E8: Dear Mrs. White Lady, Theodore’s At My Kitchen Window Again and Neighbors Are Complaining

Damn Girl, He’s Not My Rooster! Add Some Calcium or Magnesium to that Feed!

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Dear Mrs. White Lady,

Nothing, I think, so out-rages a neighbor than being awoken by a rooster. We don’t have a farm. We’ve never had a farm. We don’t have a rooster or a roost. But we have Theodore.

When the conclave of Northern Cardinals and Pine Warblers came through in Spring and were eating seed from my garden beds. I put out flaxseed so they would eat that instead. It worked fine. The arugula and lettuces grew undisturbed. The cilantro prospered. The radish took root. Everybody was happy.

I had deer and fawn bed down in the cuttings at dusk; nibble at dried fronds of ferns. They seemed to peaceably rest. I had Penelope my 2-year old red fox bring her three kits out to show me. So grey and tiny you wouldn’t notice them. I put out a field cam to watch them when I wasn’t able to myself. I set out orange peels. And everybody was happy.

I did have a run-in with a rabbit. I thought them delicate. But they’re really undercover, mixed martial arts assassins. And I wouldn’t mess with ‘em. I hardly feel bad now about the rabbit comfit we languished over in my beloved Old Quebec on honeymoon.

But why Mrs. White Lady, do we behave with the carelessness of dolphins, pushing up on people? Perhaps it is a laziness of intellect to call us unreasonable or petty. More to the point—we have a penchant for peevishness. We are killers of spontaneity. We elevate buzzkill to an art form.

And then—there’s the ecological harm caused by the White Ladies’ Beeswax problem.

I’m not sure if you’re familiar. But it is true that we White Ladies have suffered for decades from the acute malady of not having enough of our own Beeswax in the larders of our own homes. Whether this is an evolutionary change or more systemic, I cannot say.

What is certain is that because of this deficiency—we’ve taken to minding the Beeswax of others, especially Black Ladies and Black Gentlemen, I’m afraid.

It is a pervasive problem in the Wild. But within captivity, in gated communities and HOAs—its excesses are insidious—exacerbated perhaps by the effects of climate change and the price of eggs.

What is wrong with us? It seems we would frighten the glimmers out of a field of stars. And be happy to do it.

THE INCIDENT AT THE FARMERS MARKET

I’ll set the scene. A lovely group of Black Ladies after Sunday Church take in Brunch at the Farmers Market (video). They are dressed smartly in modest attire and kitten heels.

Having entered one of the many territorial spaces of the Southern White Lady—they come face-to-face with a Queen-Bee-White-Lady—one of the most deadly.

Rabid. Inebriated. Taunting. Agressing. Disrupting their conviviality. A thief to their sense of place. This upsets me deeply. Are we to believe this is really because someone moved a seat cushion?

I’ve seen this sort of behavior before. Maybe the CVS checkout Lady is minding two registers, an Amazon returns queue, and dealing with your sorry ass.

Mrs. White Lady—are you really going to give her the eye roll and show her every ounce of disrespect you can muster, because she did not look you in the eyes and behold you as the very creature that you are?

Guess what? She doesn’t have the headspace for you; she’s working two jobs, going to school and taking care of Nonna.

Meanwhile, I’m in line behind you humming: You wanna be startin' somethin'. You got to be startin' somethin'… hustlin’ stealin’ lyin’ you just got to be starting’ somethin’.

Reminiscent of the unemployment check-cashing scene in The Full Monty—I think I might’ve actually done a bit of a dip, shoulder roll and dip again as you barreled off.

I WISH A KAREN WOULD

Do you know, there exists a whole genre of Americana storytelling on YouTube known as, “I Wish a Karen Would.”

The genius behind “I Wish a Karen Would” is Indisputable’s Dr. Rashad Richey. And when I say genre, I mean a complete, unabridged collection. He has analyzed hundreds of these creatures in their natural habitats with the discipline of a Jacques Cousteau and the subtlety of a Jane Goodall.

I note here for my usage-exceptionalists. I am acutely aware that complete and unabridged are redundant; but in everyday parlance (and there it is again), we do tend to use redundant phrases like pairs of matching socks.

