The Anniversary

This week I had the first of my midyear conversations with teachers, and set our departments up for planning conversations. On Friday afternoon, the first of my colleagues started finding appointments for vaccinations, just now opened up to all K-12 teachers in the state. I found myself feeling elated, kind of high really. I couldn’t contain my positive energy. It was the first time in a year, I realized, that I had engaged in any real future thinking. It felt completely novel and totally invigorating, like a spigot of energy turned open. And then, on Saturday, I felt exhausted. I was in bed, again, by nine o’clock.

I am a planner and, normally, most of my energy is put to future thinking. I have to work to stay in the moment, and yet for the past year that’s all I’ve been able to do. Be here, now. In the here and now of this long Covid year, being in the moment has been a protection against hopes and expectations that might not be fulfilled for a still-unknowable amount of time. It has also been a daily taking stock of what we were doing, or planning, in the before times, and what has been lost since. I feel guilty even writing this, since we haven’t, technically, lost much. One in three Americans, according to the Times yesterday, has lost someone to the disease. We have not. We have not lost loved ones, or our jobs, or our homes. We have not lost the freedom to move about freely in our beautiful state, provided that we’re masked. We have not lost the privilege of visiting with friends, as long as we’re outside, and masked, and spread apart. This is all incredibly good fortune considering that 29.6 million people in this country have contracted the disease, and nearly 540,000 Americans have died.

Driving home from school one day last week, a day of teaching and attending meetings on Zoom all day, I noticed black smoke curling out of the windows of a house close to the road in the center of Waitsfield Village. It was an old house, tucked into the hillside sitting close between its two neighbors, with a pile of firewood always sitting in the front yard. I’ve seen an old man come and go from that house, walking his old dog. On this day, as I drove toward it, I saw people running toward the house from different directions. There were no fire trucks yet. I slowed down to pass. I glanced as I drove by. The inside of the house was filled with fire, every inch a frenzy of flame, and standing, just outside, staring at it all, was the old man, his arms by his side, immobile and helpless, his chin tipped up, watching as his house was consumed.

This scene overwhelmed me; shock gave way to tears as I drove toward home. Thank god he made it out, I thought, but how crippling to watch your life go up in flames. Quinn called me from Sam’s phone. They had been skiing when Quinn spotted the black smoke from the chairlift. A black ribbon climbing skyward in an otherwise white landscape of hills and valleys. They would take a different route home; no doubt the road would be closed. The old man, I later learned, is 81 years old. His name is George and he lives alone. A clothes drive was organized right away, and community members worked to secure housing for him. I got online and contributed to a fundraiser for him. Last I checked, over $11k had been donated, which seemed meaningful until I learned that George didn’t have home insurance. He walked out of that mess with the clothes on his back. His cat has not been seen. No one has mentioned a dog; perhaps the dog was lost before the fire. 

Somehow I experienced driving by that scene like the gradual, and then sudden slip of clasped hands—my composed self losing her grip against the pull of gravity. The fire was a visible reminder of what life has been feeling like for so many months: vulnerable, with incomprehensible threats always lurking nearby, the chance for something awful to happen at any moment. And as much as I do what I’m supposed to—keep my mask on and my spirits up, reassuring myself and others—inside I know we could all be George, standing there watching our lives go up in flames, our arms hanging useless at our sides.

This morning one of my colleagues called my cell phone and left a message—it was early, and it is Sunday, and I didn’t hear the call. I listened to her voicemail and heard her voice give way to tears as she told me she has to cancel a meeting with me tomorrow morning because Roy, her husband, and everybody’s favorite vet, is in the hospital. They spent the day in the ER yesterday as his body grew weaker and weaker. Twenty-four hours later, he can no longer support his own weight; he is immobile in a hospital bed and Amy can no longer visit him. He’s been diagnosed with Guillain Barre syndrome and while hopefully he will recover, “it is a long road.” Some people can walk again in six months to a year. It’s a fluke illness, and Roy seems like an unlikely target—he is as strong as an ox. 

Another metaphor. Anyone, anytime, anywhere.

Yesterday Quinn’s ski club friend Addy had a race. Her neighborhood friend Cedar went skiing with her dad. No one was around for her to play with. Most weekends she’s angry that she can’t have friends inside the house to play, and that she can’t go in their houses either. Two weeks ago she had an accident in her snow pants because she was too embarrassed to ask to use Cedar’s bathroom, or the phone, in the middle of her rare opportunity to play. And yet yesterday, she would have been fine playing outside—no complaints—she was just desperate to see a friend and do something fun. When no one was available, her mood wavered between making the best of things and feeling sorry for herself. She agreed to go for a ski with us and the dogs. We staged the cars strategically to minimize the work and maximize the fun. I put chocolate in my pocket for when she would need it. She started up the trail happy for about a minute before she started to groan. It fell apart quickly from there, slow shuffling steps, groans giving way to tears. 

Quinn’s stress becomes ours. I hadn’t had exercise all week. Sam, stuck at home with Quinn and no vehicle (because I’d backed my car into his and it was in the shop) hadn’t had space all week. We needed that ski. Quinn convinced herself she did not. We encouraged her up to the top of the hill, where the trail turns right and the skiing gets fun. We assumed she’d pull it together, but she didn’t right away and I threw in the towel before she could. One of us should go ahead with the dogs, I determined, and the other should take her home and go out later. Sam took her home; I skied on without them. Exercise and fresh air helped me return to the house ready to talk and move on. “I’m not mad,” I told her as she put her book down, curled into a ball, and started to cry. “I’m sorry Mom,” she said. 

The regret and shame she feels after these moments is sincere, and terrible. And then, a few hours, or a few days later, we find ourselves in it all over again—another moment, another meltdown.

Watching Quinn’s anxiety become increasingly debilitating for her in the past year or so has been a little bit like watching the house burn down. At first we realized the chimney was blocked, pretty soon the flames started to build, and then they spilled out along the roof. Some days we are standing there, helpless, wondering what we could’ve done to prevent it.

The worst times are always the transitions, like returning to school after time away—school vacations are terrible. Leading up to the first day back after the new year, Quinn started to worry days in advance. Meanwhile Sam and I kept thinking how great it would be for her to reconnect with her school friends. We are on opposite sides of a chasm, trying to communicate from a distance, each of us unheard by the other. Monday morning she refused to go; it was confusing to us at the time, but it is less so now. The bad days always look the same: she says she doesn’t want to go, she is slow to get out of bed, she barely eats breakfast and then she can’t move beyond it. When she is finally hustled back upstairs to get dressed, while we pack lunch, assemble what’s needed in the backpack, do our best to keep the mood light, she bides her time. We find her, later, still in her pajamas. We know she panics if she’s late, and with the clock ticking, our own stress starts to spike. Eventually the confrontation happens—when we insist and she refuses. She stomps and screams, while we try not to. We don’t always succeed, but we do so more often than we used to. We’re either figuring things out, or accepting defeat. It’s hard to know.

