the magical chicken

 the Magical Chicken







    OK...so I had to dig through some brain damaged history to write Greg posts sometimes but once in a while one  just pops out of the old free-jazz subconscious. Maybe it is the time of the year or the fact I am soon getting on a plane to travel away from my refuge against the confederacy of dunces soon. Normal people get excited when they are going to travel but I only dread the challenges of  flight times, connections, shuttles, seat numbers and places full of oblivious people who seem to think I am just another dumb boomer. I like cats better than people and am mostly content to sit in my chair just like my good old buddy loved his leather throne. I also tantalize the grim reaper by continuing to drink a drill every single night that leaves me giddy for maybe an hour, followed by a gradual drowsiness. That probably sounds appalling to most people but I never was one of those folks. When I was younger I was thrilled to get on a poorly maintained Jumbo Jet and sit for eight to ten hours but I was a bon vivant who HAD to see England and those other nearby old world places. There is no other way to express it than I am now an old man, maybe not that old of a man but ancient in the eyes of the world.  I hate change and things to do that require me not forgetting anything before I leave.  Part of the reason I found Greg such a great pal was he was very similar except he had a wife who drove him from the leather chair and into the agony of travel which he adapted to with the help of bloody marys and familiarity. So, this story involves a rare trip to sweet, white New Hampshire and the one place I would gladly travel to even if it meant a layover in the Pittsburgh airport. It was 2006, I was a mere sprite not yet 60 and Greg was trodding on the double nickel. Since we were under orders from social director Lissy we had a good hike behind us when we returned to camp being famished and more than ready for the roast chicken feast planned for that evenings camp supper. Then disaster struck when the electricity failed and left Bear Cove in a romantic but badly functioning state. The ancient kitchen stove with the charming plate warming section was useless without voltage and a raw chicken sat in the non functioning fridge. Greg would not accept defeat and was certainly not going to eat cold cuts for dinner. He fired up the propane powered grill and made a determned effort  to create a dinner with nothing more than his wits and a Weber genesis barbecue that had once been the source of a scolding from his father-in-law. It is true that the final product was not completed until well past normal camp dining time but when the man finally raised the hood and showed this intensely scrutinized beauty there were squeals of delight, especially from Miss Kit Kat who had assisted her father with encouragements for over an hour and a half. Somehow, he got some vegetables grilled and the ladies whipped up a salad that sufficed for a meal fit for a king, even if King was a german shepard.


                                                          "Non Desistas Non Exieris"




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