Paradise

 

Up ahead of me, I spy a small child trotting out of her backyard gate into the front side yard facing the street. She’s holding a large something—it’s awkward to hold, being at least half her size. As I approach, she lets go of a large butterscotch chicken, yes, a chicken! Butterscotch lands easily and begins pecking at the ground. I stop to chat cuz that’s what I do. And, I see that Butterscotch isn’t the only chicken. There are several chickens milling about, pecking at the ground: a speckled one, a feathered one, a black one.

            The little girl stands and stares at me.

            “Are those your chickens?” I ask.

            She nods.

            “Do they have names?”

            She rattles off a bunch of names in her little child’s voice. I can’t understand a word she’s saying. But I nod encouragingly. She’s small. Maybe 4 or 5 years old, with lank brown hair and pale white skin. She’s wearing a dirty pink dress that probably wasn’t dirty before she picked up the chicken.

            Then Dad emerges from the back yard, tall, dark,  handsome, and protective. He's wearing a lime baseball cap and holding a red weed whacker. Who is talking to his kid? When he sees me, he smiles. I’m no threat. No one is wearing masks anymore. But I’m still keeping my distance. Even though I really want to pet the chickens like I did the goats the day before.

            “Hi,” I greet him.

            “How ya doin’?” he answers.

            “Your chickens are really cute!” I exclaim.

            He chuckles, “Yeah, it’s Chicken Paradise here after the bare bones of the backyard.”

            I nod as we both observe the chickens pecking away in their weedy dirty paradise.

            “They really are beautiful,” I say. “Are they special kinds of chickens?”

            He’s all in now, “Oh, yeah. That one there....” He points to the spotted one. “....is called a Dominican Chicken. But another name for it is the Mayflower Chicken. It’s been around since the 1600s.”

            “Wow!” I admire Mayflower’s spotted feathers. She doesn’t look that old, but who knows how long chickens live if you don’t eat them.

            “And that one there, we call him Feather Foot; she is a Feather.....”

            I don’t catch what he’s saying, but nod like I do.

            “The Golden one over there is called a Golden Chicken.”

            “That’s appropriate!” I laugh. He joins in. The child continues, all this time, to stand in one place, staring at me. Then she suddenly stops staring and starts to follow Mayflower around. Trying to grab her. But Mayflower will have none of it and scurries away. She’s got pecking to do in her Chicken Paradise.

            “Where do you live?” Dad continues.

            “Oh, down on 32^nd street.”

            “Rebecca is on 31^st street. She has chickens.”

            “She does?” I am dubious about this. I haven’t heard any chickens in the house behind me, but maybe they’re all just relaxing in the hot tub with glasses of wine and Vogue magazines.

            “Yeah,” he nods.

            “I do hear a rooster every day. I think it lives in the house across the street from me but not behind me.”

            “Yeah,” he pauses. “We don’t have a rooster, but these girls do make a clucking noise.” He mimics the chicken noise. He’s very good at it.  The little girl laughs. Chases after Butterscotch again, who evades capture. At least for now.

            “Well,” I say, starting to walk on, “you have a good rest of your day.”

            “You too,” Dad says, holding his weed eater machine. Is he going to cut all the yummy chicken weeds?

            That’s hardly what Paradise is about. But, for a chicken maybe Paradise is just around the next bend.  

            As long as you can peck clear of children. Who should never be a part of Paradise.

            I cross Clinton Ave, looking both ways before heading up the next block. I hear the weed eater’s motor’s whine and wince. Such a heinous noise. But as I continue to walk, the whine fades. The neighborhood is quiet on this block. No chickens. No weed eaters. No little girls.

            A lone dove coos out into the blue sky. A strawberry tree sways in the breeze. I breathe in the late spring air, clucking softly to myself as I cross Garvin street.

             

Goat Girl

“Can we pet the goats?” Ian asks Goat Girl, who’s fondling one of the goats with both hands. Rubbing the goat’s little mouth sides, cooing at her with kissy noises. The goat stands patiently in an outdoor enclosure, her head leaning over the fence, the better for fondling.