That Monday night in January, after not being in school all day, we try again to build momentum in the direction of reentry. She tries again too. We get to bed a little earlier. We lie down with her to help her settle. We love her and, anxiously, hope. On Tuesday morning she manages to get herself out the door. It’s fragile, she is fragile, but she goes. 

We listen to music in the car, as I try to make her laugh and keep things upbeat. Partway to school I ask her, “What happened yesterday?” I’m not judging her, just trying to understand, and she tells me, “I had a nightmare the night before and I was too scared to go.” In her nightmare, it is the first day back to school. She forgets her mask and enters the building without it. The adults yell at her. The kids laugh at her. She has a sign on her back that says “kick me.” It is too much. 

She tells me this story from the back seat. We are on Main Street, headed toward her school. We are early. All is well. Until it is not. Sitting in the car, at the front of the drop-off circle, with ten minutes to go before “the ladies” come out to open car doors for kids, she panics. “Do we have my sneakers?!?” We do not have her sneakers. It is her nightmare come true. Still, I try to keep it light, as she starts to cry, “I’m not going! I’m not going!” She is completely gone already, as I call Sam and, as calmly as possible, tell him “I need you to get Quinn’s sneakers and bring them to school, okay? I need you to do this right now.” 

“He’ll be here in ten minutes,” I tell her, trying to smile gently, “it will be okay.” But Quinn is not okay. She is absolutely freaking out. 

When the art teacher opens her door, Quinn pushes herself back to the far side of the back seat. She is shaking her head; tears are streaming down her face. “No! No! Please, Mom! I’m not going.” But I can’t let her miss a second day of school—I’m afraid if I do she’ll never go back. I am reminded of the time my childhood dog cornered a raccoon. His face and ears were shredded when all was said and done, and I know in this moment she is prepared to fight for her life. Mrs. Monley peers into the car. “Come on, Quinn, you need to get out of the car.” The other cars are waiting for us to move, I’m trying to tell her it will be okay, and the flames are climbing the walls.

I step out to try to explain, scanning the road for Sam’s truck. The principal comes over. “What’s up?” she wonders, and I shrug, wondering where to begin. With the sneakers? With Covid? With that time she dug her nails into my hand and refused to go into the room where the acapella group was singing Christmas carols a year ago? Or the time we got all the way to her school for a Valentine's Day event in the gym, in the first or second grade, and she got all the way to that door, heard the crowd inside and refused to go in? Or when she was just three days old and the woman at the hospital watched Quinn refusing to nurse, and said to me, “Oh…She’s stubborn!” 

Mrs. Goodnow, Quinn’s principal, with her blue and yellow pom pom in one hand and her walkie-talkie in the other, opened the back door and lowered herself in. As she closed the door behind her, I pictured the back seat—half of it folded down, all our skis and poles and random refuse piled up, Quinn in tears, her giant backpack with everything in it—everything except her fucking sneakers. Pandemic be damned, a masked Mrs. Goodnow was in there in that tight space for five minutes, the cars backed up around the circle and down the road. Eventually she climbed back out. She closed the door behind her and turned her back to the car. “Wow,” she said, “she’s really stuck!” Yeah, I nodded, my arms hanging useless by my sides. “I have one more idea,” she told me as she held the walkie-talkie to her masked face. “Send Camille out to the circle.” 

Quinn’s pregnant fourth grade teacher was next. She too climbed into the backseat. Mrs. Goodnow returned to her work of greeting people. Cars started to slowly pull out around us. The art teacher circled back. “You know,” she told me, “I don’t have class the first two periods. Quinn could come hang out with me if she wants!” I thanked her, and waited, my daughter completely in the hands of others. Eventually the door opened. Mrs. Anderson gave me a hopeful look. Quinn emerged behind her—grey hat down over her eyebrows, tears still leaking down her cheeks. “Say goodbye to your mom,” I heard her teacher say, but Quinn walked by me like I was a stranger. And perhaps, in that moment when she felt abandoned, I was. 

As soon as the school door closed behind her, my own tears poured out. Mrs. Goodnow showed up again at my side. I was crying and shaking my head, and she was nodding—a gesture of understanding—as Sam’s truck came screaming into the lot. He rushed toward us with the sneakers held high, trying to make sense of the scene. “You have no idea,” Mrs. Goodnow told us, “how many kids are struggling right now. Quinn is not alone.”

I drove to school that morning thinking of my own students—how many of them are not functioning well. I have students who are regularly paralyzed, unable to respond as their teachers’ emails stream in, reminding them of all the things they are supposed to be doing. I’ve thought of Mrs. Goodnow every day since that morning in January. Every day I tell myself that I will get in the backseat with kids if I have to, and I do. I tell the teary parents I don’t have solutions for them, but I tell them I understand, and I do. I tell them how many kids are struggling right now. I tell them their kid is not alone.

And yet, I can’t help notice how alone I feel as I continue to process what Quinn is dealing with. Sam is here, of course, and he is in this with me too. We take turns being the calm one, and take turns helping her out the door. But sometimes when he doesn’t understand her, I get angry at him. And sometimes when he is frustrated with her, the mother lion in me goes into overdrive. But I don’t have it all figured out either. Sometimes it is me who gets frustrated.

Watching Quinn wrestle with the ski club this winter has been incredibly hard. I have said, all along, that I don’t care whether she ski races or not, and in many ways I have hoped it would work itself out of her system before she reaches seventh grade. At the same time, there is no denying it has been good for her. So to watch her worries and self-doubt take over has been heartbreaking. On multiple occasions she’s said yes to going, done all the work to get dressed, ready, and delivered, only to freeze up and refuse once she finally gets to the mountain. We have had this happen while dropping her off, and we have dropped her off and been called back to pick her up. 

What we’ve had the hardest time figuring out is if this recent increase in her anxiety, and the club’s necessary Covid restrictions have expedited a decision that would have been natural for her eventually, or if her current anxiety and/or Covid is responsible for her change of heart. I know she misses being part of a pack, she misses goofing off in the clubhouse, riding the t-bar with friends, ripping around in the woods, and the adventure of navigating the lodge at lunch time, among other things. The timing of these Covid related changes, with the transition this year to new coaches, new equipment, and the increased focus on training vs fun has proven too much for her. 

When I look back at writing I did two winters ago, her first winter of ski club, I see a kid who only missed two days all winter in order to go to birthday parties. I see a kid who went to club when she had a cold, when the weather sucked, and when we offered her days off. Every time I offered a day off, she said "No way! I want to go to club!" This same kid, this winter, has been one who makes excuses, worries days in advance, panics, and ultimately refuses to go.

She is also a kid who, after the panic subsides, can articulate clearly and often eloquently how she is feeling. “When I start to worry,” she told me one day, “it’s like I’m on a carousel, and every time I go around the circle, my worries multiply, by three…they just keep growing and growing.” What she is able to express, and understand, is amazing to me. She has skills that so many adults do not. She is sensitive, intuitive, and the most powerful person I know. Seeing all of the work she does, every day, makes me both proud of her and sad for her—I wish she didn’t have to work so hard. And seeing the shame she feels, in the moments when she loses control, is devastating.

