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Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road? To Get To The Ritz-Cluckton, Of Course.

25 Apr

Published in The Ferndale Record, April 24, 2013

The craziness in the world, the threats to American security at home and abroad, and what can be done about any of it makes me want to write about one thing, and one thing only—chicken hotels.

I care about this subject not because I’ve tended chickens or even know much about them. But my sister’s pet name for me involves a chicken and from an early age I had the ability to cluck like a real chicken, and as a result, provided countless hours of dazzling, high- class entertainment for those in my closest circle. I also impersonate a spot-on trumpet, but that’s another column.

When my daughter kept chickens at her farm in the county, she cleverly named them, giving rather simple animals a fun persona. Her coop was home to Cluck Norris, Hen Solo, Feather Locklear, and Chicky Ricardo among others.

So, when I read an article on nbcnews.com about over-night accommodations for one’s poultry, entitled “No plucking joke,” I was drawn to it like a McNugget to barbecue sauce.

Bill Bezuk of Eugene, Oregon is the proprietor of what he believes is the first chicken hotel in the country.

“The basic service – fresh food, water and a safe place to sleep – costs $2 per chicken per night,” the article states. “For a dollar more Bezuk offers ‘deluxe accommodations’ – organic food, fresh vegetable scraps and turndown service. Yes, really. Turndown service.”

Curious to find out how one might place a mint or chocolate chip cookie on a chicken’s pillow, I read on. It’s not exactly what you think. Although I suppose in the world of poultry, this constitutes a treat.

Around the time chickens generally hit the hay, Bezuk or one of his employees tempt the hens into an enclosed space with mealworms. Now that’s luxury!

Since city councils all over the nation are voting in favor of urban livestock, resulting in more chicken farmers next door, Bezuk’s plans are to capitalize on the trend. He currently keeps two suites (housing six to eight chickens each), and will be adding two more split-level suites.

Apparently, the United Kingdom is ahead of the curve and has already cashed in on the chicken craze, boasting a few boarding sites of its own. The Fowlty Towers is in Cowden, southeast England, and The Chicken Hotel in Cornwall offers spa treatments, including pedicures. Pedicures for chickens—you read that correctly.

Just because these animals possess the intellectual capability of driftwood doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate extravagance. Well, maybe it does. But their people do, and that’s where Bezuk and his fellow chickenistas come in.

“The challenge with The Nest [his facility] is the challenge with any hotel,” he says. “Avoiding overbooking and making sure that the chickens check out on time. Cleaning the room between guests is clearly important.”

Well, there you have it. Just when you thought there were no opulent digs for your chicken while you’re on vacation, along comes the likes of Bill Bezuk with his responsible and practical approach.

And mealworms for an extra dollar per night? Sweet.

 
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Posted by on April 25, 2013 in general musing

 

Tales Of A Recovering Hyper Over-Enthusiast

28 Mar

Published in The Ferndale Record, March 27, 2013

I used to be ‘that’ mother. The one that yelled the loudest from the stands for her kid on the field, the one that clapped and hooted vigorously after every child’s performance, the one that gushed and cooed over every ‘participant’ ribbon my children brought through the door. 

When it was a trophy or winning award, the air oozed with gusto that could easily suffocate everyone else in the room. Exceptional examples of schoolwork or first numbers scrawled on a napkin were stuck onto the refrigerator for months.

Everyone knows parents who fall into the hyper-enthusiastic category. I thought prolonged cheerleading was how one motivated offspring, and didn’t know any other way to express the abundance I felt.

Then some time ago I discovered how embarrassing my antics had been to one of my children. This cut deep and hard. In the name of encouragement and parental zeal, I’d humiliated one I love.

I used to be ‘that’ mother, and inside my heart of hearts, I still am. I’ve toned it down, which is not a natural state for me, but curiously, especially as the mother of adult children, it’s revealing. Maybe it’s simple maturity or something like it, but robust hollering from the sidelines has been replaced with perspective and gratitude.