THE ASIAN MARKET

Dear Mrs. White Lady, when you go to the Asian market, does anyone ever ask you if you’re lost? Do they inquire as to why you’re there? Do they ask to see your papers?

When you pick up a jar of eel sauce, do they ask how do you intend to use it? If you were approached by the medicinal healer, would you take kindly to his recommendations for pallor of the skin?

Do they inquire as to how you would pay and which method you would use to clean prawns if you were allowed to buy those held in reserve for Mrs. VIP Asian Lady? Oh, and did you mistakenly believe your mere presence at the market entitles you to buy them?

What was it like parking outside? Did you find people happy to greet you with your Trader Joes plastic shopping tote? Were you discomfited in any way by the overbearing weight of their gaze? Or, did you rightly understand yourself to be an interloper here, and rein it back in?

Oh, and you brought cash right? Because you can’t use ApplePay or American Express to buy baby bok choy, lemongrass and glass noodles.

THEODORE AND JAMIE

I’ve seemed to have gotten a bit off track. As I do.

I had spent the morning defrosting the freezer. If not for my music, I would have heard the rasp of Mrs. Doe’s sideways jaw tearing the herbs from my kitchen garden.

As though choreographed in silent film, my head was bowed to scrap the ice away. She seemingly had raised her neck up as I had lifted mine—to leave the crystalline shards to melt in the sink.

The loudest puffs of air come at me—once, twice, three, four times.

Reasoning that she would sooner give fight than give chase, I stepped back. She had won the confrontation and resumed eating my herbs. Lamb’s ear and flowering blue sage seemed to be clear favorites. Although creeping lemon thyme was a contender.

If you’ve ever had a personal experience similar to Robert Frost’s “Two Look at Two,” you may come to understand how special this moment was.

A doe from round a spruce stood… as near the wall as they.
She saw them in their field, they her in hers.
The difficulty of seeing what stood still,
Like some up-ended boulder split in two, was in her clouded eyes.

A snort did bid them wait. A buck from round the spruce stood.
Across the wall as near the wall as they.
Two had seen two…A great wave from it going over them,
As if the earth in one unlooked-for favour
Had made them certain, earth returned their love.

I posted Theodore’s parades to the Washington Park Neighborhood FB page and its companion page, the Washington Park Watercooler page.

The latter was supposed to be a place where people sold items to each other or made notes about lost pets.

The administrator of both pages had clear rules about what was to be posted on each page but none of us quite understood the difference—so we ignored him as best we could and just posted wherever it was most convenient. We would frequently receive a curt note to repost in the proper section. It was bedlam.

Theodore had taken to Jamie. Jamie to Theodore. Jamie was happy. I most assuredly was so. And now, no one else was more happy than Theodore.

By this time, the novelty of Theodore’s performative parading about the neighborhood had worn off. Theodore, most afternoons, would find comfort in the flaxseed outside the kitchen window. He would peak around the pantry door to let me know he was back.

It had not occurred to my husband to mention a rooster had followed him home and that I might take note of it. For him, it had just become a routine thing. Life in North Carolina was a far cry from Colorado. He had developed the fine art of taking things as they come. It was lovely.

We asked each other (video below). What would he would like to bed down on? We didn’t have straw or hay. Would he need fresh water or a bath? A cistern of fresh water was nearby. Was flaxseed-eating a sign of vitamin deficiency? Hmm. Makes sense.

Theodore stayed that night and roosted on the sill of my kitchen window. When I got up to get a glass of water, he gazed at me with his head tucked, but not so much that I could not see his eyes. His only preoccupation seemed to be, kindly, shut the light when you leave.

AND THEN MORNING CAME

The troubles began in the morning. Well. I should say well before the morning.

About 4 AM—the alarm clock that Theodore had set in his heart—began to count down. T minus 8 minutes. At 04:08 hours, the cock-a-doodle-doo button had been switched to ON.

I always thought roosters didn’t do their thing until firstlight. I stayed in bed from 4:20 AM until 5:30 AM. When I saw Theodore next he was patrolling the back 48 behind the garden. I supposed he would find a simpler route home.