Sam and I are not sure if we have screwed this ski club decision up for her. Has she outgrown her love of skiing and the club, and we're making it a bigger deal than it is? Or has her anxiety gotten the better of her, and we’ve failed to help her through that? When I asked her, a couple of weekends ago, after she had been away from the club for a couple of weeks, whether she missed it or felt relieved, she told me she felt relief. But I don’t know if that is relief that she doesn’t have to go to ski club anymore, or relief that she doesn’t have to wrestle with her worries about it anymore.

If she was happy, it would be easy. We could easily hang up the race skis for good. But she’s not visibly happy about it. Ski club was the first thing that Quinn seemed to want for herself. It gave her a sense of belonging, a community of friends and coaches, it gave her freedom. Quinn has spent her whole life in the constant presence of GMVS, and even though she is only ten, she seems acutely aware that the decisions she makes now, during this insane time, will impact her options in the future. How messed up that she has to carry that weight too. The night that I asked her whether she missed it or felt relief, the answer came easily, but the thing that was hard was this: “I’m just having a hard time telling myself I’m not a ‘club' kid anymore.” She buried her face in Buddy’s fur, and then in my arms, to cry.

Here, at the one year anniversary of when this whole thing took hold, I feel like we are all in mourning. Mourning the loss of who we were before, of the plans we had that never happened, of the lives we were used to living that now seem lost. Certainly we are mourning the time we can’t get back with our loved ones—the holidays and vacations and dinner parties and birthdays. And as soon as we feel sorrow, we feel guilt, because it also feels like we have no right to complain.

In five days my dad and Louise will get their first shots. Char has had her first one. Sam and I will probably sign up for vaccine appointments this week. We are hearing about a third stimulus check from the federal government sometime soon. Winter’s end is near. And yet, I feel so pared down a lot of the time, so on the edge of panic myself, that I can’t really imagine my old life. The notion of having a house full of people, or being in a loud bar, or in close proximity to others seems so foreign. I'm losing interest in casual get togethers with some friends because, well, what is there to talk about? I don't want to complain. So in my free time, my time away from work, I am often alone by choice, dumbstruck at the ongoing realities of life right now—the smoke pouring out the windows, curling up toward the sky. Somedays it’s hard to see the future. And while I used to feel bad, in the before times, for not being better at living in the moment, there are days now when I don’t know how to escape it and look ahead.

It's not all bad. We have so much to be grateful for. It's all kind of hard to explain.

A 2020 Christmas

Pandemic, politics, parenting. Where do I begin? Enter anywhere on that circle—it’s all the same loop. The world has hit terrible milestones. Quinn has endured, but not without moments of real sadness. Since November the Vermont state guidance has been no indoor or outdoor gatherings with anyone outside your immediate household. Walks are okay, wearing masks, spread apart. She’s tired of walking. She’s tired of us. She’s lonely.

We spent Thanksgiving alone. We cooked a roast chicken dinner with all the sides for Sam and Alden. We delivered it masked, and talked to them through the window. Then we went home. 

In December, her school managed to stay open 4 days per week. That is a lifeline—other kids, her teacher, a change of scenery. She’s truly grateful for it and so are we. By mid December she was skiing with her club. As with all things, it’s different this year. The coaches are different. The club is smaller—in state kids only, no out of staters allowed. They ski only half days—no going inside. No walking from the clubhouse to the lodge with her posse at lunchtime to buy chicken tenders and Starbursts. On free ski days she can ride the lift with a friend, but when they’re training in courses, she’s alone. Only one kid at a time on the t-bar. She keeps lifting her chin back up.

I bought her an iPod for her 10th birthday. I had really mixed feelings about it. If I could manage to have her avoid the tech altogether, the chats and social media, and unpredictable internet, I would. I’m not convinced that’s possible, so maybe if she builds skills now she’ll be better prepared in middle school. That seems doubtful too. The one thing that compelled was FaceTime. She can call my dad and Louise, Grandma & Grandpa, Betsy & Claire in California, Auntie Amy, cousin Rob. She can call me at work, and she does, a lot. This part I love. I love that she can dial up a friendly face when she needs one. 

I could hear her as Christmas approached, answering Louise’s questions about what she might like for Christmas. I was surprised to learn she asked for "something of Claire’s." I found a letter, in a sealed envelope, addressed to her. Another one to Boone. She is lonely. She panics sometimes.

Sam and I could both feel ourselves trying to compensate for all this at Christmastime. We had a great morning, opening presents, reading new books, eating sticky buns (our best ones yet). We kept the tree lights on all day, and Christmas music, trying to keep it festive in spite of the torrential rain. Of course it rained. 

We opened presents with Nonna & Papa over FaceTime, and Zoomed with the extended Jackson clan. We had a quick phone call with Char, so Quinn could thank her for the latest batch of Nancy Drew books. 

The governor had, that week, relaxed the guidance for Christmas Day, just a little bit. An effort to compromise, but not give up completely. We were allowed one other household, so Sam and Alden came over in the afternoon and Quinn convinced them to stay for the night. We played lots of games, ate lots of food, enjoyed having company and tried to focus on gratitude for all we do have. It is so much, really. 

Still, the stress is there. I miss my Dad, and worry. Quinn worries too: “I never thought Dad would think I was good enough to buy me paints,” she told me, marveling over her new acrylics and brushes. She wants his approval so much. It’s a familiar feeling to me. 

The meltdown happened at bedtime, as it often does. She wanted a "sleepover" in our room, but we were all tired after a long, full day. The truth is that I would be happy to have her sleep in my bed every night, but it doesn’t really work for Sam. She hit the "red zone" as soon as she heard the first sound of no. "I don’t want to be alone after this social day!" I could hear the panic rising in her voice. "I don’t want to be the only one in the nest! I’m lonely!" Pleading was quickly followed by demanding, which was quickly followed by screaming and anger. If she’d hung out in the yellow zone for a minute, I might have had time to change my mind—it was Christmas after all—but she didn’t, so I couldn’t. "Nobody cares about me!" That was the last thing I heard on our otherwise very sweet Christmas Day, her fear issued as an accusation. 

My heart breaks for her when she loses control this way. I bought her a punching bag and boxing gloves for Christmas, thinking it would help her "get her anger out" as she keeps telling me she needs to do. And I agree. But when it comes out in a fit, it makes me so sad. I know she will feel like garbage afterward. I know she will be embarrassed and full of shame. It happens every time. She screams and stomps and says mean, hurtful things—she digs deep to find the worst things she can come up with. And then she passes out—she exhausts herself. And when she wakes up the next morning, she usually writes a note, turning the vitriol on herself and wondering if we’ll ever forgive her. 

The morning after Christmas I found the note next to me on the pillow. I went to get her from her room and brought her to mine to snuggle and talk. It’s always the same talk: I will always forgive you. It’s okay to be angry, it’s not okay to take your anger out on others. She understands it all…it make perfect sense, except when it doesn’t. 

