Lessons learned from chickens

[Downthestretch55]

Andrew: The Imaginary Soldier Marching on the Historic Road to Battle

I've traveled many historic roads. One leads along the southern edge of Lake Champlain through a place called Whitehall. It was on this road that General Burgoyne marched his British troops down in September of 1777 to their anticipated victory against the insurgents. The Battle of Saratoga, which in reality was the battle of Stillwater (10 miles south), resulted in Burgoyne's surrender to General Gates at Saratoga in October. Maybe history textbooks should be revised to tell about the "surrender at Saratoga" and the "Battle of Stillwater". Too costly, methinks.
And I grew up near the River Road, that hugs the eastern shore of the Hackensack River, where Continentals marched past von Stueben's house at New Bridge to reinforce Washington's forces as he chased the British from Philadelphia, and his General Lee caught up with them at a place in Freehold.
When he was outflanked and retreated, Washington sent him to the rear and lead the forces himself, attacking twice during those hot June days, to bring the turning point so necessary in 1778. No matter that there was no clear victor in the Battle of Monmouth, and that both sides lost as many men to heatstroke as from the fighting. We gained a legendary lady that showed great courage when she replaced her husband who had fallen, putting down her water jugs and manning the cannon in his stead. But her name really wasn't Molly Pitcher, heck, let's not rewrite the legend.
So then there was Andrew one day, marching up and down the historic ridge road near North Settlement, a spur of the famous Susquehannah Turnpike that linked Catskill to Utica for the westward moving pioneers.
Andrew lived with his aged mother in a run down house that lacked indoor plumbing. He and his mom lived far from the prying eyes, scrutiny, and flapping lips of townfolk. Their nearest neighbors were a half mile away in either direction. Their isolation might have been for a reason.
Andrew was mentally retarded.
Oh, there were kids that would drive past him and hurl insults from their bicycle seats, though I don't think Andrew gave them much notice.
Andrew liked to march. He could always be seen, through hot summer sun, or cold winter snow, marching up county route 10 to the corner, then back down to the Sutton Hollow. Andrew always carried a stick. He frequently chewed its end with greenish-yellow teeth, but he'd hold it at "present arms" for any passing car that would slow down on the vacant road so he could go to the side.
One day, my friend gave Andrew some records and an old record player that he'd picked up at a flea market. All of the 45's were German marching music,
patriotic parade tunes. Andrew seemed to love his "chermin mar muse", as he marched back and forth near the blasting sounds coming from the porch of his ramshackled fortress. Back and forth, back and forth, present arms, march again, chew a bit. Onward to the battle of his imagination, to the victory he'd never know, nor a surrender sufferred...marching on the historic
road. Marching. Marching. Marching. Imagining. Marching....

[Downthestretch55]

Death and funerals

I must say, I don't like death. Nor do I relish the funerals.
Those of heros, those of lessers.
I thought to title this rant with "hanging", though I don't like that either unless it's a buck upside down on its way to becoming steaks and stew.

Two "heros" that come to mind are one held dear by the Sunnis (theirs, not mine), and one named Hunk-es-ni, also reviled. Both had counted many coup in their times. Hunk-es-ni was seen as an enemy by those that wished to take his lands. He was a great Sioux chief.
He had made many enemies, including the Crows. He earned his membership into the warrior's society, the Strong Hearts, when he allowed his Crow opponent to take the first shot, and it ripped through his buffalo hide shield to lodge in his left foot. Hunk-es-ni's shot found its mark, a heart, though he walked with a limp for the rest of his days.
And though he was held as a prisoner of war at Fort Randall for two years, upon his release in 1883,he never gave up the hopes of freedom for his people, nor his desire to return to Grand River.
After years of wise rule, his little cabin was surrounded by 38 "policemen" commanded by Lieutenant Henry Bull Head, at daybreak on December 15, 1890. When awakened from his slumber, he said twice that he was not going.
So, he was shot then and there. Hunk-es-ni, rider of the gray horse, leader of his people died. He has come to be know by the name the whitemen gave him, Sitting Bull. His memory remains within the hearts of those that hold to his courage and sacrifice. His people remember.

