Transmissions from Dialup

I write to you this late evening from Northeastern Kansas where I have been forced to heed my own words and "unplug".

My cellphone has been rendered inoperable due to T-mobile's lack of care for the residence of this rather unpopulated state. My usual status of constant connection to highspeed internet has been taken away.

My parents have purchased 30 chickens which are currently laying 7 eggs per day. I ate 3 of them this morning for my breakfast, the eggs not the chickens. I commented on the state of these poor chickens which have been cooped up in a rather small pen. Somehow this escalated into a protest on my part.

I ended up in the pickup truck with my father traveling to one small town where the lumber store had apparently closed. I suppose they have been outsourced to India or China, but then again I'm pesimistic. We finally found a lumber store that was open 50 miles away and picked up lumber and chicken wire.

I spent the rest of my day with my father digging holes for posts, leveling them and building the frame for an extended chicken yard, which I have proclaimed will double the egg output.

We ended our day pouring concrete round the posts and drinking beer as we basked in the glory of the beautiful frame we have built. We then discussed my father's missionary trips to Peru and Ecuador. Sometimes I wonder if I could ever be as great as this man.

I wrote a song in the truck. Here are the lyrics. They're hokie. I don't care.


The rooster's out there crowin' and struttin' with his legs
It's time to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs.
This small town's really strugglin' but it's stronger than you think.
You can see it from the highway but you'll miss it if you blink.
It's time to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs.
throw some bacon on the skillet and some boots upon your legs.
The factories move to china and the people move away
but the ones who really love this town are out there bailing hay.
there's fence that needs a mending and there's cattle needing fed
they work till they're exhausted then they fall into their beds
till the rooster starts a crowin' and struttin on his legs then
it's time to feed the chickens and gather up the eggs.

These are my roots people.

My father said something interesting which somehow became profound. The only thing you hear out here is the ringing of your own ears. He's right. It's so loud. The city traffic, the subway, all of it. It rings in my ears. I cannot find silence even here where it is silent. K is in Canada. I am in Kansas. Tomorrow I finish the frame and pull the chicken wire round the posts and feel the satisfaction of a job well done. I will gather the eggs after I've eaten eggs for breakfast. It all is in balance and yet I miss my boyfriend. I miss the noise of the city. At the same time I'm content and happy out here on the praerie, hearing the coyotes howling after sunset, sitting with my father drinking beer and smoking cigars. There is a simplicity that I miss, yet there is a complexity of noise and clatter that I need to fill my scattered head.