invasion. Consequently, it only took me thirty seconds to get the little hen into the pen. Evil Roo was more of a challenge. As any good patriarch and warrior king, he would not abandon his flock, but he was not willing to give up his guerrilla advantage either. He finally agreed to enter the pen after I had skillfully herded him around the pen squawking and flapping (me, not him) for a good ten minutes.

I did not need another shower or another set of clean clothes. I had plenty of time and the chickens were safe. It just worked out because those chickens were paying attention.

Wake Up with the Blues

"Just one more mornin I had to wake up with the blues
Pulled myself out of bed and put on my walkin shoes
Went up on the mountain to see what I could see
The whole world was fallin down right in front of me
Pulled myself together, put on a new face
Came down off the mountain and got back in the race."
from the Allman Brothers - Dreams

When you wake up with the blues, the way I did this morning, the only cure is to put the Allman Brothers on the stereo and crank that southern fried rock UP! That is the good news. The bad news is that I do not own a stereo and all my Allman Brothers albums were sold at a yard sale years ago.

Everyone's taste in music is personal and regardless of the snobbery of some who think classical, or jazz, or this or that, is the best, people who create music have a gift the rest of us depend upon. I rue the passing of those great old rock bands, like the Allman Brothers. They played big, loud, magnificent music and you could not feel bad listening to it.

One of Gregg Allman's early songs, "Queen of Hearts", is still one of my favorite love songs:

"And after all that we've been through I find when I think of you
A warm soft wind runs through and through, in my heart there's only you
And I will always keep on trying, togetherness brings peace of mind
Without it there'd be lonely me and oh darlin lonely you"

Of the men I have genuinely loved in my life, three are gone - two dying in their early twenties, and one dying at age 51. Two are still kickin, happily married to other women, which is the best for all involved, believe me. It does not often happen but sometimes a memory rises in my consciousness that illuminates the present for a day or two -- my first kiss, standing in the twilight of my parent's back yard the summer before high school. Flying a kite in the middle of the night from the rooftop outside our bedroom window. Slow dancing with his heartbeat against my ear, knowing we would never dance together again. Leaning against his warm and broad back as we rolled through the dark summer nights on his Harley. Seeing his face for the first time after his son was born. And all the sad, disappointing, hurtful things that broke hearts, his and mine, no matter who it was I loved.

When I get to thinking about some of that old stuff, there is only one cure: Statesboro Blues!

"I'm going to the country Baby do you want to go?
If you can't make it, your sister Lucille say she want to go
And I sure will take her
I woke up this morning, I had them Statesboro Blues
I woke up this morning, I had them Statesboro Blues
I looked over in the corner Baby and Grandpa seemed to have them too"

Play it loud!

Statesboro Blues here

Salina - Cosmic Wormhole?

When I was a young, impressionable girl, growing up in a relatively isolated farming community in north central Kansas, my only lifelines out to the real world were television and magazines and KOMA, a rock radio station in Oklahoma. I first heard Jim Morrison and the Doors, Cream, and Jimi Hendrix on my "modern" clock radio, a Christmas gift. You could only hear rock music on KOMA, and if I remember correctly, only at night. Rock music was not yet commonplace. My mother once shouted up the stairs for me to come watch a girl singing like a man, on Ed Sullivan. I knew it could only be Janis Joplin. My mother was mildly scandalized and largely amazed. I do not think Mom ever developed an appreciation for Janis Joplin.

My girlfriend brought an edition of the Los Angeles Free Press to me as a gift. Her family had been on vacation to the West Coast and she thought of me. I was thrilled. I read and re-read every single word, every advertisement, and every classified ad. It was psychedelic, subversive, strange and beautiful. The written words vibrated in my hands. People were thinking differently, living differently. They had a new world vision and they were changing it, but I was stuck in Backwater, Kansas.

My stepfather made it a point to watch Walter Cronkite every evening before dinner. We watched the Vietnam War together as a family. I distinctly recall a big argument over the war when the troops were shown pulling back from a location. The villagers were desperately trying to climb into the helicopters, knowing what was in store for them after the Americans were gone. The soldiers were throwing the Vietnamese people away from the helicopters, even smashing their hands as they tried desperately to hold on. I was horrified. My stepfather saw it in one single frame of reference - the soldiers were surviving. I thought we were fighting the war FOR the Vietnamese people. I vocalized my horror and dissent, but nothing I said or felt was valid to my stepfather. It was an argument that was repeated countless times every evening across the entire nation.

Into this wide expanse of white, Christian, conservative, hard working American agricultural communities, rock bands came from far and wide to Salina, Kansas. It seemed totally amazing to me at the time. Now I understand it was an easy stop on the way to Denver, or Kansas City, or Dallas for those traveling bands. I saw the Beach Boys at the height of their career in Salina, Kansas. I saw Herman's Hermits, all the way from England. I can not recall every band any more. I was always amazed when the real world arrived within one hundred miles of my house. It was as if Salina was some sort of cosmic crossroads where Real Life was seeping into Kansas.

