stella in the chicken coop

As a girl, we would devote one Sunday a month driving down to the State Hospital to see my insane grandmother and my severely retarded sister. Neither knew we were there but that was irrelevant. These long treks took us through hours of rich Illinois farmland. My imagination was planted with the seeds that one day I would live in a white house with chickens in the yard, adjacent to a large red barn and drive a tractor across acres of bottomland. That was my going to be my life but like many roads that turn into cul-de-sacs, that one didn't exactly pan out as planned. And yet, I did manage to score a half acre in the middle of a city and set about making it a farm of sorts with gardens, a dog and... chickens.

Chickens... or the girls as I affectionate refer to them... are the perfect urban can't-be-in-the-country pet. They don't require much room, eat the garbage, give eggs of all colors and sizes, and produce this wonderful compost. I run a very humane operation and when their laying days are over, export them down to the country where they live out their final days unsuccessfully dodging coyotes and wild cats. Roosters are avoided because I can't tolerate the gang bang treatment they dish out to the hens... over and over and over. I feel like I'm running a whore house for those cocky son's of bitches.

Anway, last week I splurge and order the rare and unusual laying collection from McMurry Hatcheries. They guarantee a minimum of eight varieties, all girls, that include Cochins, Campines, Red Caps, Blue lace Wyandotte and other a few other exotic breeds. True exicitement. I have always raised chickens but they have always come to me as chickens, never chicks but I was ready to take the plunge and try my hand with little peepers. The weather is warm, the coop is secure, the starter feed is in the bin... what could go wrong? Everything.

The post office called at the crack of dawn informing me my chick order had arrived. Driving home I feel I am in a car with a hundred screen doors that desperately need their hinges oiled. I carefully unpack the box and pour them into the brooding house watching as they strut around, discovering their new home. They find the water bowls and being thirsty a number of the girls take the plunge. "How cute, they're swimming. They think they're ducks."

I return fifteen minutes later to find five of them dead and another six shaking uncontrollably and falling on their heads. Whaaaat is going on? Being an urban farmer, my first reaction is to send them back. I notice that the dead are thoroughly wet, as if they drowned so I grab their little carcasses, put them in a plastic bag to deposit in the trash and scoop the remaining chicks into their travel case. Running around like a chicken with it's head cut off I yell for Tomas, "They're all dead. We need a heat light... we need the extension cords.... we need helllllp."

Quickly assessing the situation he gets the hair dryer and one by one we start blow drying their little feathers. It's a slow process but the technique is proving successful. The circulation returns to their feet, they stand alone, no bobbing head routine. I suggest that perhaps we should get the ones out of the trash and see if we can have any luck with them. It's a 'what have we got to loose' scenario until we pull them from the plastic bag. Any coroner in the land would take one look at the closed eyes, the legs straight as a road heading east and sadly shake their head while pulling the sheet over the corpse. But not Tomas. His mother died when he was four and giving up on any life is not written into his script. He dries and prods them, interprets the drooping head as a sign of fatigue. He insists all they need is a round of physical therapy to be like new. I keep muttering 'give it up big boy...' Yet he perseveres and I realize this is one of his strongest attributes... he never gives up. It's one of the obvious secrets to our 32 years of marriage. The guy doesn't know when to throw in the towel.

Returning a half hour later I am witness to a miracle. All five corpses are strutting around the table, chirping, bumping into one another. We give them another hour in the rehab ward before returning them to the brooding house where they are happily greeted by the other girls. Huddled around the feeding tray I am curious if they relate their near death experience to the others.... Yes yes, definitely saw the light and there was this warm wind blowing....but it just wasn't my time....

McMurry Hatcheries has hundreds of breeds of poultry but they may want to consider the new Lazarus line. I envision the ad: Guaranteed to bring you pleasure and an abundance of eggs; will survive subzero temperatures, scorching heat and a short trip to the other side. Money back guarantee not necessary.