We talked some more about the yellow zone—she has to find ways to grow it, on that we are both agreed…and it is growing. She is trying. She is trying so hard.

I’ve been trying to find a counselor she could talk to since last spring; there haven’t been any with openings—they’re popular right now. Even Quinn has asked for this: Is the lady with the dog available yet? Is there anyone else? Finally, in mid December, one of the local therapists had an opening. She works with many other girls we know. Quinn was nervous but incredibly brave. It was over video conference. She sat at the dining room table. I got on with her to say hello and introduce them to each other, but after that I was relegated to the basement. I promised to keep my earphones in; she didn’t want me listening.

On the morning after Christmas, at the bottom of her apology note, she wrote, "PS: I think I might need to talk to Heidi about this." And she explained what Heidi told her: that when you’re sad sometimes it feels easier, more in your control, to be angry instead of sad. I think she's relieved that she's beginning to understand what's happening when she rages like that, to not feel so out of control. And I know it's helping me. I’m glad she feels she has a resource. I know she hears the things that we say too. My respect for her maturity, her desire to "get it right" no matter what "it" is...these things help me keep that little bit of my own worry for her, for our relationship, in check. 

At school we’re getting COVID tests weekly and the day after Christmas they needed someone to drive the samples to Cambridge to hand-deliver them to the lab for quicker turnaround. We haven’t been allowed to leave the state because doing so means a seven day quarantine on return, so we hadn’t seen my dad & Louise since August. I asked Quinn if she wanted to do the drive with me, and said we could stop in and surprise Nonna & Papa on our way back. It felt kind of exciting to have a road trip with her. 

Before we left we cooked one last meal for Sam and Alden, and played one more game over coffee. As they bundled up to leave, I asked Sam his philosophy on hugging. The Jacksons are a hugging bunch, but Sam’s reply was quick, "I don’t do it, but if Alden wants to she can." It’s the reason I asked, and of course I respect it, even though there didn’t seem to be much logic in it after twenty hours spent in close proximity, unmasked, talking, laughing, eating, swapping playing cards across our narrow table. But that’s the way of this thing—it gets to all of us. You’re aware of the vulnerability, you take some minuscule calculated risks, but draw the line in other places. We are always explaining every move…"I went for a walk, wearing a mask," you always add, "six feet apart," you always say. It’s like a low grade fever—not enough to take you down, but enough to make you feel like crap.

Quinn and I packed snacks and blankets and a pillow for her in the backseat. She played DJ with songs and podcasts all day. We started off happy.

By the time we got to the city, which I’ve last seen in early March, and Quinn has last seen I’m not sure when, we notice everything. The streets are quieter but not empty. Faces are masked and unmasked. I parked the car in the taxi lane, in front of the sign that is clear as day—"No Standing," and of course that's all we're doing--we are all just standing still. I stepped up to 245 Main Street, and called the number I was supposed to call. No one answered so we stepped inside the small street-level corner lobby, to get out of the wind. There was a bank of elevators straight ahead, and a man sitting at a table—like a bellhop, but in a lab jacket. Only after I entered with Quinn did I notice the snaking line of people waiting for their COVID tests. I’m sure they could all see my panic as I rushed her back out to fresh air. "Don’t touch the door!" I whispered urgently, as she rolled her eyes. I called the number again and this time someone answered… "I see you there. In the red sweater?"

I told Quinn to stand right there in front of the door on the sidewalk in the open, clean air, but back inside the woman tells me I have to take my box of samples up to the 2nd floor…"I just have to get my daughter," I say. "Oh I can watch her for you," she says, with equal parts competence and genuine warmth. I believe she is someone I could trust, but I don’t trust myself to make it up to the second floor and back without losing my mind while Quinn is alone on the street, out of my sight. When we make it back to the car, Quinn is outraged when I ask her to sanitize her hands a second time in as many minutes. 

By the time we get to my dad’s it’s dusk. We park the car down the street from their house, and sneak across the neighbor’s lawn so we can surprise them. Quinn’s mood has gone south at this point; I’m not sure why. I’m not doing anything right. She stands in front of the garage door and I call them on the phone. "We shipped something to you and I was just notified that they left it in front of your garage. Would you go out and see if you can see a box?" Quinn stands waiting as the door rolls up. She is happy and not happy at the same time. And Louise is speechless for a moment, somehow smaller since I saw her last. The fact of us eventually sinks in and she yells to my dad, "Dana, can you help me with this box?" She winks over her shoulder at Quinn as she goes to the door. Papa is thrilled to see her. So thrilled that he loses his head for a minute and asks if we want to come in, maybe just in to the basement. 

Before I can say no, Quinn says yes, her eyes lit up once again, but I can’t let her. I explain where we’ve been, explain the lobby of people waiting for tests—all of them positive, for all we know—and he returns to his senses as Quinn glares at me and starts to cry. I try to keep it light, for the sake of all of us, but it doesn’t work. My dad points to the pile of clothes hanging on the railing outside the door to the house. "Nonna always makes me take my clothes off in the garage," he explains, "and then sends me straight to the shower." It’s their routine anytime he goes out for errands. They leave their mail in the garage for 24 hours before they bring it in. The tinfoil bundle of cookies we brought seems to crumble to dust in our hands.

They walk us out to the yard so we can peek in the window at their Christmas tree. Quinn won’t let me near her even though I know she desperately needs a hug. We retreat to the garage to get out of the wind. Quinn tucks herself in behind the parked cars, her face hidden behind her mask, chin tucked in to her collar, her head buried in her hood. There are two wet spots on the cloth under her eyes. 

My dad goes in to make me coffee for the three hours of driving we still have to do, and I pretend to need something in the car so Quinn and Nonna can have a few minutes alone. Nonna draws her out a bit as I knew she would. I call my dad on the phone and we talk for a few minutes too—me in his driveway, he in his kitchen. I miss him.

When he returns to the garage, he has a green and red bag with Santas all over it, tissue paper sticking out at the top. He hands it to Quinn. "You said you wanted something of Claire’s, right? Well I thought of just the thing...something I think is perfect for you." She pulls out a long-handled gold hand mirror and matching hairbrush. They used to sit on my mom’s dresser. I recall the set as a centerpiece there, with clean space around it. I recall it having some magic when I was a kid—the kind of thing a real princess would have. I don’t recall her using it, but there are a few hairs in the bristles so it’s clear she did. Quinn seems a bit mesmerized by the objects and also not quite sure what to do. She can’t hug anyone. She whispers a soft thank you. We say our goodbyes and get back in the car as darkness fully settles. 

We turn left, instead of right, at the end of their driveway, so we can see the extension of their road that’s been built and the new houses they tell us are there. They wave from the door of the garage. Right away Quinn tells me, "I’m sorry I got so mad." She chokes on her tears as she tries to explain, "I didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity…It is so hard…we work so hard and then as soon as there is a little reward, it is gone." I’m not mad, I promise her, and I’m crying too. It is so hard, and she has been so strong. When we pass by the end of my dad's road again, I can see him still standing in the open garage, watching for us. Quinn falls asleep soon after we reach the highway, and I let her.