Today, I watched the funeral of an ex-president. His funeral reminded me of my father's. They both were alike in many ways.
Both were World War II veterans, both Episcopalians. The same prayers were said, "...and give him peace, through Jesus Christ our Lord. amen".
Both men went to their burials in black hearses, flags flying on the front bumpers. Though the ones on my dad's flew off on the way from the church to the cemetary, and Mac (who had been Eisenhower's driver in Europe) had to stop the procession to put them back in place, cussing while we laughed. Dad would have loved it.
The church's names were different, one was Grace, one was Trinity.
One of them will have an aircraft carrier named for him, with all the expected missions of war. The other will only have his spirit of honesty, truth, and freedom endure, as his message was about peace.
One had handsome soldiers provide a 21 gun salute. The other had two little grandsons fire their bb guns beside his grave in tribute. Each will get one of his purple hearts. Tri folded flags.
Oh the funerals, those of heros and those of lessers.
Funny in a way that they all end at the same place. As my dad once told me, it's over when the last mourner grabs the final handful of dirt, tosses it in the hole and walks away saying, "What a nice guy! What a nice guy!"

Heros and lessers..."and give them peace, and give them peace!" amen

[Downthestretch55]

Elephants

If you're reading this, you're probably scratching your head, looking at the title, and saying "Yeah, right! DTS, you never had an elephant on the farm."
I'd answer that you'd be correct on that. I never did.
Then you might be guessing, "Were there ever elephants roaming around the Catskill Mountains?"
To that I'd have to say yes. I'm not just talking about wolly mammoths about 20,000 years ago. I'm talking about real live Asian ones, big grey beauties, three of them. Their names were Dalia, Daisy, and Daffodill.
I got to know these elephants pretty well.
I'll back up for a moment to give you some background.
I've always loved the circus. There's something about the clowns, the trapeze, the highwire, the acrobats, the ringmaster, sideshows and midway that caught me at a young age. A circus is really what it's all about.
But the things I like the most about the circus are the animals...the dancing bears, the scarey lions and tigers, the prancing ponies, the jumping dogs, and especially the elephants.
Dalia, Daisy and Daffodill lived between tours with the Big Apple and other tent shows at a place called Siam Pony Farm, just up Mill St out of Windham, hang a left on Siam Rd. Their owners/trainers were the Vibdels, nice folks.
Their white ponies were famous, as were their three beautiful elephants, Dalia, Daisy and Daffodill.
As they neared retirement, the Vibdels took their critters to the famous Catskill Game Farm (now closed), near Purling, just outside of Cairo. There the elephants stood on their hind legs, took their bows, and gave rides to thrilled children after the show. The kids loved those elephants, as did I.
I spent many an afternoon just watching them run around their pasture, if it could be called that. They had grazed it down to bare dirt and stripped every tree of its bark to the height that trunks could reach. Elephants take a lot to satisfy their hunger, let me tell you.
One day, during deer season, Daisy decided to go in search of greener pastures, broke through the fence, and took off. Mr Vibdel was frantic. He put posters in the luncheonette and all over town, begging for her safe return.
Imagine a deer hunter sitting on a stand having a huge elephant walk up on you, while you're holding a loaded 30-06. Not a pretty picture.
Luckily, a few days after the deer season closed, Daisy was found about six miles away and returned to the safety of Mr Vibdels pasture. Whew! That was a close one! Elephants know how to make one worry!
Over several summers, I'd take my little boys to visit them. For those of you that know what it's like to walk up to a 16 hand thoroughbred stallion in a pasture, guess what it must have felt like to a four year old boy with a handful of grass in his outstretched hand. Both boys loved them too.
Well, as you might know, it takes a special trainer to take command of an elephant and make it do what you want it to do. Like horses, an ear twist sometimes is something that gets their attention. It doesn't make them listen better, just obey.
So, one day...unfortunately, Daffodill had had enough. I don't think she really meant to hurt anyone. She was being an elephant. She took Mr Vibdel around his waist with her trunk, slammed him to the ground, and stepped on him a couple of times. Luckily, Mr Vibdel lived, though he spent the next two years between the hospital and the physical therapy. I wish I could say the same for Daffodill. She was "humanely euthanized". The boys and I cried.
And so the elephant act was over, and they no longer roam the Catskills as they once did. I still love the circus, though as of now I'm really enjoying the clowns, lots of clowns.
Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! Step right up, the shows about to start! Get your ticket, come on in!!! It's a show ya don't want to miss!

Oh! I loved those elephants!

to be continued....