Stella and Nell on an overnight in Rye

You will not believe where Nell and I have been invited for an overnight. A beautiful mountain home, nestled in the pines with a majestic view spanning the open prairie that rolls and dips nonstop to Kansas. I sit back kick back and listen to the Rufus sided hummingbirds play their bombardier game of tag with each other as they vie for position at the feeder. The house... and this is just no simple summer cabin... is decorated in a stunning scheme of French country .... but good French country... trust me, the word tacky stops at the front gate around here. The rough hewn cabinet with its battle rust finish rests gracefully next to the massive stone fireplace. Overstuffed couches covered in a pattern of giant blooming peonies are an open invitation to step into this garden of abundance, to sleep, to dream. Spotted throughout are dried rich flower assortments arranged in perfect harmony to compliment their basket or vase... a fete which never ceases to capture my appreciation ... even though I make vases for a living, coordinating
the right flower arrangement to dance in suspended air over its vase is a skill that avoids me like growing Impatiences in full sun. Similar to the bathroom soap basket that rests on the back of the toilet in a guest bathroom. Balls of French lavender soap surrounded with sprigs of lavender and dried summer thyme ... all nestled in a chenille towel and topped with a soft lavender bow. This also embues me with awe ... inspires me to try and recreate this token of stylishly greeting, positioned perfectly for me and my pee. But my arrangements fall flat....the towel is older, the soap is cheaper and the lavender sprigs wilt. My arrangements give the impression I waste large amounts of time roaming the isles at Hobby Lobby. I’ve decided that any Martha Stewart gene I may have received scrambled to another rung on my helix ladder. It’s usually a matter of days before these banal endeavors get flushed away and we can all breath a sigh of relief at the extinguishing of yet another myth.

This kind of setting, inside and out, requires lots of money and is reason enough to play the lottery faithfully. F.Scott Fitzgerald: “The rich are different from us.”
Hemmingway: “yea, they have more money.”

But dispite all this affluence, this is a house of sadness because Juanita is leaning how to live here alone. The walls reverberate with a hollow emptiness and the choice to end a marriage resonates within my own being. With the exception of the fine fabrics, setting,atmosphere, and wine this reality could be mine ... what a sobering thought. Kind of like driving the Queen Mary solo. Dispite all the overwhelming challenges that come with Tomas, living in this world would not be trading up. So, it is good Nell and I came up here... a sigh of relief for finding yet another reason to sustain the myth.

Stella Martinez catches the wave

I feel like the day my mother yanked me out of school, tossed my bathing suit at me in the back seat of the car and announced to my brother and me, “ you guys are going body surfing.” It was a pre Hurricane Donna ocean and the south Ft. Lauderdale beaches were going to get slammed. People were shuttering their windows, the coast guard had issued high sea warnings, everyone was fleeing the storm. I kept wondering what is wrong with this picture as we made our way to the beach. I couldn’t have been more than 5’ tall, skinny with a mop of curly hair. I stood on the shore, assessing the force of my contender, the sand quickly eroding under my feet as the current attempted to drag me into the torrent. Storm clouds ominous gray and black stretch towards the horizon in an unbroken mass of threatening violence. What is she thinking?

Glancing at my brother, he grins before taking the plunge. I follow, swimming out into the turbulent water, quickly determining where I can stand... thigh deep for leverage to push into the wave but deep enough that I can find refuge by diving under.

Body surfing mimics life in that timing plays a major role. Looking up into the frenzied froth looming over me I wait wait for a sensible moment to take the wave but one never comes. This wave has murderous intentions so I dive into the seething crescendo.. holding my breath, feel the massive turbulence swell over me in a gently rocking motion. Such an oxymoron. Two feet above my head chaos reigns but down under it’s a baby’s cradle. Rising to the surface I spy another one more threatening than the first. I dive again and again ... shocked that I am out in this force of nature that is determined to do me death by smashing me into the sand and splintering me like a busted two by four. What is she thinking and where the hell is she? I have no sight of my brother. The undertow is pulling me out and the behemoth waves are getting larger and more frequent... I am going to have to grow gills if I am to survive this onslaught.

Then somehow the years of training, preparing me for this event bubble to the surface of my consciousness and I realize that there is no choice but to find the wave that’s going to deliver me home. Scrambling to where I can feel the bottom under my feet I wait for what seems like an eternity to a ten year old....and then I spy it... six out... the storm is taking a breather... it’s my ride...only as it draws closer it gains in size.... are you sure?... and I wait wait until the ‘now’ floods through my brain and I push off into the fury. Nono no... I pull my little body into a ball ...realizing I am in the grip of the beast and I have to get as small as possible... become a grain of sand....as I am being drawn out of the water and into the air.... I am on the crest, I am a dribble of spit.

My mother glances up from her book in time to see a pink dot explode pass her windshield. I had been thrown about forty feet... missed the concrete breakwater by inches. No broken bones, though... no cerebral hemorrhage. Fighting the pelting rain she gathers me up in her arms and inquires, “fun, huh? My deepest suspicions were confirmed: I was in the presence of an insane woman or a great teacher. Either way, I got the message first hand....sink or swim..... but all these years later I wonder, when do I get to float?