At bedtime she pulls her mirror and hairbrush out of the bag again. She lets me brush her hair as she wonders where she should put it. I notice a tiny sticker on the face of the mirror: 

ANTIQUE GOLD FINISH

guaranteed

not to tarnish

It takes a bit of the magic away for me, and I resolve to peel it off when she’s not looking. At ten she already seems too aware that there are no guarantees.

I'm Speaking

Four years ago Quinn had just started kindergarten; I was a few months into my new job as Academic Director. In early November Sam was in Colorado at the training camp. Voting day was sunny and warm. I was elated all day, waiting for Quinn to finish school so she could come with me when I voted. I ran into Senator Patrick Leahy at the bakery while I waited, and had a chance to talk with him. I told him about Quinn; he was confident and optimistic as I was, as I explained that I wanted her to be part of that history-making moment: the first woman President of the United States! A woman who had worked hard her entire life, who was exceptionally well educated, prepared and qualified. There was no way she would lose. 

She was running against a tv personality, a real estate guy, a bully and a buffoon. He was someone who was handed his wealth, and yet who still lied and cheated his way through life. His oversized ego was so ridiculous he made a caricature of himself. He was someone who mocked people, called them names, demeaned and threatened people. He was someone who bragged about doing so. There was a recording of him talking about women who would say nothing if he “grabbed them by the pussy,” allowing themselves to be assaulted, seemingly happy to let it happen, because he was “famous.” That recording was made public before the election.

That people like him exist is not a surprise, and not even that much of a problem, when they are just people you can avoid. But to see someone like him put into the highest position of authority in our entire country, voted in by nearly half the population, was an experience so demoralizing and disorienting it is hard to explain. And to accept that he actually lost the popular vote, losing to the qualified female candidate by millions, is unreconcilable. And then there is the unfathomable circumstance of your own father voting for him, your father who raised you to believe that you mattered, that you should always speak up, and never let anyone put you down, and that you could believe anything is possible if you are willing to work for it.

I looked forward to Hillary’s historic presidency with anticipation. I was hungry for the confidence-inspiring presence of a woman in the White House as I worked to build confidence in my own small leadership role, and also as I worked to build the confidence of my growing daughter. It meant so much to imagine her moving through her elementary school years with the image of a strong and articulate woman doing what many would consider the most important job in the world. 

That, of course, is not what happened. 

Two days ago, on Saturday morning, our local Development Review Board showed up to inspect our lot in order to consider whether or not they’d grant us a variance on town zoning policy so we could build our garage ten feet closer to the road than the seventy feet required. They were supposed to have come up two weeks prior but never showed. This time, they did and as Sam and I tried to explain why we wanted to put the building where we did—the most logical place in all of our 5.8 acres, they walked around offering alternatives: well, you could put it here (in the middle of the front yard), or you could put it here (halfway into our stone-bordered flower bed), or you could put it here (hanging off the edge of the driveway over open air). Hell, you could even put it here! (fully blocking the entire front of our house). One of the three men, in particular, was full of ideas. He seemed hellbent on being right. He was loud, dismissive and rude. I’ve played this game before and so tried to tread lightly on his oversized ego…I tried to offer some rationale for our plan but, in the middle of a sentence, he interrupted me. Talking over me as if I hadn’t been speaking at all. But I had been, I had been speaking. 

Not interrupting others was one of the two most basic rules of civility I was taught growing up (that and not talking with your mouth full). It is a rule I was held accountable for until it was ingrained in me, and it is one I cannot excuse in others.

As the discussion of our permit went on, the buffoon got louder, and more insistent. It was clear that the debate was no longer about the placement of our garage, it was about him winning. It was also clear that his power was meant as a threat. He had control; we did not. It took all of my self-control to avoid calling out his obnoxious behavior and telling him off. But I kept my composure, even when the next time I was speaking he interrupted again, blowing raspberries like a child over something I said. Everything stopped in that moment… "Did you just blow raspberries at me?" I was incredulous, and he seemed unabashed. 

It was incredible, and at the same time, it was predictable. It was a small vignette of what our country has become in the past four years: a place where loud wins, where reason and rational thinking counts for nothing, where it’s okay to insult, threaten, and demean people. It is a place where women are meant to be silent and accept the treatment dealt to them. Women, and people of color, and LGBTQ people, and basically anyone who is not part of the yelling, unthinking, throbbing mass.

When Hillary was running for President, other democrats were campaigning for her. Quinn and I listened to a speech by Michelle Obama. In response to the angry, ugly politics of the buffoon, she implored people, “When they go low, we go high.” I’ve reminded myself, and others, of those words so many times—believing them to be good strategy, as well as an indicator of good character, and it has worked in my own leadership role dealing with difficult personalities in the past four years. But there is a fine line between taking the high ground and tolerating the low. When they go low, we go high…and yet, we should not take the high road so quietly that we are silenced. 

For the past four years we’ve watched ugly behavior surface, in small encounters, like in my driveway, and in large, on the international stage. We’ve watched racist acts of violence and murder go unchecked and even encouraged (good people on both sides; stand back and stand by). We’ve watched scientific facts be ignored, denied, and mocked (climate change and a global pandemic). We’ve watched criminals and morally corrupt people installed in positions of power once held by decent, intelligent, compassionate people.

In the grand scheme of vulnerabilities, we are somewhat protected as white people of privilege, living in a state where the impact of the climate crisis takes more subtle forms than the historic fires, floods and storms that threaten many people’s daily existence, and where we have enjoyed a buffer of sanity in this pandemic, thanks to clear leadership in our state and neighbors generally willing to follow it. We have the luxury of living in a circumstance where we wouldn’t have to expect that our daughter would be taken from us just to punish us for daring to hope for a better life. And yet we have been living in the dark shadow of a man whose every gesture and decision belittles that same daughter (at best) and imperils her existence (at worst).

Given all of the unbelievable things we have had to bear witness to in the past four years, I approached this year’s election differently. I didn’t dare to hope. I couldn’t bring myself to think of anything other than four more years, to ensure that the fall after the election would be less precipitous this time. 

Quinn took this picture of me doing some stretching on election night, trying to calm my nerves, with our "therapy" dog still doing his job so well.

And yet, I have been watching the news and the events and the debates, trying to keep track of what further harm is and will be done. I watched him cover his inability to handle the rules and content of a debate by yelling and interrupting and insulting his opponent—a man who has been a civil servant his whole life, who has suffered so much personal loss that he has more genuine empathy than any politician I’ve ever seen, a man who is decent and hardworking, well educated, well prepared, and highly qualified. And in the midst of personal attacks on the man’s life, and his children, one of them deceased, Joe Biden stayed as high as anyone could be expected to, while also naming, directly, what is going on and what is at stake: the character of this entire country.

