Chickening In

I have chickened out of many things in my life, including skateboarding tricks with my friends back in eighth grade, black diamond runs at the Lake Louise ski hill, and even bungee jumping in Queenstown, NZ.

As I think back to those moments, I can almost feel the gnawing fear in my stomach and the paralysis that enveloped me as I stared at the skateboard ramp, the ski slope or the ravine I was to jump into with merely a bungee cord to protect me from death. Each time I chose not to try, I felt disappointed in myself but ultimately relieved that I was escaping potential injury or worse.

Now for the first time in my life I am chickening in, and, perhaps, even coining a new term. Chicken in: to give in to the relentless requests of a loved one and agree to have a chicken coop and thus chickens on your property.

Thus far, chickening in has not involved a great deal of effort on my part, but Phyll has been working diligently, because as she says, and I can't make this up, she is trying to make a nice home for our chickens.

 As the picture shows, she built a chicken coop from a kit (purchased from TSC should you be interested), and then built a larger run around it, using our old gazebo--Bern's genius plan--and covering it with, you guessed it, chicken wire. Thus the chickens have a small run where they are enclosed by two fences, and a larger run where they are still fully protected from the likes of coyotes and foxes.

Meet Stella and Fern who arrived on Thursday. I took this photo Friday when I checked their nesting boxes, hoping to see two eggs shining up at me. It turns out that fear can scare the poop out of a creature (or in the case of the Gingerbread Man from Shrek a jelly tot), but not so an egg.

Saturday morning, while Phyll slumbered, I ventured out again secretly hoping that I would be the one to discover the first eggs. Do you see how addictive chickening in is?  I protested their arrival for years, and now I am out there, observing their habits and hoping they will provide me with a small meal.

Picture this pastoral scene: Chebbi stood barking at the gate, wanting to know what these new creatures were, Willow wandered into the yard, crying from hunger after a night on the lam, and the chickens clucked in protest at the dog, the cat, and their whole new world.

I lifted the roof of their home to find they had laid no eggs, but they had managed to make a big mess by knocking over their water dish that Phyll had hanging by a wire. Even though their feet look quite rubbery, I didn't think they would appreciate a wet floor, so I cleaned it up while they clucked and cooed with their red combs flopping back and forth all the while. At one point they got quite bold; the first one walked down the little ramp, and the second came careening behind her, but they soon scrambled back inside.

Phyll has spent many hours since then trying to position their water container so they don't keep knocking it over. She has also been checking them every few minutes to see if they've ventured out of the coop where she has placed scraps for them to peck at. She claims one is bolder than the other and has ventured further. As the sun was setting last night, one of the girls did lean her head out to enjoy the last golden light of the day.

Phyll is very excited about this new addition to the family, and in fact while at school, ostensibly working but really just finishing this blog post, she sent a photo, with a Lindor chocolate juxtaposed for perspective on our wee egg. I can’t help but feel the twisted ends of the wrapper look like wings.  How perfect.

It may be a few weeks yet before we are whipping up quiches and soufflés, but I have to admit that, so far, chickening in feels much better than chickening out.

On A Lucky Day

During the dogs’ absence, I have witnessed an interesting phenomenon.  When the cats and I were first on our own, back at the beginning of the summer, they were tentative about moving upstairs to eat or to sleep or play their all-night games of Crazy Eights, because, let’s face it, with the arrival of Chebbi, it was a lot safer and quieter in the basement, where they still had an endless supply of food, several beds to choose from, without being pursued or tormented by a impossibly large creature with unmanageable hair and golden brown eyes.

After a few days, though, Willow began to venture upstairs.  The first day she could only manage a few bites of food before bolting, but gradually she grew bolder and not only did she eat an entire bowl of food, but she took to staying for the whole day, curled up in the vastness of the dog bed. 

Willow at sea.

Having never put the cameras in to track their actions, I can’t say for certain what the cats got up to in our absence, but let’s just say they had become pretty territorial by the time I got back and felt it was within their right to ask for two pieces of I.D. before letting me in. Xena seems to have left her own body weight worth of hair on the rugs, while Duke, when he sees fit to come home at all, sprawls wherever he chooses. Willow has taken to curling up with me when I read, though like the best of cats, her objective is to disrupt my reading by walking back and forth between my book and me.