Now I know I did not have to be on the West Coast for life to come to me. It found me because life finds us all, easily, even if we live in the middle of the great quiet interior of America. I have traveled, but I never had to leave Kansas to get what my soul needed. I found real Indians in Kansas, and have gone in with them in prayer lodges. I have been blessed with the prayers and the Pipe and the Feathers of holy men and medicine women, in Kansas. My children have been blessed and prayed and drummed by these good Indian people. I became a Reiki healer, right here in Kansas.

I do not know why I chafed so under my parents' love and concern. I set myself against them early on. What had served them so well, I saw as a yoke of drudgery and unenlightenment. Nothing they did suited me. Most of my entire generation seemed to have been born with the same dissatisfaction.

I stayed in Kansas and raised my children here. I do not know how it is possible but they have turned out well, despite who raised them. My daughter called me today. She bought tickets to the upcoming Bob Dylan concert in Salina, Kansas, for me. Even though she does not like Bob Dylan and has no interest in any of his music, she is going with me. Bob Dylan is an acquired taste. It will be a personal sacrifice for her. What an amazing, loving gift.

It is such a heartfelt gesture on my daughter's part that I hate to place any negativity on it in any way, but the fact that Bob Dylan is coming to Salina, Kansas might be some sort of omen. It might be some circle completing itself, some event heralding a significant life change for me. It might cause some sort of rip in the time space continuum if Bob Dylan and I are in Salina at the same time. Perhaps the Mother Ship is coming?

Beam me up, Bob.

The Landscape of My Mind

Many ancient esoteric teachings give much credence to travel in the Dream Time. Some disciplines of modern Western psychology are beginning to give a grudging nod to the possibilities of astral travel and other realities in various states of human consciousness. I spent some years paying my dreams much attention, hoping to find a clue. I have not reached any conclusions, but several dreams stand out, each in their own strange or twisted way. Welcome to my mind...

I Dream of a Celebrity:
I was living on a different planet, one of endless great empty plains and frugal vegetation. There was a terribly oppressive government on that planet and I was involved in some deadly serious subversive work against that government. I caught a series of trains in order to meet with another agent, who turned out to be none other than Florence Henderson.

When I woke up, all I could think was "Florence Henderson?! What?!"


I Crack Myself Up:
I was driving a truck overloaded with everything I owned, attempting to pilot that truck down the highway, but the steering was loose and required tremendous concentration and physical strength to keep it safely on the road. If I needed the brakes, I had to slam on them and apply every ounce of my weight and strength to bring that truck to a halt. Even then, it would never come to a complete stop.

I was careening wildly along the highway in a dangerous truck, doing my best to keep it in the correct lane and not crash into anyone or anything else. The front wheel of the truck suddenly slipped off the pavement beside a huge cliff that fell away from the roadway for hundreds of feet. I wrestled that careening truck with every ounce of my strength, bracing my legs and arms in various angles at the steering wheel. It was touch and go as to whether I could avoid going over the cliff or not, but I was determined. I fought that steering wheel and the terrible brakes until I finally had that truck back on the road and safely to a stop. I did it with willpower alone. The passenger, in awe and in relief, shouted "How did you do that?!"

I turned to the passenger and shouted back with great satisfaction and humor, "I have the strength of ten for my heart is pure!"


What Would Sigmund Say:
I dreamt my Harley had broken down along a country road and I was repairing it with wasps instead of nuts and bolts. It made perfect sense in the dream.

Autumn Comes to My Valley

My east gate, posted against hunting, yet people still ask to hunt.



The fall colors of the big bluestem are beginning to appear.



An old horseshoe used to maintain tension on a barbed wire fence. It is natural to see this artifact of the past in service today, and comforting.

Have I mentioned how much I love living here?

Living Language

Sometimes an expression will remind me of people I love, those long gone, and those still near and dear. Here is a list of the worst offenders.

"Knottin' and divvying" = planning, sometimes scheming. Karl Hansen

"Hundred-mile-an-hour tape" = duct tape. Tommy Reser

"Uglier than a mud fence" = no translation required. Grandma

"She could kill a bear with a switch" = exceedingly mean person. Grandma

"Toad strangler" = deluge, downpour of rain. Grandpa

"Nasty, nasty worms" = anything or anyone revolting. My daughter

"Dingo Man Dreaming" = acknowledgment of my son's mysterious powers. Me

"Worthless piece of shit" = term of endearment for an ex-husband. Me

"You want some cream with that?" = do not mess with me this morning. Transgender Dairyqueen employee?

"Mayor of Ass Town" = title of respect for a coworker. Me

"Plain words, simple spoke" = no room for argument. Billy Barber

"Man hater" = teasing from the son in law. My son in law

"Be glad you aren't on my list" = reply to the son in law. Me

Detente At Long Last

Evil Rooster and I have reached detente. We came to this accord some weeks ago. I have been hesitant to celebrate or make a formal announcement, but enough time has elapsed that I think it is a permanent peace.

Please let me share the sweet victory! As usual, I was not even in his vicinity and had my back turned, when I heard his hateful little footsteps coming fast behind. I had my hair wrapped in a big, thick towel. When I knew he was within range, I whipped that towel off and whacked him with it three or four times. The last time I got him just right and he went head over heels for quite a distance. For some reason, that apparently convinced him to stop the madness!

He has left me alone since that moment, my triumph in the Battle of Red Towel.