Running with him was Kamala. A woman who embodies it all: intelligence, confidence, joy, compassion, laughter and light, power and clarity. In her own debate with the current Vice President, when he spoke to her in that too-familiar patronizing voice, that aren’t you cute but why don’t you shut up voice, and then he interrupted her…she stopped what she was saying. She turned to him. “I’m speaking,” she said, and when he kept on, she said it again: “Mr. Vice President, I’m speaking.” There was no apology, no “I’m sorry, but,” just the fact: "I'm speaking." And eventually he shut up.

It was Sam’s voice that was ultimately heard in our driveway by the DRB. Not by the buffoon, but by the other two men. "What happens when my 85 yr old father has a medical emergency and the ambulance can’t get to the door?” he asked. And with that I saw a lightbulb go one for one of the men. He was reasonable from the start, not necessarily seeing things as we did initially, but willing to actually listen. Our arguments for logic, logistical and financial pragmatism, aesthetics that would protect our investment, and personal choice largely fell flat, but the threatened patriarch argument got some attention. And in the end, the buffoon was out voted, two to one, and we got our building permit with a variance. It was a small victory to start the day.

And as the day went on, the energy of the universe continued to change. It was four days after the election, and votes were still being counted in some states, and yet by late morning it was finally clear that Joe Biden had enough votes (both popular and electoral college) to win the presidency! The nightmare of the past four years would be ending. 

On top of that, Kamala Harris would be the first woman elected to a job in the White House, the second highest office in the nation. A black woman, of South Asian decent, the child of immigrants, she is historic in so many ways. And while I will never forgive the loss of four years of inspiration, of role modeling, and of possibilities imagined, for my daughter and all the daughters, the four years of progress that did not happen, I am willing to begin again, as women always have, and start forward from here. 

“To the little girls watching,” Kamala said, in her victory speech, “Dream with ambition. Lead with conviction. And see yourself in a way that others may not—simply because they’ve never seen it before. Know we will applaud you every step of the way.”

Perhaps there is some value in having the struggle come first before the victory. Quinn has not been cowed into submission by the toxic climate of our society during her elementary school years. If anything she has been emboldened by it. She listens to everything going on around her, and speaks up against every injustice she perceives. Her voice is unignorable; she is powerful medicine and continues to learn how to use her powers for good. With middle school on the horizon, I'm glad she's a fighter. 

I'm speaking. For Quinn, and through her, I'm speaking.

The Chicken Project

For many years I have wanted chickens. I’m not entirely sure why. There is, of course, the appeal of fresh eggs, which are perhaps one of my favorite foods. And there’s the imagined joy of watching my own lovely hens wander around, happily pecking bugs out of the yard. I can’t quite put my finger on the source of the desire. All I know is that I have always been drawn to birds.

Here are some other things I know: I know that when I get an idea in my head that takes root, which usually doesn’t take very long, it occupies my mind until I can bring it to fruition. A recent example: Buddy. It took me about five minutes after news of lockdown to decide it was the right time to get a puppy, and then a relentless week or two to find him, then 12 hours later a dawn blitz over to Maine to retrieve him, and three hours more to drive him home. It took only a moment to fall in love.

What I should say, right away, is that at this point in my life while many of my decisions continue to be made independently, none of the projects are completed that way. Sam was up at 5am that morning we drove to Maine too. In fact, he did all the driving. And when Buddy, as puppies do, woke up in the night needing to go out, often it was Sam who got up with him, not me. Not always, but often. 

When we found out our neighbors Doug & Kathy were moving this summer, our neighbors from whom we’ve been buying a dozen eggs weekly for years, for $5 a dozen, my wheels started turning. “I wonder what they’re going to do with their chickens?” I imagine Sam heard that question with a sense of dread. And yet, because he is the generous person he is, he never uttered any skepticism, nor any warnings about the dangerous nature of such a question.

We have been storing our canoe in the top of the neighbors’ barn for the past few years, so we went to retrieve it before their move. As we stood around in their farmyard, with all those beautiful birds clucking and pecking happily around us, unfazed by the new faces, the truck, the yapping dogs, I asked the question out loud: “What are you going to do with your chickens?” That was the critical moment right there. Thinking back, I can see their faces lighting up. “We’d love to not take the chickens with us…Do you want some chickens?” 

It’s hard to stop the momentum when a long held dream is on the verge of becoming a reality. Why, yes, I did want some chickens! I had always wanted some chickens, at least in the “always” that I’ve lived on this hill, and more each year as woods have turned to meadow, and gardens have grown with berry bushes and fruit trees. Chickens were the natural next step! “I would love to take two or three,” I said, “if you’re looking for a home for them.”

Here was another critical moment: “Oh, you’d need to take at least six or seven! That way they’d have a little flock.” Knowing I would be well advised to at least make the appearance of consulting with my own “little flock,” I told our neighbors we would think about it and let them know. In my mind, I was already making plans to inquire with Richard, our other neighbor, about his currently unused coop. Still, on the way up the hill, I feigned a casual indifference and asked Sam and Quinn what they thought. To be honest, I don’t even remember their specific replies, even though that was only a month ago. I seem to remember Quinn saying both “Yes!” and “No way! You’re crazy.” And I seem to remember Sam not saying much.

But it didn’t matter that much because the idea was taking root as soon as we drove back down their driveway. And when I stopped by Richard’s one day soon after, and told him I had a question about his coop, and he responded with an eagerness, “Why? Do you want it?” Well, by that point the wheels were in motion.

I told Doug we’d take the chickens, and somehow managed to agree to take all fourteen of them. And I told Richard I would like to buy his coop, even though he refused to sell it to me and insisted he just wanted to see it in use (though not in his own yard!). And then we went on vacation and it became a happy thought that occupied a point in the near future. I talked about the chickens a lot in the following two weeks, and I noticed, with only a little concern, that no one else really wanted to talk about them. That became even more true after the weekend that Sam and Quinn spent borrowing a trailer, driving it, and then our tractor, down to Richard’s house, where he and Richard both spent most of a day, with the help of two tractors, and the curious audience of Quinn and our other neighbor, also Richard, watching their progress as they slowly, and not without some calamity, managed to move half of the coop from Richard’s driveway to ours. The other half of the coop stayed at Richard’s, in a crumpled heap, and I stayed at the lake blissfully unaware.

By the time I got home that night, and saw just how huge Richard’s old coop was, when seen up close (14 x 4 x 4), Sam did not want to talk about the chickens…at least not with words. His face said quite a lot. And all Quinn wanted to talk about was what a big to-do it all was, and how she couldn’t believe I was lounging around at the lake all day. Well, one contribution I was able to make, thanks to having been at the lake all day, was that on the drive to the Adirondacks I spotted what appeared to be a perfectly sized trailer for sale on the side of the road…the kind of trailer that would make for a perfect base to the very heavy, currently impossible to move coop.

Still, it was Sam who went to the Tractor Supply store to price out wheels and axels and other various parts—a necessary step for me to feel that the $600 trailer was actually a good deal. And one that made me feel especially good when the seller accepted my offer of $500, a small price to pay to avoid what would surely be a disastrous and lengthy experience had we bought all the parts and tried to build a trailer ourselves. And while I imagined driving over with Sam to pick it up, it worked out that I had to be in a meeting the afternoon when the seller was available to meet us, and Sam and Quinn went to do the work alone, again.