            We’ve only been here for two days, but Ian and I immediately established a walking routine. How could we not? The calm, warm, redwood scented air and soothing massive shade from these giants beckoned us from the moment we landed here. Who knew that Aptos had an idyllic redwood forest above the sea?

            Tromping down the shady road, we spotted just one other walker. A mom with a stroller, pushing baby up the hill. No mask. She smiled and waved. I smiled and waved back, thinking about how much has changed in the last month with more and more people getting vaccinated. Ian and I have been vaccinated for weeks now, and so we, too, wore no masks this morning. But I know that not everyone is safe. Many young people still hadn’t gotten their shots. So, when Ian asked Goat Girl, who wasn’t wearing a mask and made no effort to retrieve one from a pocket, if we could pet the goats, I had my reservations.

            I mean, I guess I’m supposed to be immune. But Goat Girl? She’s young. Maybe in her 30s or early 40s? I can’t tell. She’s not a senior citizen. Thus, I assume she wasn’t vaccinated. But who knows? Maybe being a Goat Caretaker is an Essential Worker in Santa Cruz county and she had her shots months ago.

            Now, she turns and grins at us, nodding to Ian, “Sure, you can pet them.”

            Eagerly, Ian steps up to the Goat Plate. Holds out his hand and one of the goats meanders over to him, nuzzling his hand.

            I follow suit. Holding out my hand, but still, I’m anxious about the no mask situation. Do I ask Goat Girl if she’s had her shots? Does it even matter since both Ian and I have, and so we’re safe; never mind about her. If she’s not concerned, then I guess I shouldn’t be either. It’s not like we’ll ever see her again.

            Yet....I feel uneasy. I could dig my mask out of my pocket to demonstrate mask etiquette awareness. But I don’t. Why not?

            The goats.

            They are so cute that I forget about the lack of masks as I start to pet the rough goat fur on the top of one of their heads.

            “What are their names?” I ask.

            “The one you’re petting is Ella....and that one over there? That’s Earthstar. She’s not as friendly.”

            I shoot a look over at Earthstar. She stares back at me, not budging from her little hill in the middle of the enclosure. Well, with a name like Earthstar, maybe she belongs on another planet.

            “What kind of goats are they?” Ian asks.

            “They’re Nigerian Dwarfs.”

            “They don’t look like dwarfs!” Ian chuckles, scratching Ella on the top of her head.

            “Yeah, well, Earthstar is a bit of a Tank.”

            We all laugh as Goat Girl goes on to tell us how she milks the goats, uses the milk to make butter and buttermilk. The fat content of the milk. The neighbors across the road who love the goat buttermilk. How she’s raised kids for years now and has a clientele that buys her Goat Goods.

            Maybe I’m right. She is an essential worker and had her shots months ago. Goat Milk is a necessity in the hills of Aptos.

            I glance down at my Fitbit watch. It’s getting late and we need to check out of the Tiny House soon. I nudge Ian, “We should get going.”

            “But they’re so cute! Look she doesn’t want me to stop patting her!”

            Goat Girl laughs. “Oh, she’d let you do that all day long if you were willing!”

            Ella looks at us with her sideways goat eyes. Saying to us, you better not leave? Or, that she doesn’t care one way or the other. Goat Girl is there. Ella’s guaranteed pats for life.

            “C’mon, honey,” I urge. “Let’s go. It’s getting late.”

            “Oh, okay....” Reluctantly, Ian stops petting Ella. Ella immediately meanders over to Goat Girl who resumes the petting.

            “Thanks for lettin us pet them,” I call out as we start our tromp back up the hill.

            “No problem,” Goat girl grins, resuming her cooing kissy noises.

            I don’t say anything to Ian about the lack of masks. Am I just being paranoid? Isn’t it time to toss that fear aside and get back to living?

            I’m not sure. I still have my doubts.

            But petting goats is a good distraction for a few minutes from the anxieties of the pandemic.

            A small 7 note melody echoes through the redwoods, floats up as the bird gains its voice. I breathe in the warm scented air and take a step up the hill, the sun beginning to rise in the blue blue sky. The song follows me for a time, then drifts away. I glance up into the trees, but don’t see anyone. The bird is off and away.

            And so are we.