Tiny Tots...and a Momentary Lapse

A busy, too hot day, though walking past the wildlife window a few minutes ago, I saw the Quail family that lives in my shrubby pines, and finally managed to snag a few photos of the babies.  They run like little two-legged bullets--darting, dashing, hiding--nearly impossible to capture.  I felt like my mother when I muttered, "Would you two please hold still!!"

They're a bit smaller than a newborn chick (as in chicken chick), and have the best camouflage.  If they can't run away like an Olympic sprinter, they can just look like bark dust and hide.

See what I mean?  Blends right in with the different colors of wood and dirt...and no, I don't mind that this wee bird is eating my flowers.

In this shot you can see that one baby is definitely smaller than the other, though as I watched them darting all over the slope, the little one was eating just as much as his/her bigger sibling.

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I'll miss all the wildlife when I sell the house.  I'll have to find something equally good to replace it.

And speaking of selling...I had a call from a realtor last night who wanted to bring some people by this morning, which he did.  The couple from Denver seemed quite taken with the view, and the house, though who knows really.  What I do know is it caught me off guard.  The market is pretty bad in southern Oregon right now, so I figured on waiting it out until maybe next Spring.

After they drove off--with three zucchini I managed to offload--I stood in the great room for a minute and freaked out.  Only for a minute, but I did; heart pounding, elevator stomach, gasping for breath.  I thought by the time it actually came to moving, I would know where the bloody hell I was going.   Huh.  Go figure.  And really, as with so many things in life, nothing may come of this, so I need to get a grip. 

The phone rings.  Sunday call from Jan (BFF). 

I give her the rundown, and she's all excited; it's time to move on, regardless of the fear factor; every big change has an element of terror, so roll with it, and more on that vein until I say, "shut up, it's easier said than done." 

After months, months, and more months, I have explored one end of America to the other.  I have narrowed things down to going back to the motherland: Alaska; finding a cabin in the deep woods of Montana,  ditto for Colorado; or forget America and just go home to Scotland.  There are pros and cons for all four options.

So, a few months ago, Jan and I decide to rendezvous in Portland in late September, then fly to Denver, rent a car and wander around the mountains for a week, just to get a feel for things.  I already know the other three places, but have no idea about Colorado.  I sent for several brochures and magazines though, and wow, it's a beautiful place with lots of diversity.  But I need to see things for myself, feel things for myself.

She says this will tie in perfectly with our trip.  I say I might have to rethink Colorado.  Disappointed, she asks why.  I tell her that one of the places I was really interested in, burned down in the fires last month, and there's an ongoing drought which means more fires and how do you figure which places are okay and which aren't?  Then there's the wacko theater killer guy, and, as if that isn't enough, there's a 6-foot lizard on the loose near another place I wanted to check out.  The lizard story gets her laughing so hard she snorts, which always makes me laugh, and as often happens with us, joy banishes the fear.  By the time we hang up, I think I just might be feeling the tiniest little twinge of excitement fluttering somewhere around my elevator stomach.  Maybe.

I don't have a clue what's coming.  Or where I'm going.  But really, do any of us?