Think about it.
There are 40 days before Christmas that are preparation, a sort of Lenten type preparation, called Advent for Orthodox Christians. And the Orthodox hearken back to the very same Apostles that hung out with Jesus back in the day. That would be the First Century Day. Half of Christians, at least, are Orthodox Christians, even if their presence is more likely associated with the country of origin for those Orthodox in the US. We tend to think geographically about them, never considering that the entire lot of them have no national church as such, and are only identified as Greek or Russian or Serbian, or Antiocian or American (think Alaska as the mother church, so to speak), becasue that reflects the language those churches might have spoken during their founding in the US.
The Antiochian branch still has its HQ on a street called Straight in Damascus. Kid you not.
But these are a serious group of preparers, and they go the full 40 days before Christmas, and the full 12 days after, to celebrate the birthday of Jesus.
The Roman church, once a part of the Orthodox communion had a bit of a split over several issues, not the least of which was the hankering of the Bishop of Rome, AKA Pope, to be the Head of the Heads of ALL Orthodox churches. So far, the ecumenism of Rome, the Holy Spirit proceeding form the Father and the Son, and a few other side issues have kept the groups separate. They have conferences, talk about getting back together, hand out lovely briefcases and portfolios to the attendees, and then all go back to being what they are the other days of the year.
That said, the Roman branch begat, in a way, the English or Anglican Catholics, which are the originators of protestant, err protesters in religion, here in the US. Today, there are over 2300 different denominations of Christianity in the US.
Now, all that information is taken from that infallible (snark) source of wisdom, Wikipedia. Plus, a few videos and books by Kallistos Ware, a thoroughly charming and disarming bishop over in Oxfordshire, England.
And, not a bit of the foregoing matters one whit, except to say that now that I've reached the midpoint of the 12 LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONGEST DAYS OF CHRISTMAS, which could also be known as one of the best inducements to insanity, has made me yearn for a shorter way to celebrate the fowl (ahem, foul???) largesse, known as the Twelve Days of Christmas, brought to you by whatever True Love Gives To You.
If your True Love is gifting you with all the gifts known as the full Twelve Days, tell them that only in the song need the gifts be repeated for the rest of the duration, or song. Except, of course, for the FFFIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIVE GOOO-LLLLD RRIIIIINNNGGS. Keep those rings coming. Make them big, solid, hefty, weighty, really weighty, and sized to fit thumbs. Of giants. The gold weight alone makes up for the other expenses foisted upon the recipient due to the other gifts, that require feed, housing, hay, feed, water, feed, cages, feed, ventilation, feed, minding, feed, and feed. Did I mention that birds do not eat like birds?
They eat like freaking Hoovers, sucking up every grain, morsel, bit of veg, or succulent imaginable, also known as grubs, worms, and other icky things, yet they share their eggs with generosity that really does make them a sort of double gift. If you like eggs. And don't mind the cleaning up, or buying the feed that makes cleaning up an almost 24 hour a day job in a small bedroom/office.
We, and I use that term loosely, are now facing Day 7. The just past the midpoint of Bird Overloaded Armageddon, brought to you by TrueLove.
I've spent the entire day searching on teh Google Machine, the Yahoo Machine, the FaceBook, the Tweet Thing, and entirely too many chat groups in a vain attempt to locate the elusive TrueLove. When was the last time you got to page 187 of a Google Search? Never, right?
Well, I've been at least to page 188 of not less than three dozen searches and my eyes are spinning in my head in opposite directions. I've eaten eggs. Lots of eggs.
I made poached eggs over spinach, scrambled eggs, hard boiled eggs, soft boiled eggs, egg drop soup, poached pears with poached eggs, and to finish it off, two chocolate souffles. That last was comfort food, and they were wonderful, though I do need to make myself a new pair of post-Christmas pants, because I've gaind at least Twelve Pounds of Christmas as I seek simple survival of the Twelve Days of Christmas. Bests are being taken in Las Vegas, and truth to tell, the odds are not in my favor.
I've called a private detective, three legal eagles also known as lawyers, and not one wanted to sue TrueLove. It seems that no one in the legal profession thinks that this is a problem, giving someone all these lovely presents of Birds, Birds with Pear Trees, More Dovey-Lovey Birds, More Loudly Screaming/Calling Birds, or Honking Spiteful Nasty Goosing Birds that know all the spots that hurt the most, and then bite you right in those spots.
I've called protective services, and they are only interested in sending me to the Looney Bin. They didn't believe I had any problem with birds at all, until I opened the spare bedroom door, and the sound was deafening, and then they were going to send out animal control to cite me, ME!!!, for harboring livestock within the city limits of Chicago. The fine would be about $2000.
Per day. By the time this was over, I could be shelling out the amount needed for a down payment on a really swank townhouse, just in fines. The words, not bloody likely came to mind.
I hung up. I don't have that money. Not at all.