Recently, my son and daughter-in-law invited me to Boston for a visit. I got to spend a few days with their family, see them in their natural habitat, and observe the life they’ve built since their move from Seattle last summer.

The entire trip could have been me shouting from the stands. “Oh, this is wonderful! I love this house! What adorable children you have! This city is amazing! WOO HOO!” I could hear it all rumbling around in my soul. When we drove past Fenway Park, I’ll admit to a somewhat sedated outburst. I just couldn’t help it.

Then, right before the flight back to Seattle, I visited my son’s office on the 14th floor with a spectacular view of the Boston skyline. I saw his name on the door and felt that tug again—the one that wants to gush.

I saw the pictures of family on his shelves, the awards he’s earned, and quite suddenly I felt like he’d just brought his first finger painting home from kindergarten. Only this time, I had no words, no overwhelming ebullience to express. It caught in my throat, and the only thing I could feel was joy.

As he drove me to the airport I told him what a great job I thought he was doing with his family, his life, and that it was lovely to witness. He laughed and said something like, “And this from a mother who thinks everything I do is great!”

“No,” I told him, “It’s more than that. You love your wife and children and they love you. Your kids feel safe and want to be with you. You are building a happy life. I’m telling you I can see that.”

I’ve figured out that it’s not so much about me being a frenzied proponent as it is about loving without agenda, guile and ego. When I do that, my tendency to emote gets swallowed up in pure joy.

I still bubble over occasionally and probably always will. But there’s more satisfaction in subdued observation than I ever would have thought. Gravy days for sure!

 
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Posted by on March 28, 2013 in life stuff, mom stuff, uncategorized

 

Make It Retro, Please

14 Mar

Published February 27, 2013 in The Ferndale Record

Disconnecting cable TV was a brave thing for me to do. It was a monthly expense I could ditch and feel pretty good about. But as a child of the TV age, it’s always been within my reach to entertain, soothe and keep me company. It’s not a popular thing to admit, but I love television and yes, my children were raised within TV’s warming glow.

So, I miss it, but not because of Downton Abbey, the series finale of 30 Rock, or Saturday Night Live. I can watch those online if I want. I just miss it being there, ready to distract and delight me on command.

Since my remote using days are over for the time being, I’ve become attached to Internet sites that dish up what I can rarely find, even with a bazillion cable or dish channels. I get the old stuff, whenever I want it. Nice, right? I’m not talking about I Love Lucy, which can be seen somewhere in the world at any time of the day or night—and with good reason: it’s a classic.

Recent exploration has led me back to television in the 80s when my hair was big and highlighted, and my children were babies. It was a time when anything seemed possible and Ronald Reagan was President. I wore Hard Rock Café t-shirts and a Mickey Mouse watch purchased on Main Street in Disneyland. When I dressed up, it was in clothing with shoulder pads large enough for aircraft to safely land upon and chunky, sparkly jewelry like Cybill Shepherd wore in Moonlighting.

Days were for keeping up with the family and evenings for losing myself in whatever tripe I could find on the tube. It was rarely soapy drama. No Dallas or Dynasty for me. I was more about MacGyver and The A-Team for adventure, The Wonder Years (if I needed a poignant pause), and every Friday night it was ABC’s lineup of comedy, mostly importantly, Perfect Strangers.

I don’t own the DVDs (yet), but finding full episodes of this show online reminded me of why I watched TV in the first place. It’s full-blown, utter silliness with physical comedy that rivals that of Lucy Ricardo and Ethel Mertz. It’s sweet without too much sap, and the chemistry and timing between the lead actors is crazy good.

There’s no high moral message, no “something to think about,” just complete nuttiness that makes me laugh every time

I appreciate it even more now because it reminds me of those Friday nights when all my kids were under the same roof, no electronics distracting any of us. There we were, just hanging out, watching TGIF together.

