In which a 50-something woman embarks on a new career in nursing in a newly empty nest with a newly retired husband, an old cat, a yard full of chickens, a field full of predators, a shotgun and a sense of humor. She is blogging and slogging her way through a wet Pacific Northwest winter...and spring and summer and fall.
Former law enforcement firearms and defensive tactics instructor, now critical care nurse. Trying to integrate two mindsets, that of the warrior and that of the nurturer. Quirky, strange, motivated, hyper-sensitive. Loves animals, humor, the out of doors, and her family. Wife of similarly quirky person, mom to three wildly diverse over achievers (also quirky). Cynical, curious, cautious, and a pushover for someone in need. Adrenaline junky, academic seeker. Wants everyone to do what's right.
When I was a child, my dad held chicken fights at our place. Sometimes a hundred or more people brought their best birds to do battle in the round plywood pits down in our woods. Cars and trucks with license plates from a half dozen states lined our long muddy drive. The smells of coffee and beer mingled in the damp morning air. Cigarette coarsened voices softly called out bets. The stern command of the referee to 'Pit 'em!' broke the fog muffled surrealism. Bright feathers and flashing steel spurs entangled with the thump and shuffle of feathers and wings. The men hollered out their encouragement and predictions, cursing and condemning and celebrating in turn. Blood scented steam rose from the damp panting birds, sharp and stimulating. During breaks, the handlers in the pits opened their mouths wide and laid them across the saddle feathers to breathe hot air on the bird. 'To make 'em mad,' Daddy said. Once, I saw a guy put his plug of chewing tobacco into the bird's vent. 'To make him mad,' I thought. Soon the sounds of mortal combat would slow, then stop. After that, only the rustle of money could be heard.
When I was a child, my dad held chicken fights at our place. Sometimes a hundred or more people brought their best birds to do battle in the round plywood pits down in our woods. Cars and trucks with license plates from a half dozen states lined our long muddy drive. The smells of coffee and beer mingled in the damp morning air. Cigarette coarsened voices softly called out bets. The stern command of the referee to 'Pit 'em!' broke the fog muffled surrealism. Bright feathers and flashing steel spurs entangled with the thump and shuffle of feathers and wings. The men hollered out their encouragement and predictions, cursing and condemning and celebrating in turn. Blood scented steam rose from the damp panting birds, sharp and stimulating. During breaks, the handlers in the pits opened their mouths wide and laid them across the saddle feathers to breathe hot air on the bird. 'To make 'em mad,' Daddy said. Once, I saw a guy put his plug of chewing tobacco into the bird's vent. 'To make him mad,' I thought. Soon the sounds of mortal combat would slow, then stop. After that, only the rustle of money could be heard.
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