I saw an ad for Chicken Arms the other day. Perhaps you’ve seen them. Little plastic doll arms you can put on live chickens for your personal amusement, e.g., when you’ve hit the bottom of the “100 Fun Things to Do in Quarantine” list.
I wanted them, the chicken arms. I really did. I wanted nine pairs of little pink babydoll arms that I could surreptitiously attach to my grandkids’ chickens, presumably by sneaking over there in the middle of the night when everyone was asleep. I thought it might amuse the children to wake up in the morning, traipse out all unknowing to feed the chickens, only to find they’d sprouted human arms. That would be amusing, right? Or sadistic. I didn’t really think it through.
At any rate, there were snags, not the least being my aversion to touching any bird not cooked and immobile on a plate. And you can’t really buy “chicken arms” anyway; what you can get is a pair of plastic doll arms suitable for wiring up to your chicken of choice. Well, the impediments multiply, don’t they.
Apparently, raising chickens in the backyard has become extremely popular, especially as we enter our fifth month of home confinement (self-imposed or otherwise) as an out-of-nowhere, raging virus closes workplaces, schools, recreation areas and places of worship.
Oh, we were a stoic bunch going in. We baked loaves of bread by the thousands, we sewed a million face masks, reread War and Peace and alphabetized the canned goods. STILL, the damned pandemic refused to go away. Now…chicken arms. “We are swamped with orders,” says Nancy Smith, owner of the Cackle Hatchery in Lebanon, Missouri. “We can’t answer all the calls, and we’re booked out weeks.”
America the disaffected. People so dull and spiritless they think raising poultry behind the garage could be both fun and economical. Why not!
Post-pandemic note: The kids subsequently helped their dad build a grand new chicken coop. There are now more chickens than ever. I occasionally get free eggs.
New Year’s Day. Ever a day synonymous with hope, a day packed with good intentions that maybe don’t have a prayer of surviving beyond January 31 but what the hell. I’m aware that the last time I posted anything here was in September of 2022, at which time I suggested that I might actually start writing again regularly. Or semi-regularly. Or at least more than once every 15 months. I should know better than to put such half-baked resolutions in writing, for I am well past the age when I can be making ridiculous predictions..
On the other hand… 2023 was such an unremittingly dreadful year that, by the time I contracted Covid in late December, which morphed into pneumonia, which kept me hospitalized until Christmas Day, and which has now manifested as Covid tongue – yes, Covid tongue, a very real, very despicable condition – I felt somewhat exonerated for failing to maintain this 13-year-old blog.
But more to the point, I wanted to take this singular opportunity to write something that the grandkids could look back on in the years ahead as they attempt to puzzle out just why Grandma was so…shall we say eccentric? Yes, let’s say that. And with that in mind I decided to transcribe here some of the text messages I’ve sent them over the last three years – sent just randomly, that is, meaning whenever I got the urge to stir things up. They get so complacent, you know.
TEXTS TO MARIA, CHRISTIAN, GRACE, COSETTE AND BRET, BUT NOT TOLEE, WHO DOESN’T HAVE HIS OWN PHONE YET, NOT THAT HE HASN’T LOBBIED RELENTLESSLY
(4-9-21 – the first text)The United States is apparently facing a ketchup shortage. I’m sorry.
(4-10-21)Headline today from Newser: “Restaurants Struggle to Keep Ketchup in Stock”
(4-26-21) In today’s headlines: “Woman Survives Being Hit by Flying Turtle.” The woman was released after receiving multiple stitches when a turtle crashed through her windshield and hit her in the head. Her granddaughter, who was riding in the passenger seat, said, “I swear, my grandma is the most unlucky person in the world.”
(4-26-21) Also in the news: Heinz says it has upped its production of ketchup by 25% to meet demand.
(6-19-21)Internet tip of the day: I saw this post that says if you are feeling fatigued you should wrap your feet in aluminum foil. So I just wanted to share that in case you are feeling fatigued today. Because I’m always here to help.