Online viewing has other perks besides nostalgia. Before the networks and cable stations turned closing credits into half screens and filled the void with what’s coming up next, you could actually hear the music (sometimes good stuff) and read the credits without a de-squintization device (I know there’s no such thing, but if there was, it would apply here).

Until the day I have TV again, and I will, I’m entertained and informed with a good Internet connection. And not always, but sometimes, I’ll use technology’s built in time machine to revisit the exquisite buried treasure inside my computer.  I’ve got to say, it’s worth the trip.

 
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Posted by on March 14, 2013 in general musing

 

Too Many Clouds? Watch For The Light

30 Jan

Published in The Ferndale Record and The Lynden Tribune, January 30, 2013

Grave and inhumane acts occur every aching minute all over the world. Injustice and inequities, agendas both hidden and blatant seem to cover the sun, and it’s easy to wallow there, to get stuck.

I decided to think hard for just a few minutes (any more than that is a stretch for me) about what’s good and right in my world. There’s plenty, and if it’s happening to me, something similar happens to everyone, in every culture, in every nation, in every family. The consensus? In the muck, there are tender mercies and flashes of light. The trick is to grab and remember them.

Last year delivered some brilliance. I found out that I get a granddaughter this coming June, the Olympic Games rocked my world for a couple of weeks, I was the recipient of stunning acts of kindness and generosity, and I got to spend a solid week on the beach in Oregon.

Any of those items alone would have been enough to call it a fantastic year. But there were a few other things that stood out. Here are my top five shiny moments for 2012 – in no particular order, except number one, which is in its rightful place at the front of the line.

5. I sold a home. It’s my first time doing this as a single person. I had stellar help from a rock star realtor and advisors who knew their stuff. I was never alone in the process, but in the end it had to be my decision. I felt like such a grown-up.

4. After downsizing with reckless, joyous abandon, I moved into an apartment. Visitors are welcome. But I love the peace, relative quiet, and the ability to do, be and wear (or not wear) whatever I want, whenever I want.

3. One night I went out to dinner with my teenage son at his favorite eatery. We munched and laughed our way through conversations about video games, our favorite TV and James Bond, and then it was time to go our separate ways. We stood to leave and right there, in front of God and all the diners at Red Robin, he leaned in and kissed my forehead. I felt goofy and grateful. Months later, the sweetness of that unsolicited, public display of affection from my boy still lingers.

2. I ran a mile without stopping. This is not likely a huge accomplishment for many other people, but for me the experience was giddy and life affirming. In my world it’s one of those “If I can do that, I can do anything” kind of moments.

And, a tiny speck of brilliance ended my 2012 a week before the year was officially over:

1. On Christmas Day, six of our family members went to a movie together. I sat next to my daughter who, like me, appreciates music on a cellular level. It sears our souls. It speaks to the core of who we are and never leaves us. I knew the movie would be almost entirely sung, but was surprised at how the story and actors combined to make the experience so personal. During one especially fragile scene, my daughter gently laid her head on my shoulder, took my hand and started to sob. The connection and belonging of that brief instant will live in me forever.

I could write a column about all the bad things that happened last year, and there were more than a few. But why? Light always prevails. Always.

 
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Posted by on January 30, 2013 in life stuff

 

New Year’s Evolution: Love, Hate, Whatever..

11 Jan

Published in The Ferndale Record and The Lynden Tribune, January 2, 2013

A long time ago I decided to stop making a big deal out of New Year’s—both Eve and Day. I’m happy with this decision and here’s why: Less pressure.

I used to like the hoopla. When I was a child and a teenager it was all about socializing and usually I had lots of fun. But the year I was 16, I found out, quite by accident, that my boyfriend had been at a New Year’s Eve party in another town with another girl. My heart ached and for a long time anything associated with New Years was off my radar.

I moved into adulthood ready to enjoy this renowned party night again. When my children were little, I reserved baby sitters months in advance. That’s right—months, just so my husband and I could go out with friends on New Year’s Eve. We must have had a good time because we kept doing it. But for all of the feverish anticipation, specific wardrobe selection and carefully detailed plans that were involved, I’m thinking, was it really that great?