At this point, I should just add, in my own defense, that we are in the middle of a pandemic and I’ve spent the summer in meetings trying to figure out how to open school in person this fall. It’s not like I’ve been lounging around all the time.

The trailer came home on Monday night, which was also the night that Kathy informed me the chicken transfer would have to happen on Tuesday, the very next night. So, I stayed home Tuesday and set to work cleaning the coop—a dirty job that I knew I needed to do to begin the process of redeeming myself and salvaging this project that was my idea in the first place. “The work is the joy,” I reminded myself and with that I spent hours shoveling, sweeping, scraping and even vacuuming out the ten year old chicken and mouse poop and wood shavings and cobwebs. 

By the time I was done, it was like new. Sam removed the roosts, covered as they were in a thick layer of poop that was beyond scraping, and he cut and I sanded two new ones. I round the edges to protect the girls’ feet. And then we spent hours in the moving process—lifting, propping, lifting and pivoting, lifting and propping some more—trying to get that beast up on the trailer. And once we did, and once it was secured, it was a joy to look at with its big window, fresh wood shavings, clean nesting box and lovely new roosts. 

We were exhausted by the time we were done, and filthy. It had started to rain. It was 7pm and we hadn’t eaten. Still trying to redeem myself, I sent Sam to take a hot shower and I ordered pizzas. I ran out to pick up dinner and all I could think about was being desperate for food, beer and a shower. When I got home I decided there was no way we could go get the birds and as I started to send Kathy and Doug an email to say we’d have to pick them up the next day, they called. And Quinn, at this point, was excited to have all this chicken talk end, and the chicken fun begin. And Sam was eager to just get it over with. So we put the pizza down and our boots back on and we gathered up plastic bins and coolers and we went down to the neighbors’ barn to collect the now-sleeping chickens. 

Because we didn’t have any idea what we were doing, the neighbors, and their son Hale, came out to help. Here was another critical moment: the Boydens were working fast, with confidence, gathering up birds, in the dark, and placing them in the various boxes. There was some wild flapping, some chasing, some swearing, and Sam and Quinn in the mix. And somehow I managed to create for myself the job of receiving the already-boxed birds and putting them in the truck. It was a good gig. I stood there in the yard listening to the owls, feeling a mix of excitement and worry. And when they told us it turned out there were sixteen chickens instead of the fourteen we thought we were picking up, I just laughed and thought, nervously, “here we go!”

We got them home and found ourselves on our own lifting the sleepy, but not sleeping, birds out of their various bins, and placing them in their new coop. It was the first time I’d ever touched a chicken. I was struck by how beautiful they were, and how they managed to be both solid and delicate at the same time. Their feathers were a silky miracle. With the coop locked up, and the hour late, we left them and went to shower and sleep ourselves. It was exhausting and exciting and a little disorienting…in a way that bringing home a puppy never was.

When the dogs woke me up the next morning, I woke Quinn up too so we could go see the birds. And I woke Sam up too so we could move the coop from the driveway to the spot we imagined them hanging out for the fall—on the other side of Quinn’s swing set, in the exact place, ironically, that Sam has been talking about building his dream stone patio and fire pit—the spot with one of the best views in the whole yard.

Driving the truck, with trailer and coop in tow, across our uneven ground was nerve-wracking. Well, it was nerve-wracking to watch…I didn’t actually do the driving. It took a while to get it into position, relatively level, and then surrounded by some fencing—a security measure until the girls got used to their new home. Eventually we opened the coop door and watched as they came cautiously, but curiously out. We fed them, and brought them water. And we watched the fog move up the valleys below. And we felt autumn in the air. And we admired how pretty they were. And Quinn and I stayed and watched them, and tried to reach out carefully to sneak a gentle touch as they passed by us, and we identified our favorites. And after some time we let them be and we went in to have our breakfast. 

It was Wednesday morning and I had to get on a Zoom meeting with a few others from school, and one of our students, and her family, in China. While I tried to shift my focus from the chickens in the yard to making coffee and my day ahead, I saw some movement out the side window that caught my eye…within a few short minutes one of the birds had flown out of the fence and was walking around the yard. And because we weren’t sure how our dogs would handle them, and we weren’t sure they wouldn’t wander off, I grabbed my boots, and Quinn, and headed back outside to try to catch her and return her to the flock. 

Of course I’ve read the stories about how hard it is to catch a chicken, and of course Quinn and I tried and failed. And of course I sent her to the house to call to Sam and tell him we needed his help. All of this was inevitable. What I hadn’t anticipated was the way his chicken-project-fatigue would combine with his competitive nature, and what that would look like on wet grass. Quinn named the escaped chicken “Rogue,” and for a while we continued trying to corner her, but Rogue was remarkably quick to pivot and regain open ground. 

Sam’s strategy, once he arrived, was more physical than strategic. He walked, then jogged, then ran after her with increasing determination. With each quick turn, each slip on the wet grass, his fury seemed to build. At the same time, for those of us watching the chase, Quinn and me, and Buddy from the living room window, and the other fifteen chickens from behind their fence, the scene was hilarious. Even though I knew I was risking a reprimand, I couldn’t stop myself from laughing, a lot. Quinn and I were hysterical. Sam caught the bird, dropped her over the fence, said “This is going to drive me fucking nuts!” and stormed back to the house without another word. Quinn and I exchanged a glance and followed him back. I was ten minutes late to my meeting, still wearing some of my chicken clothes and I could barely follow the conversation. When the call finally ended, I looked out the window and saw a number of birds happily exploring the yard, outside the fence.

From the beginning, when we contemplated the number of chickens we were getting, Sam said that it would be our “margin of error.” While we brought home sixteen, we only originally wanted two or three. We resigned ourselves to the fact that there would probably be some mishaps. I read all about the predators and as I did so I flipped back through the many scenes and sounds of our spot on the hill…the red fox that we’ve watched cross the meadow multiple times, the bears, the many owls, the coyotes we’ve heard in the night, and most recently the hawk who stalked and then attacked the robin’s nest in the maple tree just next to the house. With all those neighbors in mind, on Wednesday at dinnertime I decided I would get the girls back in their coop, before dark, so I could stop worrying about them and we could have a peaceful family dinner. I hadn’t stopped thinking about chickens for more than a few minutes since Monday and I knew I needed to bring some normalcy back to our world. 

I tried everything to shoo them in, coax them in, bribe them in, but all of it to no avail. Ultimately Sam came out and suggested we just eat dinner and let it get a bit darker. I was trying too hard, as I often do—chickens are going to do what they want to do, including find all the mulched garden beds in the yard to scratch about in, including hang out in the bushes next to the house, including lay eggs in the ferns. The list goes on. 

