Coop d'etat

I am home again, temporarily.  This sabbatical summer has been filled with travels and still holds another substantial trip, this one to my ancestral home in Iowa.  I have been intending for some time to sit down and record my impressions of our trip to the Maritime provinces of Canada, but two weeks have now passed and I am just getting around to it.
I would blame jet lag if I could, but we didn’t fly.  We traveled by mini-van, and I have never heard of “mini-van lag.”  Nonetheless, since arriving home I have been experiencing a combination of malaise and mild disorientation that travelers throughout the ages have reported, regardless of their means of transportation.  I read recently that Maimonides, the 12th century Jewish sage, took note of this condition and permitted those who had returned from a journey to abstain from worship for as many as three days so that they might recover the requisite mindfulness for prayer.  Of course, writing is not prayer, but like prayer it does require mindfulness.
Now at last I am ready to record my impressions, but I find them fuzzy.  Part of the reason, I am sure, is the passage of time.  Even when I am thinking most clearly, it is often difficult for me to recall what I had for supper the day before, let alone what I saw, heard, tasted and touched half a month ago.  But the passage of time cannot bear the whole burden of responsibility for my fuzzy recollections.  Part of the blame must also be apportioned to the fact that we attempted such a whirlwind trip – three provinces in six days.  Even when they are small provinces, like the Maritimes, such an itinerary means a lot of hours staring out the window of a mini-van traveling 110 kilometers per hour.
Indeed, my chief impression of Canada – other than the spectacular ocean views and picturesque lighthouses – is a blur of green.  New Brunswick is one hill and valley after another covered by green forests, which feed the paper mills set along the river in so many small towns.  Nova Scotia has a similar landscape inland, though it is better known for its quaint fishing villages.  
Prince Edward Island is less forest but equally green.  It is covered instead by potato fields, dairy farms and an amazing number of golf courses.  Some courses are quite sophisticated, built along the coast with ocean views, mature trees and elegant clubhouses.  Others are inland, treeless, with fairways flat and straight and a ten-by-twelve shed where you pay your fee to play.  Yet even the most humble course is appropriately green.
Upon arriving home, I was happy to see my own green garden and yard, and happier still that the yard had been recently mowed by our good friend Ray.  My wife was happy to see that sweet corn was in season and we have had a steady diet of it ever since.  We like it young, before the kernels are mashed together on the cob, when they are at their sweetest and still pop when you bite them.  For freezing, we will accept more mature corn, which gives a better yield of pints per dozen ears.  But fresh corn we hope to catch early.
By “steady diet” I mean that we have eaten corn at least once a day for ten of the last eleven days.  That may sound alarmingly excessive to some people, but according to the paper it has been a near perfect year for growing sweet corn in this area and there is definitely a surplus.  Prices are low by historical standards, and you can’t drive far without seeing a sign advertising corn for sale.  People who normally grow only enough corn for their own use (or perhaps enough extra for a few relatives and friends) find themselves overwhelmed and set up tables near the road where they place several dozen surplus ears next to a padlocked box with a hole in the top.  The price per dozen appears on a hand-lettered sign and payment is on the honor system.
Evidence of our avid consumption can be found in the chicken pen, where I toss the spent cobs.  They have begun to pile up a bit, along with the watermelon rinds from an early local melon.  The chickens, anticipating a treat, run to the edge of the pen closest to the house whenever the back door opens.  When I come empty handed, guilt overtakes me and I end up tossing them a handful of scratch grains from the feed bin, a meager but effective offering.  As they run to pick the oat grains and cracked corn from the dirt, a wave of absolution washes over me.
But the chickens quite obviously prefer spent cobs to scratch grains and attack the cobs with enviable enthusiasm.  So it was the other day, while I was watching their antics and admiring their energy, that I first noticed a substantial shift in their social structure.  Daisy, the buff colored hen, has asserted herself.
A little background is needed.  Of the original dozen chicks I bought in the spring a year ago, seven were roosters.  In a small pen, such as I have, that is exactly six roosters too many.  So late last summer, a program of selective reduction was necessary.  I called upon Eddie R., a spry octogenarian raconteur who, it seems, has at one time or another killed, cleaned and eaten almost everything that has fins, feathers or fur.  Eddie was happy to help.
 This left two white hens, three red hens, and Chuckie, the finest example of a white leghorn rooster I have ever seen.  His tail feathers were arched and bountiful, his comb and wattle large and rich in color, and somehow Chuckie managed to stay an elegant, pure white.  I have discouraged my family from naming any of the chickens, but my youngest daughter was so taken with the handsome fellow, she could not resist.
Unfortunately, Chuckie’s testosterone got the best of him and led to his untimely death.  One day the neighbor’s dog got loose and ran up to the pen, barking ferociously.  Chuckie would have been safe had he stayed in the pen, yet he felt compelled to defend his honor, so he flew over the fence to do battle.  
He soon realized his mistake.  He shifted rather abruptly from the “fight” impulse to the “flight” impulse and did manage to escape into the woods, leaving behind a ghastly trail of feathers.  Though he returned later in the day and survived for a few weeks, he ultimately died of complications. 
Chuckie had ruled the roost in a regal fashion.  Into his place stepped his two sisters, in spite of the fact that by then they were much smaller than the three red hens.  Ever ready to resort to claws and beak, they managed to maintain their social standing by a relentless aggressiveness.  The red hens allowed them a wide berth.
This past spring one of the white hens became flighty and was often found sitting on top of the fence or even out in the yard.  It was entertaining, but also dangerous.  Another visit from the neighbor’s dog was one tragic possibility.  A visit from a fox was another.  I determined to capture her on the roost and clip her wings, but before I could carry out my plan, she disappeared. 
So I was down to four chickens, all hens, three red and one white.  In spite of being outsized and outnumbered, the remaining white hen maintained a reign of terror.  She was heir to the throne, and the red hens were her timid and obedient subjects.
Such conditions persisted into the late spring, until Daisy, the buff hen, and Lester, the new rooster, (both named by their previous owner) were introduced into the mix. Daisy and Lester were given to me by friends of ours who were moving south, leaving behind a small farm.  Lester had been the junior rooster on their farm and was delighted to have his own exclusive harem at last. 
The white hen made one or two attempts to intimidate Lester, but he made it quite clear that he was not one to be hen-pecked.  In frustration, the white hen turned all her ire on the buff hen who spent most of the first week running and hiding.  Eventually the white hen began to relent a bit, but it was clear from her bearing that she still considered herself the queen.  Daisy continued to watch her step and keep her distance.
Thus I was surprised when we returned to find that the white hen has been deposed and now it is she who watches her step and keeps her distance.  Now Daisy clearly ranks second only to Lester in authority.  She goes where she wants to go and does what she wants to do.  She walks up to any spent cob she likes and pecks away at the small kernels remaining at either end. I enjoy watching her walk about so self-assuredly.  And I have noticed that the three red hens have gained some courage as well, and will no longer back down from the former tyrant. 
Clearly, something happened while I was in Canada – most likely a major confrontation over personal space at the feeder, on the roost or in the nesting boxes.  Daisy decided she had had enough.  The revolution commenced.  While I was away seeing a new part of the world, the part of the world I am most familiar with changed.
   

