Fowl Weekend Ahead!

Okay, here we are again…blog day!  But this time, I’m ready.  Woo Hoo!!!  I know…who woulda thunk it?  Kayce is actually starting her blog almost a week early.  Of course, that doesn’t mean I’ll end it before 2am the morning it’s due.  LOL  A master procrastinator has to be careful not to create expectations she may not be able to live up to in the future!

Okay, so what am I going to blog about this time?  Life?  Love?  Laughter?  Hmmm…I’m thinking this one might not go to the “love” category and it’s iffy whether it truly touches on “life” for anyone but me—because this just wouldn’t happen to anyone but me.  So I guess it has to fall under “laughter”.  What, you say, couldn’t happen to anyone but me?  Well, let me unfold the story for you.

I have been in desperate need of what we refer to as a “BMG fix” for some time now.  That’s a brainstorming session with my critique group, the Butterscotch Martini Girls.  Now, despite the name, we do often meet for breakfast, and martinis are not always involved (not ALWAYS, but probably more often than not).  So please understand that, for a change, this event was NOT alcohol-induced…honest!

Okay, here’s what happened.  Tina Gerow, Dani Petrone, and I met for breakfast this morning at the Iron Works, which is a lovely restaurant attached to the Bellair Golf Course in Glendale, Arizona.  I want you to picture this…we are sitting in the cool, air-conditioned comfort of a restaurant overlooking a golf course and a small lake.  There are ducks and geese milling about the lake and serenely gliding over its surface as group after group of well-dressed men in shorts are teeing off in front of us.  (Not a better place in town for a single woman to start her Saturday!)  Anyway, I digress.

As we sat at our cool, comfy table overlooking the greens and the water, we caught up on family shenanigans, we told dating stories, and we then got serious about brainstorming.  One of the things I needed help with was a title for one of my works in progress.  As we talked through some ideas, something out the window caught my attention.  So I switched my focus to the tree outside the window to see what it was that was flapping against the tree.  It was a crane…you know, one of those cute little grey birds with really long legs.  The ones you never seem to actually see in flight, but they always look like an ugly cousin to the flamingo, with the same stilt-legged grace as they wade in water up to their knees.  Yep, that’s the one.  But this one was bent on getting up in the tree.  Okay, it’s a bird…so, what’s the big deal?  Birds get in trees all the time.  But this one has legs twice the length of its body and it’s easily 18 inches from beak to tail.  For some reason, this struck me funny and I pointed it out so we could all gawk in wonder.  This poor crane was bound and determined to get into that tree and he would try to fly up into it with tremendous ado (lots of flapping) and very little success.  He mostly just made it about halfway up the tree, where he would grab the bark with his little feet and flap his wings as he tried to actually climb the tree.  Now, you and I both know cranes can’t climb trees, but apparently no one told this little guy.  So he tried valiantly quite a number of times and about the 4^th or 5^th try (over the period of about an hour), he finally made it into the crook of the tree—only to find that his wings didn’t fit between the branches.  So he floundered a bit and finally gave up and sailed not so gracefully to the ground.  No, this isn’t the funny part.  This was just an oddity that caught our attention and elicited comments on the futility of wading birds trying to perch in trees…sort of like flying fish.  LOL

 

Okay, so the breakfast continues and we discuss all sorts of names for my book.  I bring Tina and Dani up to speed on the story and mention there is a chicken in the story, a mean Bantam (commonly pronounced Banty) rooster that attacks everyone who gets out of a car in the owner’s driveway.  Now, keep in mind that I know this chicken well.  He was a real-life pet from my childhood…and I use the term “pet” VERY loosely!  We used to keep a broom outside the back door so we could defend ourselves while running from the back door to the gate.  Why didn’t we put this chicken in the stew pot, you ask?  My dad loved him!  Why you might ask again?  That would be because my dad did NOT like my Aunt Sarah…and the chicken once kept Aunt Sarah trapped in her car in the driveway for a good twenty minutes, which gained him permanent immunity from the stew pot. 

