The husband likes to think he invented the Turducken in 1987, although his version was a quail stuffed inside a duck stuffed inside a pheasant. A Pheaduckail, I guess. He claims it was delicious. I never want to find out.

In 1992, the husband brought home a rooster with long blonde feathers on his head that made him look like Sammy Hagar. The husband had to kill Sammy a few months later after a neighbor complained that she had been forced her to go on medication for nervous breakdowns due to Sammy’s habit of crowing at 3am.

In 1999, a neighbor asked the husband to kill a couple of turkeys she had. Thinking he could just chop off their heads, he was woefully unprepared. Those turkeys left him beaten and bloody and lived long, healthy lives. About six months ago, the husband found a dead owl on the side of the road while running errands. Not wanting to put it in the trunk of his car, he slipped it under a windshield wiper, thinking the wind would clean it. He ran errands all morning, the owl pinned to his windshield, as if there had been some sort of mid-flight tragedy in the woods.

When he got home after his errands, the husband looked at the owl, pulling its wings out from its body, pretending it was still flying, putting it so close to my face that I had no choice but to scream and punch him in the owl pellets. Repeatedly. Right now, the husband is engaged in a battle of epic proportions with a couple of stellar jays. These stellar jays have decided to make a nest on top of the light fixture on our front porch. The husband spends large portions of his day knocking down nests and yelling into the skies. The stellar jays spend large portions of their day rebuilding their nest and screaming at our front door.

Today, the husband thought he’d outsmarted the birds with a milk crate balanced on top of the light fixture. Tonight, there is a nest balanced on top of the milk crate balanced on top of the light fixture. I’ve got my popcorn, watching and waiting to see who wins. I’m rooting for the birds.

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When I was six, I got my first bicycle. It was blue with a banana seat and a bell. I loved it.

We lived in Portland, Oregon at the time, at the bottom of a long, steep hill. (I think. I was six. Let’s go with what I remember.)

My dad felt the best way for me to learn how to ride my bike was to take me to the top of the hill and let me go. Now, 30-some years later, I have to admire his confidence in my grace and bravery. At the time, I was terrified, but pretending to be cool. (I think. I was six. I was probably freaking the aitch out.)

I remember sitting at the top of the hill, looking down and thinking “I am either going to do this thing or I am going to die.”

My dad held the back of my seat and told me just to coast, braking when I got to the bottom. He said it would be easy. He gave me a push.

Right away, I started picking up speed. I remember the wind in my hair and face. I remember thinking other kids were silly for wanting training wheels; this was so easy! I swooped down that hill, full of confidence and happiness. I was riding a bike! I braked at the bottom, looking back at my father, his face full of pride.

Just kidding. 

I crashed into a giant, thorny shrub twenty feet from where he let me go. I scraped up every square inch of exposed skin. I still have a scar on my right knee.  Even my bike got scratched up. As this was well before any sort of helmet laws (were helmets for kids even available in 1977?), it’s probably some sort of miracle I landed in a thorny shrub instead of on the asphalt.

My dad told me to get up and we’d try it again. I remember yelling “NO WAY!” and walking my bike back to the house. (I think. I was six. I was probably bawling my head off and he had to walk it back for me.) 

My dad sighed and put training wheels on my bike.

I rode that bike with those training wheels for years. I was nine and living in  Medford, Oregon when I was finally shamed by the rest of the neighborhood kids into learning how to ride without them. 

My dad took me out again. This time there wasn’t a hill, he just ran alongside me. It took maybe 45 seconds and I was off and riding with the rest of the neighborhood crew. No tears, no pain, all joy and pride. For both of us. (I think. I was nine. He was probably mostly relieved that his 9-year-old daughter wasn’t a pansy after all.)

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