I can’t help but feel the cats know that their halcyon days are growing to a close.  They have been lounging all over the house and out on the pool deck as if they want to take advantage of every final moment of dog-free existence. I swear they are tracking the dogs’ progress; I’m sure they made Duke look up New Brunswick on the map last night after they heard Phyll had made it to Edmunston.  They probably counted on their paws how many hours it would be before Chebbi and Griff rolled in.

I feel awful knowing that the moment Willow registers the dogs’ arrival, she will retreat downstairs, and I will see her only when I venture into the coolness of the basement. They are cats, they will be fine, Phyll tells me when I express my concerns.  Just get ready, she says as she drives towards home, for a big dog on the bed tonight. 

The reality is that sometimes it’s difficult to make everybody happy regardless of your best efforts. This truth became glaringly obvious to me yesterday when my friend Kelly and I offered to look after our friend Tanya’s twins, Easton and Emmett, for a few hours while she and her husband Ryan packed up their house to get ready to move. Tanya and Kelly live only a block apart, so Tanya wheeled the boys over to Kelly’s in their little wagon, and we took them from there to the nearby park. As Kelly pulled them, I walked alongside of the wagon, and watched as both boys stared at us intently. Facing each other as they rode along, they were content, but as we stopped the wagon and reached down to lift them out, they suddenly realized that we were not familiar, not familiar at all.  And they howled.  More precisely, Easton, as Kelly lifted him into her arms, began to bellow.  Not more than a second or two later, Emmett, now in my arms, chimed in.  Two distraught boys, crying in stereo, can create quite a cacophony. In that swell neighbourhood, I was worried someone might alert the authorities. Now Kelly has raised two sons and is no stranger to the world of a child’s tears, and I have plenty of memories of babysitting children who would suddenly “play strange” as the expression goes, so we both went into distraction mode. Kelly tried the swings and the big digger truck that some kind person had left at the playground, while I pointed out the movable blocks with pictures of animals on them, but to no avail.  We knew we were in difficulty when Kelly offered them each a biscuit and they shook their heads vehemently.  No, no, no. 

They were clearly stressed, and thinking back to my own moments of homesickness upon waking in my camp bunk and wishing desperately that I were home in my bed, I felt terrible for them.  Luckily, the solution for our charges was less drastic than building a raft and paddling home from camp. The moment we placed them back in the wagon and started to move, the crying stopped.  Perhaps the boys thought that as long as they were in motion they were potentially coming closer to mommy and daddy, but I imagine it was more simple than that.  The motion of the wagon was soothing, and the sights and sounds were distracting.  They were fascinated by a man mowing his lawn, and we considered going in search of mower after mower, but because it was one of the hottest days of the summer, shade was our first priority, and we simply walked the streets of the nearby neighbourhoods.  As they recovered from their crying jags, with the odd shudder from the after shock, they began to look around more, and as every good teacher does, I tried to point out things that might interest them. I started with leaves and then amped it up with maple keys.  And that was enough.  Who doesn’t love twirling a maple leaf in his hot little hand, or dragging a clump of maple leaf keys over his chubby legs? Being the mother she is, Kelly came well prepared with bottles of cold water, which they enjoyed picking up and putting down. Simple distractions; simple pleasures. 

Easton and Emmett in motion

We were all relatively happy, if somewhat weary, as we rolled the wagon into Tanya and Ryan’s backyard an hour or two later.  I am happy to report they did not burst into tears upon seeing Tanya and Ryan, though they were eager to crawl all over her as we sat in the shade in the backyard, Kelly and I with a nice cold cider, which I have to say we earned. I was happy to see them splashing in the pool, digging in the dirt, no worse off for the momentary trauma they had experienced.

We do what we can to keep the people (and animals) we care about happy and safe.  On a lucky day, a wagon in motion will suffice.

Please read my summer blog!