(8-30-21)I read an interesting article about Benjamin Franklin. He once wrote an essay on passing gas. He called it “Fart Proudly.” Perhaps you will find this helpful in your history classes. Who knows.
(12-15-21)A man in West Virginia who recently had a craving for sweets decided to open a box of Twinkies he’d had stored in the basement for eight years. The Twinkies looked okay to him and, thinking that Twinkies are basically immortal, he opened one and bit into it only to find that it had transmogrified into a gray fungus. Which made him throw up. So my tip for the day is: don’t be eating any 8-year-old food even if it looks okay.
(1-31-22)I just read where a cow in Brazil escaped from a farm and then went down a waterslide. You don’t think of cows as being particularly adventurous, but apparently they like to have fun as much as anyone else.
(9-14-22)It seems the Detroit Tigers recently sold Ty Cobb’s dentures for $19,000. Cobb was a famous center fielder who played from 1907 to 1915. I don’t know why anyone would want my teeth after I’m gone, but maybe you guys could work on it and then you’d have some spending money.
(9-21-22)The National Toy Hall of Fame has given the Oldest Toy award to “the stick.” Imagine. Thousands of years ago kids were just happy to get a stick to play with. Not today, boy! Some people thought that the “ball of mud” should get the award instead of the stick, but the judges decided it would be hard to tell a toy ball of mud from all the other mud.
(10-17-22)Did you know that scientists are studying dinosaur vomit that’s 150 million years old to try to learn more about what they ate? They have nicknamed the vomit “Jurassic Barf.” Scientists like to have a good laugh once in a while.
(12-6-22)Researchers have determined that octopuses, when irritated, throw things at each other. Mud and seashells and stuff. This is true. It has absolutely no impact on your young lives. I just like to mess with you.
(12-19-22)Something for you to look forward to: “Barbie” the movie is coming out next July. I know you all will be anxious to see it since you’ve had so much fun with your mothers’ old dolls, like hanging Barbie over the stairway by her neck.
(1-9-23)I saw this wilderness survival tip today and thought I would pass it along, just in case you’re having the kind of day you aren’t sure you can survive: “If a bear is chasing you, you don’t have to outrun the bear. You just have to outrun the person you’re with. Always bring a spare, slow-running relative for just such an occasion.” Just a friendly tip in case you’re ever out walking in the woods with your cousins.
(1-25-23)So this is kind of interesting: Someone in New Zealand has been leaving sausages in peoples’ mailboxes. Sometimes the sausage comes with bread. It’s been going on for a while and people are getting rather upset. “You never know when it will happen,” one victim said. “Nobody’s mailbox is safe!”
(4-7-23)Something to think about with Easter two days away: I guess exploding Peeps in the microwave is a thing people like to do now. Before trying this at home, you might want to consider what the inside of the microwave would look like afterward and what that would mean for your relationship with your mother. I, personally, do not care for Peeps.
(4-24-23)Did you hear about the woman in Great Britain who made $130,000 last year by shooting flaming arrows with her feet while doing a handstand? It occurred to me that you guys could probably learn to shoot arrows with your feet (maybe not flaming arrows and maybe not standing on your hands, but hey) and then you could make some money for college or maybe just help out the family you’ve been sponging off of for years.
(5-2-23)A man in Kentucky shot his roommate in the buttocks last week for eating the last Hot Pocket in the house. And you thought your siblings were hard to get along with.
(9-8-23)So a 3-legged bear broke into a home in Florida this week, opened the fridge and helped himself to three cans of beer. After seeing the break-in on the home’s security camera, the homeowner said she was concerned “because we know the bear really well.”I don’t know why, but to me the most interesting part of this story is that the bear had three legs.
(10-31-23)Halloween tip: you can wear your costume on a plane today but no mask (maybe a little face paint) and no more than 3 ounces of fake blood. Also, no fake weapons on board (you can check them with your luggage) and absolutely NO fake explosives. Also, I wouldn’t eat any candy corn, but that’s just me.