Far more distressing than a cock at dawn, was my Mrs. White Lady Neighbor of 18 years—up in my business before a cup of English Breakfast could be had.

And this was how our quiet, happy lives unraveled. (animation of chat 🔗)

NEIGHBOR 5:30 am

Do you have a rooster?

NEIGHBOR 5:34 am

Because if you got chickens—you know there’s an ordinance against that. You have to have a permit.

NEIGHBOR 5:38 am

Hey we need our rest too. Calvin and I will not consent to you having a rooster… maybe hens would be okay. But you still need a permit!

ME 5:58 am

Morning! We don’t have any chickens or a rooster, but this one followed Jamie home.

I’m sure his owner will be looking for him. He’s handsome. A Wyandotte I believe. I looked it up on the AB Seed Feed Store on FB.

He slept on my windowsill last night. Do you know whose it is? Can you have them come get their rooster?

NEIGHBOR 5:59 am

It’s not my rooster. What. WTF?

ME 6:08 am

Yes. I mean, no. It’s not your rooster. I wondered if you knew whose it was. He just stayed the night. Not looking to keep a rooster or get chickens or anything like that.

NEIGHBOR 6:12 am

you still need a permit 📄 I’ll call George first thing if you won’t.

ME 7:52 am

Vic, there’s no need to call the permit office. We are not keeping him. He’s just lost.

DAY AFTER DAY I POSTED on FB TO RADIO SILENCE

🐓 whose rooster is this?

Have you lost your rooster?

Perhaps this rooster might be yours! He s a sweetie!

Are you missing an Ermine, Laced-edged Wyandotte Rooster?

Please see videos to identify and reclaim your Rooster!

THE WHITE LADY CHAT ON FB: See the texts below that led our neighborhood to descend into The Lord of the Flies.

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A WORD ABOUT GEORGE AND KATHI

The Permit Office is run by an elected councilman who opens the mahogany stained doors at the crack of 10 am every Thursday. Calling first thing amuses me.

He also owns the quasi-illegal drive-through liquor store at the far end of town. And as in many corrupt Southern towns, every municipal commission seems to come with a his and hers matching set—George and Kathi manage the permit office as a sort of family business. If you catch my grift.

The morning is peppered by more Cockadoodledo-ing. After each round of vocalizations—three to four seems to be the pattern—White Lady Beeswax continues to vex me.

Shaking my head, I head out to check the tomatoes seedlings in my rudimentary greenhouse. (Yeah, I don’t have a permit for that either. But I had convinced George and Kathi over rhubarb pie that it’s not a permanent structure.)

By this point in the morning, I’m thinking it’s time Theodore and I had a talk.

You kinda got me in a spot here, guy.

I wait—expecting some sort explanation or a plan. I means he’s not an imbecile. He’s just a rooster.

I ask gingerly. Is there anything going on at home? Theodore tucks his red pea combs under a wing—revealing milky eyes. I get it now.

But dammit if I don’t have to go down to the Clerk’s office on Thursday for that damn permit.

THE END OF A FRIENDSHIP

For nearly 20 years, my pups would find their way to her back door and drink out of her dog’s water bowl. I’d get a text saying they were in her kitchen again; would I call them back?

When we had a good bit of snow fall, we’d meet at the top of the hill to go slidding. (No one had sleds.) My hot chocolate had a little Baileys. Hers, a cut of Irish whiskey.

When he had esophageal cancer. I made potato and leak soup. We left groceries for each other during Covid. And the time I was fighting an immobilizing grief at the loss of my brother, she washed my hair in the kitchen sink.

I took up their recycling bins from the curb. Texted them before the tree surgeon was coming to fell a tree. They’d shovel our sidewalk when they did their own. But just like that. It was done.

And the sad thing is, it had nothing to do with politics. Nothing to do with anything other than a bunch of White Ladies not having enough of their own damn Beeswax to mind.

God Bless the Child That’s Got His Own. (Indeed. Miss Holiday. Indeed.)

And looking back I wonder, would it not be quaint to remember a time when two older White Ladies wouldn’t talk to each other because a rooster once came for a visit and overstayed his welcome.

Talk soon.

-m.

P.S. I lost my Jamie two and a half years ago to illness. He was awesome.

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