Fuckhead, Dickhead, Curtis and Community

I love Fuckhead. I just want to get that out of the way. When I hear him doing his weird screech/gargle/holler at 5 a.m., I think, “He’s back,” and I get up earlier than I had planned in the hopes I will run into him on my way to the chicken coop.

Usually, he’s down the road so I can hear him but not see him. I think he’s telling me he’ll see me later, but he also might be screaming at me to brush my hair. I still am not sure if he’s a good guy or a bad guy.

I don’t see him much during the day. It’s mostly around dinner time that he and often his posse—Dickhead, Curtis, and sometimes even the Gutterballs are strutting around like young boys looking around for a lost jackknife they weren’t supposed to have in the first place.

This whole love affair started the afternoon I was out in the yard weeding and heard a banging from the front of my house. I thought maybe Paul Bunyan had crossed the vineyard and wanted to bust in to steal the refrigerator.

Not the refrigerator! I have chocolate in there!

When I turned the corner, I saw Fuckhead banging on the glass door with his head.

As soon as he saw me, he bolted.

That has been the story of our relationship ever since. I see him, approach carefully (sometimes—sometimes I run and scream out of excitement), and he takes off.

And I chase him.

And then I go on Facebook and share what happened because it’s more fun to have shared adventures, more fun to tell the world about falling in love, about chasing the belligerent fowl.

I love love love writing about Fuckhead and Dickhead and Curtis because I have no idea what is going to happen next and because the whole thing makes me laugh.

Fuckhead’s feathers shine. Underneath all those colors, the browns, the bright green, is something I dig into every Thanksgiving. The other day I made a kale salad with turkey bacon and happily ate it all while staring out the window, watching for my beloved.

Is that a red flag or are things okay between us?

I asked my friend Laura Foote if she would help me tell the stories and illustrate them because ever since I met her a couple of years ago when we were hanging out (writing, napping, etc.) in this house a mutual writer friend of ours had rented and was sharing with us in Tulum, I’ve wanted to collaborate with her.

Because she is funny and quirky and smart and wicked.

Anyway. Laura said yes and we’ve changed the names to not offend the innocent. My friend HBL came up with Fred Harvey and his brother Dick. Curtis gets to keep his name. Laura has been calling me with ideas and sending me drawings, and yesterday I got so excited I felt sick and had to go lie down.

Thank goodness for community. If I had to go through this COVID thing entirely by myself—no turkeys, no friends on the phone, no collaborations, I think I would become a drunk.

The end.

The picture is by, of course, Laura. That’s us. Hair on fire.