A good friend bestowed upon me this chicken, which she found at a garage sale down a country road, hidden under a bunch of junk and on the verge of abandonment. No one wanted it. Some homespun outsider artist had crafted the bird out of all-unnatural materials, kind of a strange stretchy yellow foamish jersey and twisted orange nylon for legs, like those mini bungees we used to employ in grade school to weave potholders. Most interesting is the gold-painted plastic egg embedded in its abdomen. You can take it out and hold it, admire it if you like, then tuck it back in.
The chicken will bring you good luck, my friend told me. I’ve been saving it for just the right time and just the right person, and here we are.
What could I do? I adopted the chicken. It lives high on a the top of a wooden wardrobe, in complete privacy and comfort. “Regard it as just as desirable to build a chicken house as to build a cathedral,” said Frank Lloyd Wright. I don’t know about making me lucky, but the hideous bird seems to have brought me hope, humbling, fraught wish-making for the future, and that might even be more valuable.