I have started my Roughing it in the Cape Breton Bush blog again. Here is the link:

http://rtodd-logansglen.blogspot.ca/?m=1

Caught Up in the Chase

I have run three five km races in the past month or so, and in each case I have been chasing a time of 19:59 or faster.  Yes, I was trying to break what to me was a daunting barrier of 20 minutes. Whenever I tell people that I find 5 km races tougher than marathons, they look at me like I am out of my mind. It really is a statement that requires explanation.  What makes five km races so difficult, for me, is the level of effort required throughout the entire race.

Here’s what a five km race feels like.  At least here is how it felt last night, as I ran the Summer’s Night race in Guelph, beginning and ending at the Music Center on Cardigan. The gun goes off, and I try to get over the starting mats as quickly as possible.  I pick up speed and stride along to the first corner, feeling good as I hear the crowd cheering and before my body fully registers the effort I am making.  After I turn onto Dufferin St. I look down at my watch, check my pace, and see that I am going out way too fast, as in a 3:45 minutes/km pace.  May day, may day; this is not sustainable. I will blow up, and blow up quickly if I continue, as in collapse at the side of the road gasping for air, or worse.  I immediately dial back the pace, and watch as friends such as Chris and Tanya surge further ahead of me, as they should. 

Okay, this feels better, especially as I finish the slow rise up Dufferin and turn right, heading downhill towards the bike trail. As I begin on the trail, the numb feeling in my legs passes as a little more oxygen seems to be making it to my muscles.  I slow to a 3:55 pace.  Still a little ambitious; it could cost me later.  I have run enough races to know that for every second I go out too fast at the start, I will pay tenfold in the final kilometers.

Running behind the music center, I am buoyed by the voices of friends cheering me on, and I turn with exuberance towards the Norwich bridge. Turn again and I am on Arthur, running past my old condo and past the park where I walked Frodo in my early days of dog ownership. The daylight is dwindling, and dusk descends as I enter the grounds of Homewood and run beneath a canopy of trees.  I can feel myself slowing a little and check my watch to see I have dipped down to a 4:00 pace, yet I feel strong as I surge past my running friend Art, who encourages me as I go.  ‘You look strong, Robin, lots in the tank; just run by feel.” Perhaps he sees me checking my watch.  The thing is I can run by feel to a degree, but if it feels good, it is probably because I have slowed by a few seconds, and the watch keeps me honest.

I am through the Homewood grounds, and winding along the streets towards Speedvale, past the live music. I believe it is a trio to mark the 3^rd km, but I am labouring at this point and am focused just on breathing and regaining my pace.

Onto Speedvale and a small uphill to get to the trail, then onto the trail I have run hundreds of times.  It is straight in to the finish from here, but the city has not opened the bike gates, so I have to slow down to get around each one.  Hey, I’m fifty and not so nimble, but I manage to avoid colliding with any gates, even in my oxygen-deprived state.

I am uncomfortable, extremely so, and feel like retching, but miraculously I am still moving. I get onto the gravel trail and know it is just a matter of winding around past the park to the finish line behind the music center.  With the finish line so close I try to pick up my pace. I am not sure if I do or if the two men in front of me are merely slowing down, but either way I manage to pass them as I surge toward the finish line.

I can see the clock.  It is already registering 20:08 and I still have meters to go.  I have gutted it out, but today is not my day to break 20 minutes.  I am flooded with a mixture of relief—it is over—and disappointment—at finishing in 20:13.  I need to bend over for a few seconds to regain my equilibrium, but as I straighten I am greeted by Tanya and Chris, who finished a minute ahead of me. Their first question, of course, is did you go under 20? I shake my head, and they are quick to reassure me. This is not a PB course, they say consolingly, and the warmth of their words helps dissolve my disappointment.

As the evening settles in, I go for a cool down run with Chris and Deb, both very talented runners, and as we jog along, the talk quickly shifts from the race to the challenges of training while raising small children (do puppies count?) Deb recounts having run on her treadmill in the garage last week while her daughter napped.  The garage door was open and her neighbour looked at her quizzically as he mowed his lawn.  