(12-8-23)So Harvard University – very prestigious, very exclusive, perhaps the #1 school in the country – has added a new course to its curriculum, “Taylor Swift and Her World,” and over 300 students have already enrolled, because, I assume, America has completely gone off the Reality Trail, is wandering in the Dark Forest of Delusion, and unfortunately may never make it back to pre-Swiftian civilization. Not that I blame Taylor. I don’t.
I think that’s enough. You get the drift. This is without a doubt completely meaningless drivel with no legitimate purpose beyond interrupting the very taxing days that today’s young people have to navigate. Well worth the effort.
Ah, yes, Cosette. If you’ve met her, you are probably already shaking your head knowingly. She is my fourth grandchild and you might say she defies description, although I can give you an early example. On the night her brother Lee was born, I was driving to the hospital with her in tow. It was 10 o’clock at night; I was tired and anxious, driving in an unfamiliar area, and I had a 4-year-old child giving me directions from the back seat: “That’s 36, Grandma, you go that way. That’s 3-5-W, take that.” For the love of God, I thought, give me a break, Cosette!
She is turning 15 this month, hard as that is for me to accept, and as usual her birthday list is laser-focused on her current obsession – in this case, the National Football League. I don’t know exactly when this infatuation began, three or four years ago I’d guess, but at this point she is literally a compendium of teams, players, coaches and statistics. Ask her anything. She scours the sports news daily.
Of the 19 items on Cosette’s list this year, 13 are related to professional football: individual player cards, blaster boxes of collector cards, posters, bed linens, and a Minnesota Vikings “NFL Flash Alternative Collectible Football Helmet” that I refuse to peddle out $34.95 for.
Highly desirable collectible helmet that Cosette will treasure forever if you will just shell out $34.95..
This is not new or unusual behavior, of course, because Cosette approaches every undertaking as if it were the Last Crusade and she was Indiana Jones. This latest birthday list-making is in fact much like her fixation with all things Thomas the Tank Engine that preceded her fifth birthday.
He has many, many friends.
From June to September 2012 I got phone calls from Cosette at work almost daily reminding me of her pressing need for more Thomas & Friends engines, available in Aisle 2 at Target and if I wanted she would give me directions to the store. The list was endless: Gordon, Henry, Rocky, James, Emily, Toby, Percy, Annie and Clarabel, Cranky the Crane, Donald and Douglas… “Have you got your pen, Grandma? I’ll wait.” Eventually, of course, I found myself in Aisle 2, tossing tiny locomotives into a cart with abandon.
In her jaunty engineer’s cap and red bandana, Cosette mentally tallies the latest additions to her Thomas & Friends collection.
Well, I figured that would hold her for a while, right? She phoned me at work on Monday. Toddler Bret hadn’t given her a present yet, she said, so maybe I should take him to Target, as she was missing Cranky the Crane. I told her I’d think about it. She called me on Tuesday. Christmas was coming and she wanted to let me know she didn’t have Cranky, Spencer, Elizabeth, the Troublesome Trucks, Bertie the Bus, Bash and Dash, Harold and… “Are you writing this down, Grandma?” For the love of God, I thought, give me a break, Cosette!
It has been something like eight years since I posted anything new on this blog. During that time a few people have pointed out that it might be nice if I could rouse myself and have another go at it. Not a lot of people. Some. Not that I haven’t written anything in the last eight years. I have. I just couldn’t warm up to my own words, you know? For example:
August 15, 2016 Lately, I’ve started talking to myself in a new voice. I have no idea why this is happening now. In the past, I’ve only ever conversed with myself in my normal, Judy voice. Of course, all humans talk to themselves. At home, in the car – you can carry on a spirited debate almost anywhere. With yourself. So it doesn’t much bother me when I find myself talking out loud to no one in particular. What’s unsettling is this new, truly pathetic voice, sort of a cross between Olive Oyl and Peewee Herman.
Well. You can see where that was headed. Nowhere anyone not lobotomized would want to go.
