― Grandma Moses
Ain't that the truth. Or at least its corollary. Truth be told, my childhood plan was to raise chickens: I have at least four sets of detailed plans for coops; I have supported the bid for hens in our city; I have tried without success to ingratiate myself with the rooster who lived three doors down - the fact that he chased me home regularly I took as proof of his devotion; I have a surprisingly complete set of omelette recipes. My dream of hens: build it and they will lay. A favourite tactile memory centres around being taken out to the barn to collect eggs; sliding my little hand under those warm feathery bodies and re-emerging with a perfect egg captured my heart. I was two and I knew what I liked.
No luck. Jon flatly refused to raise chickens in the traditional sense although he did have a tantalizing proposal to hoist them up into the garage every night. Knowing that I would be the one hoisting, like the mother who feeds the dog, I held out for a more grounded solution.
So I'm a painter. By default.
The sorry best I can manage now is to paint Chanteclers; I know I would have liked Chaucer.