Our childhood memories are littered with the detritus of Madison Avenue.
The man who wore the star. That busybody Betty Crocker. And the slightly-disturbing gangsterish Mr. Clean.
But my favorite was the rooster that graced the box of Kellogg's Corn Flakes sitting on our breakfast buffet. Cornelius Rooster. "Corny" to his fellow birds of a feather.
I thought of Cornelius this morning when I heard the latest addition to my neighbors' menagerie welcoming the sunrise. He is a fighting cock. I do not know if he has a name, but if his voice is any indication of vigor, he will be a poultry Cassius Clay.
There is a myth that roosters crow only to welcome the day. It is one of those tall tales we are told as children (such as, diamonds are merely lumps of coal subjected to publication-deadline levels of pressure) that get stuck in our mind. Even when we know they are not true.
Roosters (like all birds, and especially fighting cocks) are displaying a symptom of testosterone poisoning. They think they are protecting their territory. It is half past nine, the sun is well up, and I can hear waves of fighting cock-crowing flowing through the village. "It's mine." "You have a tiny beak." "You're another."
The owners of the new cock are the extended family who has fed me essay fodder over the years I have lived here. Goats. Horses. Dogs. Chickens.
Chickens were not merely part of my family's breakfast regimen. They also showed up regularly on the dinner table. Lots of things may taste like chicken, but only chicken is chicken. And it is still one of my favorite meals.
My grandmother raised chickens. I can still remember her plucking and dressing out freshly-dispatched hens on her back porch, taking special care to save the not-yet-formed eggs for use in special dishes. I suspect my grandfather or my Uncle Wayne played the role of Lord High Executioner.
I even had a pet chicken at my grandmother's. A bantam hen named "Susan," whose demise could have been orchestrated by ISIS. Buttons, our chihuahua-Manchester terrier mix, buried Susan alive when I was about 6. Such incidents make us who we are.
One of the chief complaints I hear from visitors to our little neck of the ocean is noise. There is no doubt that Mexico is noisy. Trucks announcing all sorts of merchandise for sale. The whistle of the knife sharpener. Dogs with nothing better to do than bark Fireworks. Sky rockets. Church bells. Late night fiestas.
I used to think my Mexican neighbors had simply learned to tolerate the noise -- for a number of evident historical reasons. But I now think I am wrong. Most of my Mexican neighbors appear to revel in noise.
And there is no better evidence of that than the volume at which music is played here. If a volume dial goes up to "10," my neighbors will play it at "11."
I was at a restaurant known for its soft music and ocean views a couple of months ago. The place was filled with northerners enjoying a peaceful dinner.
Then the town band moved onto the hotel patio next door and launched into an hour-long set of Mexican banda loud enough that conversation ceased out of necessity. My fellow diners glared and fumed.
Me? I found myself agreeing with the Mexican waiters. It was cool, and we wanted the band to play longer. When the sousaphone player saw the northern scowls, he would simply play his oompahs louder.
I moved to Mexico with full knowledge that the country is not Salem, Oregon. In fact, I moved here because it is not Salem. You have heard the construction in past essays. I wanted to live in a place where, when I got up in the morning, I would not know how I was going to get through the day -- or what I would encounter.
Mexico has kept its side of the bargain. And the noise is just part of that tense tapestry.
So, I am going to stop writing for the morning -- to sit back with a cup of Japanese mint green tea to listen to the morning's symphony. Philip Glass could not write an opera to match it.
My new fighting cock friend may even feature in an aria.
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