Nevertheless, I’ve had an urge to write again recently, maybe put down some penetrating observations for the edification of future generations. We’ll see where it goes.
Meanwhile, you ask, what has happened to the grandkids, the inspiration for all that early scribbling. Much. Much has happened. In a heartbeat it seems I have been forced to reconstruct my philosophy of grandma-ness – not by choice, needless to say, but because of the stubborn refusal of children to stick in one place, take a break from endless unfolding, and just let people adjust, is that too much to ask? I can only hope they do something worth writing about.
This is us now. I think everyone looks pretty happy. Although I appear to be shriveling somewhat. And why is Cosette wearing only one shoe? Typical.
Last week was interesting. Daughter Jill and family stayed with me for four days while the painter and carpenter were busy at their house. The invasion discombobulated me a little. I kept forgetting to take my calcium tablet before bed. Also, I forgot what I had in the refrigerator because I’m not used to seeing that much food in there. Mysterious food. The kind I never buy.
But other than that, things went fairly smoothly. The grandkids were on their best behavior. I’m sure there were threats along the way, but I don’t need to know about them. One evening it was just them and me around the dinner table, when the conversation, as it will, drifted to Christian’s food allergies, a subject on which every female in his family is an expert. It began when he was squeezing ketchup onto his plate and, as I recall, went something like this…
Maria: That’s too much. You aren’t supposed to have that much ketchup.
Christian [still squeezing]: Leave me alone, Maria. I can have ketchup.
Grace: He can have ketchup.
Maria: [To Christian] Stop that. Mom said you aren’t supposed to have that much.
[To me] Mom doesn’t let him have that much ketchup.
Grace: He can have ketchup. Ketchup isn’t in the nut family.
Maria: Ketchup is in the tomato family. He can’t have that much.
Christian: I keep telling Mom I don’t have food allergies, but she doesn’t believe me!
Maria: [To Christian] Ketchup is in the tomato family. Remember when you had that spaghetti sauce? Your eye got like THIS.
[To me] Mom doesn’t let him have that much ketchup.
Christian: Ketchup isn’t in the nut family.
Maria: [Heavy sigh accompanied by eye rolling]
Grace: Chili is in the nut family.
Too many nuts in the family, if you ask me.
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Wow. It sneaks up on you, doesn’t it? Not like Mother’s Day or Father’s Day – everyone has those holidays on the radar, even if it hits you that very day and you find yourself at the grocery store picking through what’s left of the greeting cards and potted azaleas.
In fact, Grandparents Day is always the first Sunday after Labor Day and has been since Congress passed the legislation in 1978! Who knew? I didn’t. Well, now I do. I saw it on Facebook this morning. And with this new awareness, I feel it is incumbent on me to say something profound, something moving, something eminently quotable. Here it is:
Dear Grandchildren: We don’t know why we absolutely adore you, we just do. Truly, it is a mystery even to us. Signed: Your Grandparents
You no doubt think I’m exaggerating. I am not. It is one of life’s imponderables, but for the vast majority of us, our grandkids are, simply put, perfect. Which doesn’t mean we don’t see their imperfections. We do. They just don’t matter. What’s more, we don’t feel the need to do anything about them, not the way we did with their imperfect and generally uncooperative parents.
No, dear grandchildren, improving you is not our job. I know it’s become a cliche, but we do in fact believe our only responsibilities are to admire and spoil you, to love you when you are hurt and tell you how wonderful you are ad nauseum.
Grandkids know this, of course, and are quick to take advantage of it. We don’t care. Which reminds me of this kid I saw on Humans of New York.com last March…
“We’re going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house.” “What do you do at Grandma and Grandpa’s house?” “Anything I want.”
Which further reminds me of something my youngest grandchild, Lee, then age two, said after we’d finished talking on the phone.
“What did Grandma say?” his mother asked.
“Grandma said yes.”
So young and yet so wise.
