When your brain gives you chickens
It’s a lovely day. We’re on a quiet, two-lane highway, enjoying a road trip through some of Nebraska’s finer towns and villages. Sunshine. Slow pace. The camper trails peacefully behind us. We remark on the state of the corn, the size of the calves, the style of the barns.
We slow down to observe the speed limit through a particularly homey little community. I watch the businesses on main street pass by—a tire shop, a family restaurant, a local bank.
I look up and see a large sign: “The Chickens of Our Town Welcome You.” How nice, I think. The chickens of this town welcome us.
Wait. The chickens? I whip around to take another look. “Did that sign say chickens?”
“Churches,” my husband replies. “The churches of our town.”
“Not chickens?”
“Not chickens.” My husband gives me a slow-motion side-eye of spousal concern.
“You’re sure?”
“Did you not see the giant word ‘JESUS’ in the middle?” he asks. “Just below churches?”
Nope. I only saw the giant letters “CH,” for which my brain kindly supplied “chickens.” And anyway, why wouldn’t some nice chickens want to welcome us to their town? And capital-letter JESUS too?
The more I think about my blunder, the sillier it seems to me. Chickens! Have you ever made yourself hysterical over nothing? I try to recover from my case of tear-wiping giggles. Chickens. Really? I had been so sure.
My husband calmly lays his hand over mine on the console. I can see him calculating the cost of in-home care for me, for those times when he has to be away.
“You’re losing it,” he says kindly. That starts me laughing again, because he’s right. In fact, I think I’ve already lost it, and it’s not coming back anytime soon.
We motor on. I eventually regain control of myself and behave like a normal human. But inside, I’m still stifling the giggles whenever I think of a coop full of Rhode Island Reds, lined up at the city limits to welcome us to town. With JESUS.
Honestly, “chicken” moments happen to me with some regularity these days. I do my best to avoid them. I take steps to stay mentally sharp. I play word games. I work crossword puzzles. I muster my brain cells for a daily meeting, to let them know I appreciate the work they’re doing, even though I can’t afford to give them a raise. They’ll have to stay with me out of a sense of loyalty, despite the fact that it’s clear—I’m downsizing. In fact, I fear a large-scale walk-out.
I think it’s natural for a certain percentage of day-to-day details to squirrel away from us as we get older. We’re in a hurry. We gloss over the details. We engage in hasty interactions. We call young people by their older siblings’ names and leave our purses behind in the cafe booth at lunch. We accidentally squeeze lidocaine cream onto the toothbrush. We exhibit all the symptoms common to aging.
I do think I’ll order a new mat for my front door. It will feature chickens, the kind that start with “CH” and welcome people to my home. “The Chickens of My Doormat Welcome You,” it will say. And below that, a capital-letter “JESUS.” Because he welcomes you too.
If your brain sometimes gives you words that aren’t there, I hope at least they’re pleasant ones, like “chickens” or “chili dogs” or “chucklehead.” And I wish you success in keeping all your brain cells from joining the same picket line that mine are on. I’m still in negotiations, but expectations of a settlement are low.
I also hope that someday, you will experience how nice it is to be welcomed to a quaint little town by a committee made up of the village Leghorns. By and large, I think chickens are on our side. And thankfully, I think JESUS is too.