Half a kilometer down the road is an on-going as we speak turkey convention. Now that I take the kids to school, I drive by it four times a day. By afternoon, half the participants have left for happy hour, but in the morning, I can count on fifteen or more of them milling around on convention business.
The convention takes place in a graveyard. The main hall in the convention centre is actually the gravesite of a six year old girl. Years ago, her grandparents made it into a little shrine and they keep it in pristine condition still. There are toys, a bench, a bird feeder. At night, there are soft lights. The path to the grave is always clear, even in winter. There is no sign that the turkeys find this an odd place for a convention. Quite the opposite. They love the free food, sprinkled liberally across the ground.
I pass the graveyard on my walks to the woods too. For a while there were raccoons who came. They would scamper up the trees as I walked by, then come down again when I was past. Countless deer stop by in a week, but most of the time they seem to have booked the centre for different hours. One day I saw the turkey convention with three deer standing right in the middle. I was too far off to see if they wore name tags, but it seemed to be working for everyone concerned.
I can’t quite explain why the turkey convention has caught my fancy this winter. Is it seeing so much life in the midst of death or is it just the turkeys? Turkeys are fun to watch. The way their heads move on the end of those long necks when they’re looking around makes me want to try it. I can’t get enough of the way they tip toe off in such a flutter of not subtle when they see me coming, all in a line, bustling like church ladies off into the trees, so proud of themselves for being so canny.
Most everything good and bad that’s gotten stuck in my craw these past few weeks has eventually made it to the part of my brain that remembers the turkeys. Exhausted. Excited. Discouraged. Incensed. Triumphant. I picture myself a turkey. Just one of the girls in a grand convention of turkeys. Oblivious to the miracle of life in the midst of death, but deadly serious about the way we stand, the order in the line, and who eats what when and how.
County Road 21 is closed for today. The few thoughts I had in my head got said yesterday. I went to bed standing up at 6:00 last night. From there, I wandered between children issuing barely intelligible directives. They got bored of me and went to bed early. You know it is bad, when no one even asks you to read to them. I made it to my pillow by 8:30 and that was that.
A fine day to you all. I’ll aim for a good walk before dinner and hope you have the gift of the same.
Wherein we contemplate eggs
And wonder why they only sell some kinds in the store
Why we try to save ourselves from things that are interesting
Like asking which kind of egg we are
And from laughing when we crack them
because on the inside they’re all the same.
You and me.
- Me and you
I am taking time off from the blog to do things like watch musicals, play games, visit family, and skate on the pond. Three items of business follow. If you only read one, read #3!!!!
1. Blogs will be intermittent (and written only if something really compelling occurs) until after the New Year.
2. If you want a quick e-mail to let you know about the occasional post between now and when regular life resumes, now is a great time to sign up for County Road 21 updates by clicking here . The system is very old school for the techno world. If you sign up, here is what to expect . . .
I send out an e-mail with a link to the blog anytime there is a new post. Normally, this means one e-mail a day, five days a week. The e-mail is from firstname.lastname@example.org and is sent manually using blind copies in a group e-mail. I do it this way because I could figure out how to do it and because I don’t personally like to sign up for things where I get notification every time someone comments, or even puts a smiley face.
3. IMPORTANT. VERY IMPORTANT. PLEASE READ.
I want to say thank you, to you, my readers. You have been such a gift to me. It is a privilege to have a place to write, and the fact that you show up and share the space with me both humbles and blesses me a great deal. Blog readership is growing, and that can only be thanks to you as well. Thank you sincerely to each of you for your support. For those who like to just read and not comment (a lot of my male readers fall into this category ) THANK YOU. For those who respond with comments, either privately by e-mail/facebook or on the blog, THANK YOU. For those of you who have read something you liked and passed it on to a friend or two, THANK YOU!
I pray for all of you often to have joy and love and all manner of good things caught up in your feet every time you try to take a step. A very Merry Christmas to you and those you love.
With many thanks,
Chickens woken up by irritating photographer turning on the light.
And the log stools for the chicken that can’t get up by herself.
Hole in sink leftover from husband’s faucet switch.
What he proudly refers to as the one dollar solution.
The Canadian dollar at work indeed.
Temporary solution to effects of tennis ball. Six weeks and counting.
Roof ice on wrought iron. Scratching our heads for a one dollar solution on this one.
My reminder that it’s all good.
With thanks to boy one who has been suggesting the pictures for a few weeks now.
Me thinking about learning a little more about the technical aspects of blogging
Me when I found out that one of my favorite living writers read one of my blogs. (Yeah, I had to throw on a dress and dance.)
I’m going to clean
I’m getting up
I’m just figuring out what to do first
Me getting the kids out the door in the morning . . .
Your hair looks fine, but nobody’s going anywhere
until those teeth are brushed
and sucking on the toothpaste
I’ll be standing here waiting with your backpacks.