Sprechen Sie Espanol?

Three days in Puerto Rico refreshed my foreign language skills. Unfortunately, the only living foreign language I ever learned was German, not Spanish. So I spent much of my time on the lovely island thinking of how I might express myself if I were in Berlin or Dusseldorf, instead of San Juan or Adjuntos.
I was surprised at how much German I remembered. It was as if I were again that skinny boy who had just finished ninth grade and two years in Frau what’s-her-name’s class, instead of a balding, bespectacled forty-five year old who has forgotten most of what he has learned in over twenty-five years of school. I kept thinking of phrases that would have been useful – phrases like, “Ich heise Jim,” (I am called Jim) or “Ich mochte wasser,” (I want water) or “Wie fiel das?” (How much is that?).
I did manage to learn a bit of Spanish, the basic stuff, like “gracias,” “buenos dias,” and “banyo.” But for the most part I relied on my hosts to translate or simply sat quietly, observing. It was good reminder that you can understand a lot without any knowledge of a spoken language. Posture, tone, volume and gesture give away a great deal. Even so, I do regret not trying to learn a little Spanish before I traveled.
On the other hand, I enjoyed feeling I was at least marginally fluent in German, a fantasy fairly easy to maintain when you are in Puerto Rico. In fact, on the flight home I decided that I should have given German a try while I was there. What possible harm could have come from offering a stray, “Wie gehts?” (How goes it?) Maybe the fellow sitting next to me at the airport had been a businessman from Berlin. And if not, he probably would have smiled and nodded anyway, as he did when I sat down, saying nothing.