We return to the music center, where the meeting room is full of runners consuming a seemingly endless supply of pizza and chocolate milk.  For those who can stomach it, there is beer to be enjoyed. As I stand talking to fellow runners such as Kelly, my training partner on the coldest winter days, and my travelling buddy to marathons such as Corning and Boston, thirteen seconds suddenly seems so very slight.

Simple Enough

I was quite aghast when I looked at the date of my last posting. Since that post the days have careened along in a way that reminds me of white water rafting when I was working out in Lake Louise.  That was back in 1984 or 1985, so I don’t recall a lot of details, but I do remember sitting in the sturdy rubber raft on a hot summer day, as we shot down the Columbia River near Golden, B.C. I was hanging on intently, with no time to look ahead and anticipate the next set of rapids.  Suddenly we would hit them and hurtle up out of our seats, or even sideways out of the raft as I did at one point, only to have my friend grab onto my life jacket and haul me down to the safety of the raft’s floor. Now I’m not suggesting that the end of the school year was dangerous, but it was one set of rapids after the next, starting with thirty-page creative writing projects, some of which were almost physically painful to read.  Think angels and demons, car wrecks and comas, and you can imagine the worst of them.  Then came exams and report cards, and end of the year speeches and roasts to prepare, and suddenly I found myself in the parking lot on the last day, shuffling to my car with no real sense of ta-da, we made it, though of course there never is that sense, as it is always a let down of sorts.

The thing with rapids is that once you are through them, you need time just to catch your breath and ponder what you’ve been through. Now that I’ve caught my breath, I have no excuse for not writing, except for the fact that like most things, when you stop for a while, stopping becomes easier than starting again. 

But I have been thinking about something for a while, and that is the phenomenon of knowing something or someone, only to be presented with information that contradicts your perception, sometimes entirely.

For example, I was running up Vance Rd. the other day when I heard something crashing through the grass behind me, and turned around to see Miss Deer running to greet me. What surprised me, beyond the rather noisy entrance she made, were the antlers that Miss Deer had grown since I had last seen her.  Well other than reindeer, female deer do not grow antlers, so I had a tough truth to face: Miss Deer was in fact Mr. Deer. I have to be honest, I was a little saddened, as I was quite fond of Miss Deer, or rather of the Miss Deer I had composed in my imagination. I would like to continue to feature her in my blog, and I guess I could have done so, as I don’t imagine there are many of you roaming up and down Vance looking for her (him).  But I feel I owe it to Mr. Deer to present him in an accurate light.  Therefore I reconciled myself to this newly discovered truth, patted his nice, velvety antlers and jogged along beside him for a time until we parted ways at the bridge.

Now this is no Crying Game revelation; Mr. Deer’s identity doesn’t change things for me, but it is a good reminder that the truth can be elusive or complex. I was struck by something my fellow librarian, Doug, wrote the other day in relation to a biography he was reading on Thomas Jefferson. He said that Jefferson was a complicated dude; he believed slavery was morally evil, yet he himself was quite racist. At the time I was just finishing Jane Leavy’s biography on Mickey Mantle and couldn’t help but feel the same thing about Mantle: he was a complicated dude. Leavy, who had idolized Mantle as a child growing up in New York, said in her introduction that she was determined to present Mickey Mantle as he was beyond the carefully constructed myth. The book took her years to write, as she interviewed so many people in an effort to present the truth, or the many truths of Mantle. Turns out he was pretty contradictory in nature. On the one hand he was a tremendously gifted ball player, who hit harder and ran faster than any player had ever done, and who was cast, against his will, as an American hero. On the other hand, he was a boy who never grew up; he was vulgar and crude and had no respect for women, and he struggled with alcohol addiction. In the end, I felt more than a little sad for Mickey Mantle.

By comparison, Mr. Deer is pretty uncomplicated.  He is who he is. At least for now, as I move beyond the school year and its many dramas, I think I want to surround myself with more Mr. Deers, who I can be sure of.  He likes his neck scratched, and his antlers rubbed, and he doesn’t mind when I swat mosquitoes away from his nose and eyes.  Simple enough.