Booby's Chickens

Left home early, to do some grocery shopping before work. First there was a large tree down on Mackletree, taking the phone line down to the road. This isn't a whimpy little line, but a cable the size of #1 or #2 electric, in a braided metal wire sheath. The tree is a large chestnut oak, 16 inches at the butt, 60 feet tall, fell from the other side of the road and didn't break the cable. A truck already parked at the other side of the tree, getting out his chainsaw. He has salvage rights, but the neighborly convention is to help haul the cut pieces out of the road. I keep gloves in the truck, several pair usually. Get the road cleared. Then get down to Booby's place and his spring chickens have all flown the coop and are congregated in the road. It's like getting caught in a cattle or sheep drive in Western Colorado, free-range country, where twice a year they still drive the animals, up to open pasture and down to feed-lots. You can move through these herds, but very slowly, nudging the animals out of the way. So I moved slowly through a flock of chickens, with them flying up and jabbering on both sides. A veritable chicken wake. Got to laughing so hard I had to stop at the lake, no one else there, go sit on a table in the covered picnic area and roll a smoke. Chickens are a hoot. Not early enough to shop. But I have a new tool. One of the ladies found a Chinese made, bamboo handled, smallish, butterfly net for $1, at the hardware store. I'm sure I know where the bat is staying, stuck to one of the black walls of the stage in the theater. So, armed with a flashlight and my spanking new butterfly net, I went to see, and, Watson, he was right where I predicted and it took about a minute to net him. Showed him, netted, to Pegi, so she could tell everyone the bat threat was over. As it turns out, a lot of people are really freaked by bats. Took fifteen minutes to get the little fucker OUT of the net, long finger things, designed for clutching, then Pegi insisted I give it some water because she thought it was dehydrated. I don't know how to water a bat. I went and got a little plastic pitcher with some water, and kind of splashed it in front of him; seemed to work as he moved toward it, but when I splashed water, accidentally, up on his face, he bared an ugly mouth, like something from a Stephen King dream. Endured a small chorus of bat screams, an unfortunate frequency they use for echolocation. I'm told, by one of you, that bat shit is interesting, and I do have a microscope. All those little color patterns in the hard parts of insects. So I was kind of on the lookout for bat shit today, but because the poor guy wasn't eating much I didn't find any. I'm not sure I'd recognize batshit anyway. Unwrapped the pieces D dropped off for the construction show. They're heavy, enamel on quarter-inch thick glass, on copper, mounted on a wooden frame with hanging wire. I can't hang them by myself, D knows, says we'll hang them next Wednesday, when he's around, but I unwrap them, to see what we have. They're wonderful, I've never seen anything like them. I'm not sure yet, but what I think they are is back-painted glass fired to a sheet of distressed copper. The copper bleeds through as background. And the drawings or the photographic reproductions, are wonderful. I suspect a projection, that's how I'd do it. They're heavy, and awkward enough that I'm slightly uncomfortable handling them. Not exactly delicate, but breakable, like so much in life. I'm a little stressed because I'm uncertain about elements of this show, I haven't seen them, and I don't know where they fit in, I assume someone knows more than me.