old mcdonald had --

The lot across the street from my house has had more incarnations than a Woolworth's that collapsed in the 1960s.

You probably had something in your home town. It started life as a five-and-dime, transformed into a thrift store then a community theater and spent its final days, before it was torn down, as a methadone center.

The difference is the lot across the street has had a more bucolic history.

When I took possession of the house with no name six years ago, the lot was just another of the many lots in Barra de Navidad that are vacant and overgrown with weeds.

The first big change was a series of goats to clear out the weeds. For their valiant efforts, each of the goats ended up as the guest of honor in a birria pot.

The goats were followed by a short-term resident horse. After Trigger was quietly spirited away in the night, my neighbors fenced the lot to start a combination vegetable garden and mini-park complete with a planned gazebo. That plan was put on hold because part of the family moved north to earn a good living.

The enterprise then turned to fowl deeds. A very prolific flock of chickens were the first foray into two-legged food items.

I did not grow up amongst chickens, but I know chickens. My grandmother raised them. Nothing large. Just for enjoyment by the family for eggs and the type of Sunday dinners that keep memories alive for future essays.

My grandfather was the Lord High Executioner of chickens. I was probably four or so when he first invited me to witness the beheading of the chicken that had fallen under his gaze. I suspect that he wanted me to have a realistic view of the sacrifice necessary to harvest meat.

I say "I suspect" because he was a laconic Scottish gentleman. The type of man who would put on a tweed jacket, a tie, and a fedora to spade the garden.

My grandmother would then scald the carcass and pluck the feathers. I always waited in anticipation for her to dress the dead hen because she would always save the ovaries with their white-less yolks. I do not remember what she made from them, perhaps a custard, I just remember them as a fascinating find.

But it is not the chickens that have caught my attention even though I am quite fond of hearing the cluck of the hens and the crow of the roosters. It reminds me that I am not caught up in some urban horror.

Sometime during my trips north, the lot has greatly expanded its cast. This time with a paddling of ducks. I am not quite certain how many. I would guess a dozen or so.

I need to talk with my neighbors about their use. I assume primarily for eggs. If so, I may buy some from them. I like variety in my egg consumption.

For me, their primary use would be as a substitute for my grandmother's Sunday dinner. Duck has always been one of my favorite meals. Perhaps I could negotiate for one and use the skills of my grandparents that I witnessed as a child.

However, I am content to just let matters be. As I sit here, I can hear the sound of fighting cocks performing their call and response across the neighborhood. The insistent aria of a captive pair of chacalacas.The sound of at least six different species of birds singing in accompaniment. And, of course, the fugueish repetition of the neighbor chickens and ducks who only occasionally manage to close their chords.

Old McDonald may have had a farm. I am doing him one better. 

I have a Diana Ross symphony. And, if that is not a cue, I do not know what one is.