Buddy was the one who found the secret laying nest in the ferns. As Quinn and I checked the nest boxes that afternoon, gathering the three eggs we found there, we noticed Buddy prancing and bouncing around the yard with what we thought was a lacrosse ball. When he tossed it up in the air, we noticed it was smaller and thought it was a golf ball. But, on closer inspection realized it wasn’t round. He had found an egg! Amazingly it didn’t crack it hit the ground. I took it from him and went back to my chores, only to see him come out of the ferns, again, with another egg. When we looked, we could see the little rounded mound of ferns and grass the girls had made for laying in. There were more there the next day and so we learned to check there as well as the nest boxes.

After dinner that first night I looked out the window, with dusk settling in, and I saw chickens roosting on the swing set and on the roof of the coop. They were ready, finally, to settle down. We all suited up and went out to gather the girls and get them in the coop. Sleepy as they were, they allowed us to pick them up. And holding those warm birds close was a thrill. And in a strange way, it felt like a privilege. 

When they were all in the coop, I did a head count—with a view from only one end, it was hard to see them clearly, but I felt sure they were all safely in, so we closed the door and headed inside feeling relieved. The next morning, making my coffee as I waited for the sun to come up a bit more, I saw one of my favorite hens, a Barred Plymouth Rock that we called Speckles, walking around the yard. I couldn’t believe it! She had spent the night outside the coop—I had clearly missed her in my head count—and she survived! I went out with some pellets and she followed me back and I let the rest of the girls out to join her. I imagined she must be exhausted.

Thursday was day two and it went pretty smoothly. I spent time in the morning feeding and watering them, and time in the afternoon doing the same. I found myself worrying about them all the time, and noticing the messes they were making. I asked about them on the phone when I called from work. And when I arrived home, as soon as I opened my car door, I smelled that farmyard smell and it triggered a list of things to do. It also, it so happens, made me lose my taste for eggs. I hard-boiled eggs on the first night, pealed them, salted them and took my first bite—imagining it to be a divine experience, but I will confess they tasted off. The smell of animals wafting in the window is more than I can handle.

All of it was proving more than I could handle. And just as I am the type of person to pursue a goal with relentless determination, I’m also someone who knows myself well enough to identify quickly when I’ve made a mistake. And in the same way that I’ve made the thing come true, I can also work to make a thing go away—I am single-minded, and relentless, and I can’t rest until the whole mess has been cleaned up and disappeared. So, even though Thursday went smoothly, it was clear to me that we didn’t really want sixteen chickens, right before school started, in an unpredictable year, and right before they all molt and stop laying, and right before winter sets in. How were we going to keep them far enough away from the house to not be in the way and smellable, and at the same time close enough to trudge to through thigh deep snow? And how were we going to fill up the water when the hose is turned off? And keep it from freezing when the extension cord is frozen under many feet of snow and ice? 

Having not answered those questions, and having reflected on the fact that other people I know who have a lot of chickens often also have other animals, to protect them and help them keep warm, and usually a member of the household who is home all the time. These chickens in particular lived on an organic farm with Icelandic sheep, dogs, and a guard llama, not to mention Kathy and Doug and their four home-schooled kids. As I thought about how “easy” it is to care for chickens, something Kathy and Doug said again and again, and I thought about the morning and evening chores that would inevitably have to happen when I was at work, I started to think about the fact that this latest idea of mine might put me in a position where I was forced to choose: chickens or husband? The answer was pretty obvious.

Within forty-eight hours of their arrival it was clear to me they had to go. The neighbors who gave them to us didn’t want them back. The neighbor whose coop they were living in didn’t want them either. The neighbor up the road, who once told me she’d had her “eye on Richard’s coop for years” also didn’t want them. Still, I had to move them quickly. School would be starting on Monday, and more pressing: we were all starting to fall for them a little bit. Sam might not admit it, but when one of them was squawking one day, he went hustling out across the yard barefoot, “What’s the matter girls? Are you okay,” I heard him ask this with my own two ears.

Friday evening, after meeting a friend for a walk, I called home to see if we needed anything at the store. Sam answered the phone: “We have a problem. I can only find two live birds. And one that isn’t quite dead but is almost dead.” The urgency in his voice was intense. I stepped on the gas. Quinn was in the shower and didn’t know. I told him I’d come right home. When I arrived, he was trying to find the others. They had scattered in the ferns and woods all around. I had been worried about that hawk from the start, and from the scene we found, it seems that’s what struck. And not surprisingly the hen that was caught was the one chicken that seemed smaller than the others. Sam went to deal with her before Quinn came out, and I set to work finding the other hens in their hiding places. The big one called Plumpy was nearly paralyzed with fear; she seemed to growl at me as I came close. Eventually, talking to them, walking near them, coaxing them gently, they all emerged and sprinted back to the coop. It seemed like a miracle to still have fifteen.

The next morning I posted two ads, one on Front Page Forum and one on Craigslist. Within an hour I had five requests for my free hens. At the same time, a colleague at work, who has a farm, said she wanted them. So, knowing hers would be a good home for them, with other layers, and meat birds, and turkeys, and horses, and dogs, and goats and barns and kids, on an organic farm with a beautiful view, similar to the home they left, we made arrangements for her to come and pick them up Saturday night. When she saw the coop, she marveled over it. She opened the doors to look in and she and her two daughters oohed and aaahed over the nesting boxes. It was a labor of love, I told her; Richard had pampered his own chickens. In that moment, she asked if we wanted to part with the coop too and, just as quickly as I committed to the whole project, I let it go.  

Instead of pulling the birds out, we decided we’d move the trailer in the daylight. The next morning Sam hooked it up to his hitch again, and drove the coop back across the yard, back down the driveway, past Richard’s house and down the road. At the bottom of the hill, by the school track, the new owners were waiting. Quinn was sad and so was I, but I was also relieved and it was clear as day that this was the right thing to do. I recouped the money I spent on the project, trailer included, and stuck half of it in an envelope for Richard. I had checked with him before selling and he insisted he didn’t want it back and was glad to be rid of it. That said, I think he is glad to know it went to someone who appreciated it and that it will be put to good use.

In the week since then, Quinn admits she hasn’t thought about them much. I know Sam hasn’t missed them, and I’ve felt immense relief. Home is the place I return to to rest. It is a peaceful and beautiful place of solitude in my busy life. And in the brief time the birds were here, I was constantly worried, feeling guilty, and neglecting the two dogs and two people I love. 

It was a crazy thing to do, but it was something I had always wanted to do. I am not afraid to admit that I feel proud to be the kind of person who goes after what she wants, and that I’m also the kind of person who isn’t afraid to admit she’s made a mistake. I think those two things—confidence and humility—should go hand in hand. Those, I think, are the takeaways of the chicken project. Those reminders, and a renewed sense of wonder that I managed to marry a man who continues to humor me and help me accomplish the things I set out to do. And in the nearly twenty years we’ve been together, he has never once said (not out loud at least): that was a stupid idea. Though this was a close one, I’m sure.

Postscript November 7th: As Sam worked to light a bonfire, (more than two months after the chickens have come and gone) Buddy delivered the remains of the dead chicken that Sam had disposed of in the woods, like the good and gentle retriever that he is. The chickens haunt us still!