Anyway…back to the story titles.  Divulging the presence of a mean chicken in my story prompted several enthusiastic rounds of chicken titles…such stunning gems as A Chicken to Remember, My Life With a Chicken, How To Lose a Chicken In 28 Days, A Body A Chimp and A Chicken, My Fowl Weekend, and Romance and Fowl Play.  (None of which will ever grace the cover of my story!)  LOL  We were having a big time of the chicken titles and chicken jokes and were drawing some very strange looks from people at the surrounding tables.  The waitress decided we were nuts and started steering a wide berth around our table, actually going so far as to suggest we could get our own coffee.  LOL  She laughed jokingly, but we’re writers.  We know what a thin line there is between jokes and the truth!

So…picture it in your mind…3 rowdy women sitting at a table in a nice restaurant overlooking a beautiful golf course and a lake with a gorgeous green, laughing and cutting up over stupid (really stupid) chicken book titles.  All of a sudden, I freeze.  I’m staring out the window and I can’t say a word.  I’m stunned.

Tina asks, “What’s up?  The crane trying to get into the tree again?”

I can’t answer.  I’m dumbfounded.  All I can do is stare and point out the window.  I can’t get a single word out of my mouth.

Now Tina and Bev are both turning in their chairs and positioning themselves to see if they can see what I see.  Tina spots something and asks, “What is that?  Is that the crane?”

I finally find my voice.  “No.  No, that’s not the crane.”

Dani asks, “Well, what is it?”

I still can’t move…all I can do is stare…but I know what it is.  “It’s a chicken!  It’s a freaking chicken, a Bantam (Banty) rooster!”

What are the chances?  Now remember, this is a golf course in the middle of town.  A nice restaurant, a pristine green with classy guys teeing off all morning and there…in the middle of the green…and in the middle of our chicken title brainstorming…is a freaking C-H-I-C-K-E-N!!!  And not just any chicken…this chicken is a dead ringer for the little sucker my dad had pardoned from the stew pot!  An identical twin to the little demon I used to send sailing across the yard with the broom as I sprinted for dear life!
Okay, I can’t believe it…I gotta see this up close…this is just too freaking weird.  So I take my cell phone outside and I crawl on my hands and knees across the grass to get as close as I can to this chicken, this demon from my childhood…because without a picture, no one will believe I found the demon spawn of my childhood on a golf course green in the middle of a metropolitan city!  And this, my friends, is my proof!  This is the picture of the demon chicken that haunted my dreams (and life) as a child!

Now, what’s really weird about all this is that my father passed back in 2004, but I still feel (quite often) that he is still with me.  He used to spend a lot of time at my house before he passed, and I often feel his spirit and sometimes even talk to him.  Now, I’m not the all-knowing creator, so I’m not gonna say I know exactly what happens after death, but I do know that in my mind and in my heart, I often feel my dad’s presence.  So…when this stinking chicken shows up, who is a dead ringer for my dad’s twisted pet, I get to thinking. 

Tina is laughing and congratulating me on my ability to “manifest” a chicken.  Now, I’m not saying that’s not what happened…but I am saying if I was setting out to intentionally manifest anything, it would probably look a lot more like Sam Elliott or Hugh Jackman—not the demon spawn of my childhood nightmares!  So where did this chicken come from?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that out of curiosity, I went to a psychic recently who claimed to have spoken with my dead father and my brother.  She hit the proverbial nail on the head for so many things that it was downright spooky, but the one thing that comes to mind for me at a time like this is that she said my father is with me a lot and he told her now that I know he’s there with me, he will give me more signs.  So when I see something strange that brings thoughts of him to mind, I should know he’s there with me.

You got goose bumps yet?  I do!  Did my dad put that demon chicken on the green at the golf course to remind me he’s got my back?  Maybe not…but maybe yes.  One thing for sure, that stinking
chicken has mellowed over the years because he didn’t attack me not even once.  He let me get fairly close and take his picture without a moment’s fuss.  He showed off and strutted a little so I could get a good shot and even crowed once for me.  Then he posed a second time to allow my dear friend, Dani to snap a surprise shot of me on my hands and knees chasing a damn chicken across a golf course to get a picture!  And here’s her proof!

