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Slipping and a sliding

I’ve been getting nervous as the date for my party to celebrate the World Champion Cubs Party nears. What if I’ve gone to the trouble and expense to set it up and no one shows? What if too many turn out? What if the Cubs didn’t win the World Series, and it’s all been a dream in which the Cleveland Indians are champs and Bernie Sanders is president?
Trading the Cubs’ victory for a Sanders’ win; that’d be a deal with devil that’d be hard to decide.
Que sera sera!
So for the record, the festivities begin about 3:30 p.m. at the Frida Kahlo restaurant off of Hwy. 1, south of Solon. We’re going to show game seven over again starting at 3:45 p.m., and then around 7 p.m. B.F. Burt will play. They’ll be some free tacos and beer while it lasts.
Wear your favorite Cub shirt, and bring a photo along of any die-hard fan that who, well, is not with us anymore. I’ll have one of my sister Bonnie, and perhaps one of my favorite player of all time, Ernie Banks. Hope someone brings a photo of my favorite fan from Solon, Harry Kral.
Other than party planning, life has been pretty quiet around the Fleck hacienda, at least for me. Sabra’s been busy all week serving as a juror in a civil suit being tried in Iowa City. She could have gotten out of it. Another potential juror was dismissed when he reported he had airplane tickets and no travel insurance. Sabra had a ticket to fly to Denver to visit her family, but she volunteered--she did have insurance.
So she got picked.
She can’t talk about the case itself but she’s been filling me in on the details of the process. There are eight other women on the panel and they’ve become fast friends while they wait for testimony to start. Several times the bailiff had to come into their waiting room to tell them to quiet down. As I write this, on Thursday of last week, she’s been at it for six days. She was told to expect to serve two weeks so, as you read this, she’s probably still deliberating.
At the rate she networks, her and the other gals will have discussed everyone in the eastern third of the state. That’s the way it is here in Iowa. If you talk to a fellow Iowan long enough, you’re bound to discover someone you know in common. There may be seven degrees of separation in the rest of the world, here it’s usually just one.
I’ve been feeling as well lately as any time in the past five years. Between gout in my feet, sciatica in my back and arthritis in my knee, I haven’t walked much. Out of action so much that thoughts of changing the title of this column have gone through my mind. But I’m back and have been walking a mile or two daily.
It’s worked out well, Pearl is still restricted to on-leash and really needs her walks.
Besides Pearl, I’ve also been on chicken duty while Sabra’s on jury duty.
Sabra is adamant the chickens get fresh water twice a day. I’ve pointed out that on working farms, the fowl probably have fresh water once a week but that argument is a non-starter. These are her chickens and they will have clean water.
So I’ve been schlepping out to the coop after walking Pearl to freshen their bowl.
My name is Henri and I am a waiter at Chez Chicken. It’s not a big deal except for this time of year the footing is a little treacherous. The chickens pecked and scratched away all the grass years ago leaving a layer of slimy mud atop the frozen ground. The only thing slipperier is a politician during election.
Anyway, the other day their bowl was really pretty foul, so I tossed it out on the mud before refilling the bowl with crystal clear tap water. As I walked away, I noticed the hens all ran to the spot where I tossed the water. They were slipping, sliding and sipping with great delight.