Here Lester....

I'm not sure if you have ever executed chickens before, but it is, well, a bloody job. As you know from my previous writings, I am a city boy learning to become a country man. Killing, then eating, defenseless little birds is not on my list of things I want to do before I die.

Speaking of dying, it is a ritual we do here at the Back Seventy Estate every year. At least a couple of times each year, I'll have you know. Well, actually we don't do the dying – it's those gutless chickens who do it. And even then, they're not all that gutless. You ought to see what we leave on the floor, in the bucket, and under the table. Fortunately for them, they only do it once, but we seem to have an encore performance every year.

What we do to chickens, we do to cows each year, too. We generally butcher two a year; – one for great cuts, one for hamburger. For whatever reason, I end up naming all our four-footed beasts, and that includes the young cow we slaughter every year. My thinking is if we name them by meat cuts, it makes it easier to kill and eat them. So that's why we have had such ingenious (my word) monikers as "Meatball," "Sir Loin," "T-bone," and this year's witty rendition, "Baron."

For the record, we do not name our chickens.

If we did, I think I would find it harder to kill them. After all, there are so many of them I would run out of names. Another reason is that they all look the same to me ("Good-bye, Lester – or is it Randolph?").

I think one of the other differences I have noted between butchering cows and chickens is that someone else does the dastardly deed for the cows, whereas we do it for the chickens. By the time I get up to where "Stew" is hanging, it is just meat – nothing more, nothing less. The chickens, on the other hand, are very much alive and well, moments before the executioner - we'll call him Layne -– makes the final plunge.

Some people I know have very strong views on eating meat, or, in their case, not eating meat. I respect their choice, though I would draw the line at any ethical or moral or Biblical reasons for vegetarianism. If one wants to quibble over the inhumane way animals are butchered in slaughterhouses, let's talk. Just don't get sidetracked for some alleged reason, when all along it is is a simple quirk (see last week's column).

Meanwhile, back at the cutting board... The butchering process involves both good timing and good luck. "Catch me if You Can" is the name of a book and a movie; it also sums up the taunt of a chicken. It is nothing less than sheer humiliation when a stupid, idiotic chicken can out-smart and out-run a human. (Just where does that place the human on the IQ scale?)

Once caught, they get beheaded or decapitated (better stated: they simply lose their head over this butchering business). From there, it becomes a skinning (or is it an unskinning?) process. The second station is the gutting (or is it de-gutting?) procedure. I know if chickens could talk, at this point they would say something like, "I'd do it all over again if I had the guts."

Quality control is the final station, where the lifeless, headless, skinless critters are wrapped and weighed. It's nice but the whole process has to be repeated thirty or forty times per butchering, multiplied by the number of butcherings in the summer. Too bad they all couldn't just chop, strip, and wrap themselves. I could even handle a snap, crackle, and pop. I suppose that could be called the ultimate self-checkout.

I don't know if my record has whetted your appetite for farm-fresh, free range chickens or not, but if it has, give me a phone call. Don't "squawk" over the price, please. It might get my blood "broiling."

Let the phone ring for quite a while: I'll be watching "Chicken Run." Also, make sure you ask for Lester or Randolph.

Your Fetish, My Quirk

We are all creatures of weird fetishes (= strange obsessions or phobias). The trouble is, with our warped perspective, we tend to think that our fetish is simply a quirk but others' fetishes are borderline idiotic.

Take, for example, one's fear or resentment of cats. I call that weird (aside: I like cats, so if you don't, there is something wrong with you). Another example would be ketchup (as in food enhancer). You don't like ketchup on everything? That's weird, man. Why? Because I do like ketchup on almost everything (I draw the line at pancakes). Therefore -- Are you following me closely, people? -- it's my quirk but it's your fetish.

Let's now talk about balloons. We know all normal people hate balloons. How do I know that? Well, I hate balloons, so it stands to reason that everyone hates balloons.

As a father of many, I have experienced the "joy" of balloons in the car, in the house, in the bedroom; then it's on the ceiling, under the bed, followed by out the window. At that point the whimpering and crying begins. It only ends when there is another, you guessed it, balloon.

Balloons are made to burst. That is part of their physical make-up. They have a thin membrane that covers...well, it covers nothing but air. You throw it, it pops; you sit on it, it pops; you bite it, it pops. It cannot win an endurance record whatsoever. Its lifespan runs from the time the heroic clerk gives it out till about the time that dad blows his cool, about five minutes later.

