The nights I tried to save Amy Winehouse from herself - Last night, as the moon shone brightly, I went back in time to try to save Amy Winehouse from herself. This was not my first attempt. Sadly, I’m never ther...
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Ava doesn't miss a chicken house. She can spot and call them out mid-McDonald's french fry. I'm not sure that this is a marketable skill for a six-year-old, but I dig it. It gets back to the idea of the Eastern Shore/rural living as part of the dream.
This past weekend was a case study for the rural/neighborhood dream. Cooking out on one side of the street where the girls gathered foliage as study specimens, barefoot in yards and gardens, followed by a weekend of digging holes, making mudpies and cakes and sucking the honeysuckle growing along the back fence.
"Dad, you've gotta try this honeysuckle! Let me show you how..."
We were honeysuckle suckers 30 years ago. We also knew our chicken houses--there were at least two sets of working chicken houses visible along Oxford Road. We learned quickly to hold your breath driving by them when the wind was blowing the funk towards the road.
Those houses and their funk have long since been replaced by something more suitable for Oxford Road, but that hasn't dulled Ava's keen coop-spotting skills. She pegs and describes them along Chapel Road as we head to the Hutchison's in Cordova for our nephew Samuel's third birthday party.
Samuel's whole celebration, the vibe, the people, the spring breeze drives home another key point to our girls: chicken houses aren't nearly as cool as horses.