Now, just as a side note, there was one other “fowl” thing that happened to me this weekend.  My youngest grandson lives part of his week at my house and he came over last night with a new little friend, begging to be allowed to add it to our dysfunctional little “farm” family—a duck.  It is the cutest brand new baby duck you’d ever want to see, complete with its soft, downy yellow and black stripes and teeny tiny bill and little webbed feet.  A coincidence?  I think not!  And where the hell was my sign, anyway?  You know, the one that warns “Fowl Weekend Ahead!”  Someone is definitely messing with me…and it’s NOT funny.  (Well, maybe a little.)  I tried to say NO to the duck, but it just wouldn’t come out because I used to have ducks and I loved them.  So the little guy was allowed to stay and when I left the house this morning, the entire family was in the backyard filling a huge blue wading pool for this little teeny tiny duck.  I sure hope they didn’t drown him in all that water!

Okay…back to my question…was it coincidence or was it my dad?  It darn sure coulda been my dad!  That’s just the kind of sick, twisted sense of humor he had…which would explain a lot about his eldest daughter (me).  LOL  I can go months or years with not a single “fowl” thing happening in my world…and within a 24-hour period there are 3 stand-out, odd “fowl” occurrences???   Yep, that chicken was either a manifestation gone BAD wrong, in which case I’m not sure I ever want to try and manifest anything ever again.  Or it was my dad’s sick sense of humor.  The story is mine, but the choice is yours—manifestation or spirit?

This is my story, weird and wonderful, and I’m stickin’ to it.  Hang on tight now, ‘cuz we’re gonna go real, real fast!

Love ya.

Kayce  





UPDATE:  Fowl Weekend Outcome

Well, a couple of days have passed since I originally wrote my blog for this week and I thought maybe you’d like to know whether or not the baby duck my grandson brought home survived the family swim outing, so I wrote this addendum to the blog.  Yes, the little duckie did survive his plunge into the deep end.  Turns out, you apparently can’t drown a duck.  They dropped the little guy in water twice as deep as he is tall and he took off like Secretariat in the Kentucky Derby…and he’s a cute little cuss!
 

Now, you might have noticed that I’m referring to him as a “he”…and that’s because we have no clue what sex he is at this moment, but we are hoping for a “he” since the “hes” are prettier than the “shes” in the Mallard world.  (Yes, I know that’s bad grammar…do you not know me yet?  I butcher at will.)  Anyway, the little duck is a Mallard and was apparently rescued from a larger duck that was intent on killing him.  I can only surmise that the little guy has a short attention span and missed a right turn somewhere along the way, only to find himself left behind and at the mercy of any duck who happened along…either that or mama duck was a psycho bent on offing one of her offspring…because he appears to be perfectly healthy and normal.

So the little duck now has a new home and a new name…Scooter…and a more appropriate name I’ve never seen.  That little sucker scoots across the water like he’s got a motor strapped to his…er…tail feathers.  LOL  Those of you who know me thought I was gonna do it, didn’t you?  Admit it, you did…you thought I was gonna say the “a” word…but I didn’t.  Aren’t ya proud?

Anyway, back to Scooter.  He’s become the darling of the family and I suspect we are going to end up with an insanely spoiled duck when this is all said and done.  My son’s girlfriend has gone out and purchased toys for Scooter…little yellow plastic duck friends to play with in the pool and a little stuffed yellow duckie to sleep with. 

 

 

 

  

Now, I thought perhaps my son would be the one level head in all of this, but I realized that was a pipedream when I stepped out the back door one evening to find my son sitting in a lawn chair with a flyswatter, killing flies and flipping them into the pool to feed Scooter.  Nope, not kidding…here’s the picture to prove it!  The little black spot is Scooter…the yellow spots are all his little yellow duckie friends.  Yes, he’s a very popular duck.  Scooter is now trained to lunge toward the flyswatter each time it slaps the side of the pool.  We might have to hide the flyswatter when Scooter grows up!  Hmmm…maybe we can design a wing attachment for the fly swatter and train Scooter to bring home his own bacon…uh…flies.

Well, that’s the update on my fowl weekend and Scooter.  Hope you enjoyed it.  That’s my story, wild and wacky, and I’m stickin’ to it.  Hold on tight now ‘cuz we’re gonna go real, real fast!

Love ya,
 

Kayce