With Americans on high alert since 9/11, we have a lot of stuff to worry about — and it’s not going away anytime soon. Our list of concerns seems to grow every time we spot a headline or click on CNN.

Terrorism is at the root of it all, and it’s instilled plenty of fears. Folks out there are nervous about opening their mail, driving across bridges, hanging out in the malls or boarding an airplane.

Well, it’s business as usual for me. I’m still ripping open my mail the old-fashioned way, without the aid of a microwave or special gloves. And I have yet to hold my breath or close my eyes while driving through a tunnel or crossing a bridge. My shopping habits haven’t altered in the past two months; it’s still a chore that I abhor. And next week I’ll be flying down to San Francisco for a few days — I’ll leave my corkscrew behind.

Those terrorists aren’t gonna get to me.

But I do confess to having a few fears, which seem trivial in the big scheme of things. I have a fear of poultry; not eating poultry, but walking into a barn full of chickens and turkeys all by myself. Give me a cocktail party of puffed up politicians any day!

After doing some research, I discovered that I’m suffering from alektorophobia, or a fear of chickens. And I’m not alone — there are a lot of us peeps out there. WB Television hunk David Boreanaz, who stars in Monday night’s “Angel,” is petrified of chickens. “There’s just a cluckiness about them,” he said in a recent magazine interview. Apparently a childhood incident scarred him for life.

I have no memory of childhood incidents that triggered my fear of chickens. In fact, I wasn’t even aware of my alektorophobia until my husband decided to get chickens some 25 years ago. They were harmless enough when we first brought them home from the feed store, all fuzzy and trembling, spending their first weeks in a cardboard box with food, water and light. But then they grew up, and they weren’t so cute anymore. They’d peck at my legs as I’d try to retrieve their eggs, and every visit I made was filled with embarrassing angst. Whose idea was this, anyway?

But it didn’t stop there. Chickens weren’t enough for the farmer in my life, and a dozen years ago he added turkeys to the mix. The few times I ventured into their living quarters were totally traumatic: 15 big white birds, some topping out at 40 pounds, is not my idea of a good time. Fortunately, my turkey-tending duties were limited; they much preferred the tender loving care of Farmer Bob.

But there are those occasions when my farmer flies the coop, leaving me with a “Honey Do” list. It happened last week, when he went to Atlanta on a business trip. Usually he tops off the chickens’ and turkeys’ food and water, and they can go unattended for a good four to five days. But this time he forgot, which meant I had to do the dastardly deed.

“No problem, I’ll take care of them tomorrow,” I said to him during a late night phone call. I crossed my fingers as I hung up the phone, as I didn’t relish going out to the barn any time soon.

But two days passed, and I was starting to feel guilty. What if they were dehydrated, or one of them starved to death? How could I explain away a barn full of perished poultry? I knew I had to face the enemy, so I pulled on my barn boots and went to check on the kids. Raising a child was not as scary as this.

As I stood outside the barn, I could hear the commotion inside: Clucking and gobbling and a cacophony of horrible sounds greeted my fears. I got a funny feeling in the pit of my stomach, and knew I couldn’t go inside. Alektorophobia had reared its ugly head again — this time it was really bad.

So I did what any damsel in distress would do. I went back to the house and called my neighbor. “Hi Rich, this is Sue. I have a big favor to ask.” I sheepishly explained my poultry phobia, and asked if he would accompany me into the barn.

Like any good neighbor, Rich showed up a few minutes later, dressed appropriately for the task. Strapped around his head was what appeared to be a gas mask and in one hand he wielded a rock-chipping hammer.

My poultry phobia slowly dissolved into laughter.

Cluck cluck.

Sue Frause can be reached by e-mail at skfrause@whidbey.com.