In other words, he pops his lid just after the balloon has burst its bubble.

I cannot possibly think of one good reason for balloons to exist. Yes, clerks (and stores, by extension) look good for giving out balloons. Clowns are seemingly mystical when they can convert balloons into a pony or a dinosaur or a puppy. But other than this temporary madness, what substantial good are they?

You, my faithful reader, are coming to the firm conclusion that I am nuts. (That may be very true, but I would suggest there are other reasons that back that up -- to be discussed at another time, in another place.) Suffice to say (see paragraph two), it is merely a quirk, but not a fetish.

Strange, yes. Humourous, indeed. Weird, I think not.

My balloon may be your cat. Uhmm, let me re-phrase that: after all, I wouldn't want to be caressing what I thought was a feline, only to have it pop on my lap (and I did say 'pop'). Or, my ketchup may be your dog. Again, I need to clarify: after all, I wouldn't want to spill a Bowser on my trouser.

I think I am making headway with you all. Please work with me. We all have these delicious differences that make us strange, weird, and quirky. We are all creatures of habits that we have developed from childhood, tendencies that have gone unchecked until they have morphed into full-fledged phobias.

And I think that is great. Newlyweds need to adjust to each other's habits. They won't learn that through marriage counselling; it only comes from the real thing of actually living together. That's why "they" say that the first year of marriage is generally the hardest..

It's also something that anyone and everyone needs to consider when working or living in close proximity to each other. Tenants, boarders, colleagues, employees, et al – no one is exempt. What we all need is the grace and patience to allow for other people's peculiarities.

Well, I've got to go and let my little fuzzball fetish play with a nice air-stealing fetish that one of my kids got at the store.

Mirrors and Birthdays

I got the shock of my life the other day: I saw this strange-looking guy in my house. He was bald, he was grey, and he was just a teensy-weensy bit overweight. He was also very rude: Every time I talked to him, he talked at the same time. He was me – I was looking in a mirror.

You probably got that already, but I thought I would try to fool you. If anyone told me a few years ago that I would be grey and bald at fifty-four-years-old, I would have clobbered him with my cane. My crown reminds me of the prairies that I have adopted, namely, the grey skies and the bare grassland.

My three older brothers are not nearly as bald or grey as I am. It probably has something to do with the rain back on the Coast. We all know that regular irrigation makes crops grow better. And greener. Well, their hair isn't that green – just a word picture, okay?

I don't feel 54. But how do you feel any age? One can feel full or feel cold or feel lonely, but can one feel one's age? To be sure, I can't run as fast as I once did; I get more winded than I used to; I enjoy getting to bed in good time; and I keep on using the term "kids" when I am referring to anyone under 40.

They tried to bring my birthday cake on a low-bed but the axle broke. They tried to light the candles but the flames scorched the ceiling. They brought gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh – no, that's a different story. I didn't know if the fire extinguisher was a gift or a precaution.

For that matter, I had more fun playing with the empty boxes after the guests left. How do you get excited about socks, ties and a DVD - "Grumpy Old Men"?

Seriously – well, sort of – I take birthdays with a grain of salt (or is it memory pills?). I just forget. I don't get too excited about birthdays anymore. I don't feel this old – or did I say that already? I am still a big kid inside, but I am not allowed to show it – not in my home, not in my classroom, not in my church, and certainly not at Toys-R-Us.

One of the troubles with "maturing" is that one may have a lot of the same needs, anxieties, hang-ups, and quirks that one had at, say, twenty, but circumstances forbid letting them out. Too many others are looking to me (and you, too) for leadership and support. I suppose one must learn to choose where to let his hair down (in my case, that would be a figure of speech).

The Good Book speaks of an outward man and an inward man – as one is slowing down, the other is not. This is not a gender thing; rather, it is a physical versus character argument. In today's vernacular we might say (possibly tongue-in-cheek): I'm not getting older, I'm getting better. Yes, I know that may smack of pride, but there still should be some truth to it.

Maturing versus immaturity, growing up but not simply growing old: these should mark the people of my generation. I don't need to look, think, or act like I twenty-years-old again. It strikes me as a sad commentary when middle-aged people try to recover their lost childhood. In other words, grannies in bellbottoms just don't do it for me.

So, happy birthday to me. I need to change the image of that guy in the mirror. I've got it: I'm going to throw away the mirror.