I could say more, about how grandparents don’t care how long it takes you to put on your shoes or the fact that you are eating cupcakes for breakfast. We don’t have to be anywhere on time and we know you’ll get a healthy breakfast tomorrow. You have wise and loving parents whose job it is to make you do all the things you don’t want to do and take the grief for it. And we dearly love your parents. You, on the other hand, we simply adore.
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I have decided Tuesday would be a good day to sift through the Archives here and recycle posts I’m particularly fond of. Because it’s my blog and I can. Also because writing something new and fascinating more than once a week is kind of tiresome. (I know some of you think, now that I’m retired, I have nothing but time on my hands. Actually, that’s true, but it doesn’t mean I want to spend all of it creating more stuff to fill this space.) Sometimes Tuesday may fall on a Wednesday. We’ll see.
Searching for God and Underpants
(originally posted 9/23/10)
MY DAUGHTERS WHEN THEY HAD BIG HAIR AND WERE STILL CATHOLIC
We baptized Baby Bret recently. He was baptized in the Lutheran church, which was a bit odd for me. My own children were baptized and raised to be good Catholics. They defected, every one, a puzzling thing and still a little irritating. It isn’t that I can’t go with the flow, but excuse me, I must have spent close to $100,000 on Catholic schools over the years, and if I had known how things would turn out, I would have taken advantage of free public education like everyone else.
Gina, who is Baby Bret’s mother, had no problem being Catholic right through her expensive college education with the Jesuits. Then she met Bret Sr. and promptly converted to Lutheranism. My middle daughter, Jill, and her family are some religion I can never remember the name of but they sing really loud. And the oldest, Jessica, who I thought had settled on Episcopalianism or Presbyterianism, is on the hunt for her spiritual home again and presently attending the Unitarian church.
It rankles a little, I must admit. All that money and my grandkids don’t know the Hail Mary.
Moving along… The baptism went well. The service was nice and Baby Bret never said boo, not even when he was passed around like a plate of rumaki. Afterward everyone drove to my house for lunch, simply because adding a fourth person to his parents’ house has made it impossible to squeeze in guests even if someone sits on the diaper pail and someone else holds the breast pump.
Lunch was nice, too, if hectic. Jill had an anxiety attack when she realized five-year-old Grace wasn’t wearing underpants. Apparently Grace sat through the entire church service in her little red sundress and white shoes and no underpants. So I went searching for little girl underwear, couldn’t find any, and ended up pinning the sides on a pair of my own for her. Gracie was utterly disgusted, but I just told her, “That’s what you get for not wearing underpants. You have to wear your grandma’s.”
The weather was good.
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Did you know September is “National Preparedness Month”? And did you also know that the Federal Emergency Management Agency, better known as FEMA, has a rich and comprehensive website, not only to prove they’re on the job, but more importantly to help you survive in case they’re unavoidably delayed? No, you did not. Or if you knew, you haven’t bothered to go there, because you are lazy or because you don’t believe anything they say anyway.
I don’t know what the FEMA site looked like before Hurricane Katrina decimated New Orleans, but I’m guessing it’s been beefed up considerably since that farce occurred. Now you can download a personal Family Communication Plan, get help compiling your Disaster Supplies Kit, and order from a plethora of free publications. None of this will get FEMA to your door any sooner; still, it’s good stuff to know before you find yourself sitting on the roof in your bathrobe waving at passing news helicopters.
Do I believe you will actually do anything to prepare for the next, inevitable natural disaster? No, I do not – and neither does FEMA. There is, in fact, little reason to believe a majority of America’s adults will suddenly start acting in a responsible and proactive manner. It is no surprise then that the agency has turned its attention elsewhere, to the nation’s youth. Because who knows, maybe they can get their parents off their complacent behinds.
I wish I could say FEMA’s appeal to kids is likely to make a difference in the country’s disaster preparedness plans. Based on my experience with grandchildren, however, it strikes me as a long shot.
Let’s say you send the kids to the site (www.ready.gov/kids). The first thing they’ll see is a list of “items you and your family will need” in an emergency. Let us review this list and (in italics) what you can realistically expect to find in your finished kit.
