The Chickens in the Pool Shed

I got run over by a whole flock of chickens tonight. I'd gone outside to transplant some new geraniums I'd just bought, into my empty pots. I looked over at the pool and realized I ought to put some chlorine tablets in the filters, but didn't find any in the pool shed. However, I did remember that I needed to look in the drawers of a file cabinet out there to see if I could find my oldest son's Boy Scout merit badge sash.

 (Are you seeing the chickens...?) (Okay, I'll explain: my friend, the special ed teacher, sometimes wears a T-shirt that says, "I don't have ADD---Oh Loook!! There's a Chicken....) Well, I didn't find the merit badge sash. I didn't get any chlorine tablets into the pool filter baskets. I didn't even get the geraniums re-potted. Instead, I found a big folder stuffed with type-written pages. The only person who would have typed papers that ended up in that file cabinet was moi. And I found a totally awesome package of old treasures out there.

In the Olden Days, when we didn't own a T.V. and after I put the kids to bed, I'd either sit down to the sewing machine, or the typewriter. I typed a lot of stuff. Not just stories for my sisters, or memoirs for my parents, but I found articles about child-rearing, what I learned (and should have learned) in Young Women, silly stories about my life (some were published in local newspapers), a couple of stories that The Friend didn't want, and three more biker stories that were, sadly, rejected by Easyrider magazine. (I say sadly because they paid me, whereas the local newspapers just printed my stories with the only reward being fleeting glory among my acquaintances.) I also found a really sincere rejection letter from Redbook Magazine, telling me how very much everyone there liked my article, and how it went from editor to editor, but was ultimately not selected, but that I should definitely submit it to another publication because, girl, it was good!! (or words to that effect---for a rejection letter, it was remarkably personal and complimentary.)

I also found notebooks filled, in my formerly exquisite handwriting, with song lyrics and poetry--mostly laments over disappointments of love. I even wrote some of the poems myself. In fact, I still really like a couple of them. Here's one: (I think it's about sarcasm.)

Take Care

Why quarreling?

Why purposely hurt?

Cruel arrows

Flung in fun

Sting

With a slow-but-sure poison.

Love is too close to hate

And our tables are

Too easily turned.

Remember the poem that was printed in the New Era? Here's another poem I wrote on the same topic. I don't know when....it's not dated.

Autumn in Star Valley

Indian summer comes to her
As a long gone lover home at last.
Her bright blush of maple fire
Cooled only by November's blast.

Scarlet and gold, she dresses now
To dance through star bright nights.
Mystical geese making music
That drifts down with the breeze from their heights.

So, anyway...chickens--really interesting, wow, I forgot I even wrote that, chickens.  Maybe I can still go plant the flowers by the porch light.