Merry Freaking Christmas

Ghosts of Christmas Past bring memories of my large family lining up at the top of the stairs while our dad went down ahead to plug in the tree lights and exclaim "Oh, my!" and "Wonderful!" at the tremendous bounty of Santa's visit.  We would troop down the staircase in a riot of greed, tearing into the presents with abandon, and in ten minutes, the annual orgy would conclude in mixed sighs of satisfaction and "Is that all?"

Here in Carazo, my sister Mary Mary again shared her Christmas vacation with me, and we have enjoyed visits to Granada and Leon, and each other's company, with many cervesas and laughs together.

This morning, Mary Mary rose early and let out the dogs. She made coffee, as I slept on, until I heard her  say quietly, "Trish, wake up. I'm so sorry, but Mitzi went after your last chicken, and it's still alive and needs to be put out of its misery. With your machete, maybe? And Merry Christmas." My young German Shepherd has a sort of sweet tooth for live chicken, as previously noted. My sister was upset. She had heard the clucking commotion, and had seen the apparently lifeless bird on the porch, only to approach the poor thing and see it suddenly stand up, a large chunk of feathered breast dangling ominously.

"Okay, I'll do it," I said. I put on my shoes and went out to kill my last egg layer, a beautiful, sweet chicken I had dubbed "Soledad," after her five sisters met their own bloody end at the jaws of Mitzi.

In the dim light of dawn, I took the machete and aimed it toward the scrawny neck of the trembling bird and took a whack. "Oh, God!" Oh, no!" The chicken flapped and scrabbled about until Mary Mary took a shovel and pinned it to the concrete porch floor. I took a few more whacks until I was sure the head was clearly separated from the mutilated body, and my sister held down the flopping hen until it stilled. The deed done, Mary Mary brought buckets of water to rinse away the evidence of our Christmas morning execution.

Soledad had flown the coop, as they say. The coop door was still latched, and no one is to blame, except maybe Santa, who somehow missed my chimney-less roof. Today, we head to Managua for Christmas dinner with my poet friend Ivan and his family. We'll stay the night, and then tomorrow, MM heads back to Pennsylvania to bring in the new year.

I guess I really do need more chickens like a hole in the head. Rock on, 2018.