I spent all my Christmas gift money on feed. And a new larger cage for the calling birds and a really imaginative wire thing that had six sections for the partridges and turtle doves. That way, they could be inside the same superstructure, but not really in the same cage. I borrowed six dog crates for the geese. I could put two in each, and stacked up, they covered one wall, floor to ceiling.
I also dug three air filters out of the basement storage area, put in new filters, and managed to get them going so as to keep the entire flat from smelling of feathers, chicken stuff, and processed poultry feed. . . if you catch my drift.
Finally, I got myself a nap, which is to say, I turned on the Mystery Marathon that plays every New Year's Eve on WYCC in Chicago, and the last thing I remembered was Poirot complimenting himself on being the very best detective in the world. Which of course, he was.
I woke with a start. That was it! I needed the little Belgian and his gray matter.
But first, I needed to open the door. I dreaded it, but it was time to face the Lakeside Livery Delivery. This time, I was prepared. I had caught on. I was going to be receiving an additional delivery of every gift for every day for the duration of the interminable Twelve Days of Absolute Horror. Cages were ready, feed was laid out in anticipation. Water bowls and bottles were filled. The cat was almost catatonic, but was gradually adjusting to the smells, noise and more smells. He also liked omelets with peas, Swiss cheese and a side of rice. Go figure.
I opened the door. But, I was truly not prepared. Right in front of the Lakeside Livery was a large container filled to the brim with water, in which was swimming a gaggle of swans.
No wait. That's not right. It's a gaggle of geese, which obviously form the honking noises coming from one large container were also there, but a group of swans in something else. It's a murder of crows, a congress of baboons, but a group of swans is a What??
Oh well, time was wasting. I had to clear the hallway. people were going to be heading out for new Year's Eve, and I needed to keep the evidence from being too obvious. (My neighbors were either deaf, blind or totally unfazed by anything. It was obvious, my flat was becoming Bird Farm by Lake Michigan.)
How was I going to get all the water, and the tank, into my flat?
Not to worry, all I needed was Superman.
And, just as the elevator door opened, there he was. Well, there were a total of five Supermen. They lived opposite me, or rather two of them did. The other three were on the same basketball team over at Loyola Park. In their spare time, they mentored kids, played basketball, hung out in the corner bar down the way on Sheridan, and were as close as brothers. They were also, as a group, not less than 6 foot 5 inches of muscle.
They also saw my predicament, and started laughing. One of them said he knew where he had a set of buckets and large pans, and they'd corral the swans (A chorus of swans??? A collective of swans???), and then move the pool into my living room.
It took me about a minute, and I realized a swimming pool would not work for the swans. Not in the living room. I decided the dining room was out. Too close to food for livestock. The bathroom was large, and I coudl give them free run of the bathtub, so long as I could fence them off during my own shower. We managed to get the tub into the bathroom, set up a hose and ran water in. The operation took about an hour.
By the time everything was done, at least for the swans, I had ordered pizza for everyone, and then managed to open the other containers. I had another six geese, which were promptly put into the dog cages. Five more (Yippee!), gold rings, four more loudmouthed fowl-mouthed calling birds, three more French hens, with fresh eggs, two more turtle doves, and another pear tree, with pears and partridge, were all stashed in their proper places.
The sad thing was, I was running out of proper places for anything. But, my Super Men had done yeoman's work, and each got all the pears from the pear trees. At least, they got the close to ripening ones. It turns out, if you let pears ripen on the tree, they go rotten before they are picked. Pluck them down before they are ripe, and put them in the kitchen to ripen, and a few days later you've got perfect pears.
I had lots of perfect pears. And lots more perfect pears on the way. The harvest was bountiful.
The guys said they'd happily come in to help change the water, as the bucket was the only way to drain the pool until hoses could be properly hooked up. I thanked them, gave them the remaining beers to carry home, and wished them a very Merry Day SEVEN, of the Twelve Longest Days in Recorded History that Pertain to, are Related to, or Mention Christmas.
Clearly, my sanity was, and is slipping. I needed rest. I needed a flat free of fowl. I needed a foul free, fowl free flat. I needed better onomatopoeia.
I wnet to the dining room, found the brandy that an old client had given me about fifteen years earlier, and poured myself a drink. It tasted awful, but three sips did the trick. I turned the tube on, and settled in to watch Case Histories on the Mystery Marathon. It was delightful. I realized that Jackson Brodie's life was only a hair less dysfunctional than mine. I thought what would Jackson Brodie do to find TrueLove, other than not look in Edinburgh, where he's located.
With that thought, I bade the world a Happy Christmas, and drifted off to dreamland, where I hoped I'd find either a shorter way to the end of these Twelve Days, or just a shorter Christmas season, a way to locate TrueLove, or a way to find sufficient funds to face the impending bankruptcy that could result from livestock fines in Chicago. Or, I'd just find myself in some lovely new location altogether, and life would be happily ever after.
Nighty-night all. I've got a cat curled up next to me and that dream is coming in with lovely Technicolor and nary a peep, croak, chirp, cheep, caw, honk or other foul, or fowl, bird sound. Nice.
No comments:
Post a Comment