The December 31st that I was expecting my fourth child, I couldn’t stay awake until midnight. Boom. There it was. That was the year I realized it was OK, maybe even better to do what I really wanted (which, in this case was go to sleep), as opposed to what felt mandated by the masses.

Even more years passed before I got out of the biggest end-of-December-first-of-January rut of all—New Year’s resolutions. I stopped making them, and here’s the kicker: No repercussions and no guilt! January 1st came and went without the seas boiling, and my inner rebel was saying, “See? It’s no big deal!”

Exactly. While some people view the midnight hour from December 31st to January 1st as magical, granting them super powers upon which to cruise into the new year, I do not. If I want to exercise more, lose weight, read more books, eat more bacon, learn to spot weld or shake it Gangnam style, I can begin my new project on March 3rd or July 14th.  Too many deals I’ve made with myself have been broken in the name of a new year. Never again.

So now, if I look back objectively, which of course we all do, I can see how this time of year used to be fun, and it still could be if I choose. I can also see how in the past I tried too hard to make it something it wasn’t—ground breaking, forever-beginning, first day of the rest of my life-ish. I can do that any day I want.

Freedom can be a by-product of hindsight. A good party, small get together, Times’ Square in New York, these things all appeal to me at different times. But so does skipping December 31st altogether. Yeah, that’s it. Let’s jump right to, oh I don’t know, January 2nd maybe?

The thing is, I really want to like New Year’s and look forward to it sometimes. But I don’t want holiday revelry to be required by law (or others who see me as anti-social), and I intend to feel just fine when someone asks “What are you doing for New Year’s?” and I can say with confidence, on both sides of the calendar, “Whatever I want.”

 
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Posted by on January 11, 2013 in life stuff

 

Locked, Loaded And A Little Bit Humbled

29 Nov

Published in The Ferndale Record and The Lynden Tribune, November 28, 2012

The three of us, my daughter, my 15-year-old grandson (who, of course, was born when I was 25) and I made a trip south to the Norpoint Shooting Center in Arlington.

We walked in and my daughter said we wanted to shoot guns, but that she and I had never done it before. The tough-as-nails guy behind the counter looked at the boy and said condescendingly, “So, I guess you’ve played Call of Duty, right?” Apparently, he’d seen this scenario before.

Our boy’s answer was classic. Not glib, sarcastic, or even defensive. “I know how to shoot guns. I’ve done it a lot. My dad taught me.”

Camping trips into the Colorado wilderness with his rugged and kind father taught him plenty about guns and how to use them in real life.

OK, then, on to the business portion. Waivers were signed and money was exchanged.

We each chose a paper target and rented our weapon of choice. Mine was a Smith & Wesson Military and Police 9mm handgun. My daughter wanted to try a 10/22 rifle. The boy went with a .357 Magnum.

We were assigned a lane on the range and since two of us didn’t know what we were doing, the teenager who did had to stay on the lane with each of us, one at a time, to provide instruction and safety. We took turns politely.

Even with the ear protection we were given, it was loud on the range. Funny, it doesn’t sound or feel that shattering on TV or in movies, but I quickly learned that the whole process is way different than I imagined. It’s not just point and shoot. There are matters of focus, awareness, procedure and protocol.

My first shot, complete with muzzle fire, shook me to the core of who I am physically and emotionally. I laid the gun down on the platform and promptly felt I’d had enough. The powerful recoil was overwhelming; gunfire was coming from lanes on both sides and an ugly feeling rose up in me. The peace-loving, baby-protecting, violence-hating young mother I used to be made an appearance. I could see her wagging her finger at me in horror.

But the woman I’ve become put her in her place. No, I don’t intend to harm another person, rob a convenience store, kill birds for sport, or own a weapon. I went there just to shoot, and I wasn’t leaving after one round. I had to dig deep.