First aid kit(half a box of Hello Kitty bandages) Extra batteries (only the size that fits their electronic game player) Non-perishable food such as dried fruit or peanut butter(the peanut butter has a real shot) Matches in a waterproof container (no, they don’t know where you hide the matches and have no idea what a waterproof container is) Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap (ha ha) Paper plates, plastic cups and utensils, paper towels(one of each, you’ll have to share) Water, at least a gallon per person per day(completely beyond their comprehension) Battery-powered or hand-cranked radio (MP3 player) Sleeping bag or warm blanket for each person(Spider-Man sleeping bag filled with Doritos crumbs) Flashlights(as many as they can find – they like flashlights) Whistle to signal for help (plastic whistle from Chuck E. Cheese) Manual can opener (only if someone explains what “manual” means) Local maps (Minecraft post-apocalyptic city map) Pet supplies (some Scooby Snacks doggy treats) Baby supplies, formula, diapers(three graham crackers and a pair of old training pants)
As you can see, leaving preparation of the family’s emergency kit up to the kiddos might not be the best way to go. If I were the web designers at FEMA, I’d build a more realistic site for kids, one where the home page looks something like this…
“HEY, KIDS!!! Want to survive the next HURRICANE, TORNADO OR FLOOD? Of course, you do. That means you’ll have to start working on mom and dad RIGHT NOW! Just download and print this handy ‘I Want to Live Long Enough to Go to Prom’ list of everything you’ll need for your family emergency kit (we know you know how). Then hand the list to your parents and START BUGGING THEM – day in, day out, every day, until your family’s disaster kit is stocked and ready. (Meanwhile, be sure they keep the CELL PHONE charged up, or you could be out of touch with YOUR FRIENDS for a whole day or maybe even longer!)”
Do you see what I’ve done there? You have to appeal to what kids know and might even give a crap about. Otherwise, they’ll just think “not my problem” and go back to planning how to get the cat to wear a ninja costume for Halloween.
And you never know. The kids might prevail. Frankly, I have more faith in them than I do in you.
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Photo credits:
“Are You Ready”: careerealism.com
“Plan Ahead”: sharielf.com
Well, she never really existed, did she. But talk about your BFLs (big fat lies, I think I just made that up). For five years Miley Cyrus, aka Hannah, was the idol of just about every pre-preteen girl in America. I know my oldest granddaughter watched many an episode of the hit TV show and did all she could to help support the franchise. Now if a kid asks, “What happened to Hannah Montana?” her mother says, “Oh, I’m so sorry, dear. Hannah Montana is dead.”
Like most Disney Channel offerings, the show’s premise was always a stretch. Miley Cyrus played all-American teen Miley Stewart, who transformed into her alter-ego, rock superstar Hannah Montana, simply by donning a blonde wig and cooler clothes. Instantly, she was unrecognizable. No one ever caught on! It was Clark Kent and his glasses all over again.
Today the re-imaged Cyrus not only bears no resemblance to the character she once played, she was recently voted “Worst Celebrity Role Model for Kids” in a Yahoo Parenting poll. I guess I can understand why the role of Hannah might have become stifling after a while. But why go so quickly from preteen idol to shock queen slut of the Internet?
Oh, right. Money.
WHY?
Which is not to say Cyrus isn’t talented. She is. And she certainly isn’t the first Disney star to fall off the Fantasyland castle (think Britney Spears or Lindsay Lohan). Her determination to ditch the character that made her famous, however, makes the others look like amateurs.
In an interview for next month’s issue of Marie Claire magazine, Cyrus says her years of playing Hannah may have given her “body dysmorphia.” According to MayoClinic.org, this is a psychological disorder in which “you intensely obsess over your appearance and body image, often for many hours a day.” I get that. For sure the character she played was almost anorexically thin. (She was a pop star after all.) And if body dysmorphia is a battle Cyrus fought and won, good for her. I’m just not convinced that’s what started her down the road to twerking on live TV and swinging naked from construction equipment.
