I’ve hesitated to talk about our pool. It’s fancy. High class. A little neener, neener, boo-boo, and I don’t want it to come across that way. Or maybe that’s just the Pacific Northwest in me talking. Here in Georgia, suburban backyards have pools like they have dirt patches. I forget that what feels like a luxurious helicopter pad to me is a dinky Tinkertoy to someone from around here.
I’m a fan of evening pool time. Around 6 p.m., when the sun droops low, it tucks itself between three adolescent water oaks, leaving half the pool in shade. No sunscreen needed, and often no swimsuits either for Evelyn and me. We either jump in with our clothes on, in our undergarments, or, if it’s one of those especially carefree summer evenings, in our birthday suits.
Last month Evelyn learned the crawl stroke. This month she’s onto diving. Her cute little self is even cuter with her rainbow-colored flippers and blue goggles with the white strap. She does this silly duck walk to the edge, shouts, “You watching?” a couple of times, and then springs off.
It’s still a work in progress.
Some dives are more like a stiff, arthritic hand entering the water. Others, she’s almost a dolphin.
The most impressive part, though, is her underwater glide nearly all the way to the other end. It’s a 40-foot lap pool, which takes several full arm strokes and some serious breath-holding for a six-year-old.
Could competitive swimming be a good fit for her, I wonder?
I’m also teaching the chickens to trust me.
It’s getting close to bedtime for them. One or two head into the coop early—the early birds, I guess you’d call them—while the other six gather in a loose semicircle around me. Often they look up at me, and I back at them.
The smaller of the two white hens is bold. She’s pecked my cupped hand clean of mealworms more than a handful of times—no pun intended.
Tonight, after I sat down, she came running toward me as if I were the ice cream truck. Had I not instinctively jerked my hand back, she’d have pecked me anyway, even though I was fresh out of fudge bars and the lot.
Once she realized I wasn’t thrilled with her peck-first approach, she casually wandered on her way.
I’d prefer these chickens don’t peck just to peck, and if I can teach them the difference, maybe we’ll come to an understanding. I’d like them to blend into the peaceful rhythm of this place.
Chicken behavior is funny.
It’s getting closer to bedtime, and nearly everyone has reported to the mobile coop – except two.
They stand guard at the entrance like stately lions.
I watched one hen suddenly turn and bolt. I suppose the realization that night was coming hit her all at once, but just before reaching the coop, she stopped short and redirected after seeing the two goons standing at the front door.
The string lights on the back porch flick on. It must be about 8:30.
I love this time of day. The deep breath. The softness in the air. It’s as though the sun, finally giving up its grip, lets everything else settle too. Well, the light buck-buck-bucking and high-pitched chatter are all coming from inside the coop now.
All eight are in.
And although I’m not quite ready to leave this peaceful feeling behind, I hope that after brushing my teeth I’ll find myself just as enchanted by Idgie, Ruth, and the rest of the lively, lovable characters waiting for me in Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Cafe.
I bid you adieu.
Love, aclynn