Without making my experience sound loftier than it was, I came away with a couple of new thoughts. I realized for the first time how utterly grateful I am to people who use firearms on a daily basis in my behalf. I wouldn’t want to do it for a living, but I’m thrilled there are good people who are willing to serve and protect.

Also, I convinced myself to do something unusual, different for me, and a little unnerving, simply to see what it was like. It was harder than I thought, on every level. So, I decided to use it as a metaphor for my life. I saved the shiny casing of my first round and it reminds me I can do difficult things.

Props for the day go to the boy, who exhibited not only considerable firearm smarts and safety, but compassion, patience and tolerance for rookies. Also, he spent the day before his 15th birthday shooting guns with his mother and grandmother, and in that capacity alone must have set some sort of teenage precedent.

I would go again. After all, Mondays are “Ladies Night,” and 50 percent off the usual cost. But mostly, I agree with The Simpsons’ Krusty the Clown when he said, “Guns aren’t toys. They’re for family protection, hunting dangerous and delicious animals, and keeping the king of England out your face.”

Thanks, Krusty. Words to live by.

 
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Posted by on November 29, 2012 in uncategorized

 

Changing Plans, Trivial Pursuits And The Color Yellow

24 Oct

Published in The Ferndale Record, October 24, 2012

Sometimes, even when things don’t turn out like you want, they still turn out pretty good. Sometimes, the outcome is simply excellent.

When my children were little I was like a lot of other parents and had ideas about how it should go. I would rock and sing them to sleep at night. We would read books together early and often, graduating to advanced literature along the way. We would listen to classical and sacred music. We would go build homes for the poor in a third world country, and my children would shun pedestrian forms of entertainment in favor of more poignant, meaningful fare. OK, there’s some hyperbole in there, but you get the point.

Fast forward a few years up to last week. I sat in Buckley’s in Belltown on 2nd Avenue in Seattle with two of my children, a niece, a nephew and a close family friend where we participated in a Simpson’s trivia contest. We blew away the competition and went home with a cash prize.

How did our family evolve from that idyllic scenario I dreamed about to well-seasoned, lowbrow comedy wizards? It was a surprisingly short trip.

To be fair, we are contributing members of society. Some of us attend the symphony, we’ve all read books that don’t even mention The Simpsons, others graduated from prestigious institutions of higher learning, one is a classically trained pianist, some are athletes, we are gainfully employed, and bathe regularly.

Although we’re also a diverse group, one of our common denominators has been an ironic sense of humor, and recognizing clever when we hear it. Our attraction to the longest-running, animated prime-time series in the history of American television happened quickly in the early seasons of the show. For most Simpsons aficionados, the show jumped the proverbial shark somewhere between seasons five and eight.

A few questions at the contest, most having to do with those later seasons, stumped us. But we came away victorious in our general knowledge of nothing important to mankind, and were paid for our efforts.

For my two sons, it was also a moral victory because they won the competition last time, and were looking to retain the crown. These boys are ringers. They know The Simpsons well, obscure details and all. And while the rest of us contributed minimally, they delivered the goods.

Why does any of this matter? I’ll tell you. If it’s not a sick, twisted secret or behavior that unites a family, it can be a good thing. And on a Wednesday night in October, when each of us could have been engaged in any number of other meaningful, important activities, we were bound together by something trivial. Other family members in far away places posted good luck wishes on Facebook and anxiously waited to hear results. We were all on board.

When I held tiny babies and mused about lovely things, The Simpsons weren’t on my radar. But that’s where the whole flexibility thing comes in, I guess. Quoting choice lines from the show at just the right moment has become a badge of honor for us. It’s something we do well together, no matter how different we are in other ways.

For me, the switch from what I thought would be, to what is, is even sweeter. I got another childhood all over again, only this time with people who included me when they didn’t really have to. I’m lucky that way.

 
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Posted by on October 24, 2012 in people i like, the simpsons

 
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