No doubt Cyrus would say she never asked to be a role model in the first place. And I have to admit, as athletes can only be athletes, we can’t really expect entertainers to be more than just that, entertainers. We all know the real role models should be parents or grandparents or people who spend their time doing good deeds and don’t go around blabbing about it.
And who can blame her for wanting to make some money off her fame? God knows Disney made enough. Then again, who would Miley Cyrus be if it weren’t for poor deceased Hannah? Not a 22-year-old making over $50 million a year, I’m thinking.
Oh, I know I’m on the cusp of being a COP (clueless old person). But remember back in the sixties, when we had that big liberation thing? Women were good and fed up with being treated like sex objects and weren’t afraid of being called feminists. Now entertainers like Cyrus – along with the many manifestations of “girls gone wild” online – could make you think that battle was never fought. I would just like to know, what the hell happened?
Created by: Kimmy B
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Photo credits:
DisneyChannel. com
urbansplatter.com
I got caught on the phone yesterday with seven-year-old Cosette. I called to see how her mother was feeling, as she had been sick for a few days, but I never did get to speak to her. Once Cosette answers, talking to anyone else in the house is not an option. You can either settle in for the duration or hang up (assuming you have an excuse she’ll accept) and try again later when she may be otherwise occupied, perhaps in telling her brothers what’s what. I had some time to kill, so I let her carry on.
HERE THEY COME
Lately Cosette has been concentrating her efforts on getting some chickens to raise in the backyard, so as to provide the family with fresh eggs daily and fried chicken on an occasional basis. Her father, who grew up in the country, and her mother, who is severely ornithophobic but a real trooper, are indulging her in this pursuit, despite the fact that they live in a crowded St. Paul suburb where you’d think there’d be better zoning restrictions.
I have to say Cosette knows more about the habits of chickens and the perils of owning them than I have gleaned in a lifetime. Her father will construct a chicken coop this fall, she says, with the goal of purchasing about ten baby chicks next spring. However, the instructions for building it are woefully lacking, so he has some research to do.
The chicks will have to stay in the basement until they are old enough to face the elements. Her mother is not pleased with this arrangement, but Cosette assures me that Mom won’t have to do a thing as she and five-year-old Bret Jr. will take care of all the chicks’ needs. This includes going into the basement every hour and squeezing them so that they don’t get pasty butt.
I had never heard of pasty butt, but I’ve since learned it is a very real affliction wherein poop dries around the chick’s “vent area” creating a seal that fresh poop cannot breach. The cure, according to Cosette, is to squeeze the chick until the poop comes out. Now I have not attempted to assay the validity of this claim. God help the innocent, that’s all I can say.
Assuming the chicks make it through this ordeal, when they are four or five weeks old they will be moved outdoors. This doesn’t mean they’re out of the woods, however, as Cosette has learned a coyote was recently spotted in the neighborhood. Said coyote has, in fact, killed all the neighbor’s chickens. (Yes, it is a neighborhood already rife with chickens.) As there was no roof on their pen, the coyote was able to jump in and then…hen havoc. The neighbors had to buy more chickens.
Okay, this next part is a little shifty, but I’m going to tell it just as it was told to me. I asked Cosette if she wasn’t worried about Ursa, their beleaguered dog, with a coyote running around. She said she has a plan for that. She is going to dig a hole in the backyard with a ramp that runs through the house and up to another hole in the roof. Then, aided by a “machine” she has yet to build, she will “launch” either Ursa or the coyote (this part was a little vague) into the ramp and out the hole in the roof, to what end I’m not sure.
Frankly, I think she was just adlibbing by this point. If you don’t cut her off, she will continue embellishing with information only she can comprehend. I said I had to go start dinner. Cosette said, okay, but to call her back, as there is a lot I don’t know and she needs to bring me up to speed. I can hardly wait.
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Grandma Kissed A Sailor 