There and Back Again...

I had a most excellent long weekend.  Not only was it liberating to get away from the drudgery of the same ol' daily stuff, have a plethora of shops, stores and restaurants to entice, but I was able to spend time with my sister and the bro-in-law.

I didn't take as many photos as I wanted, mainly because I was having too much fun ogling the wonders of a large city.  Honestly, I have never been a country bumpkin, nor wanted to be, but I had a moment or two over the five days where I felt like one.  Oh, how I miss the bright lights and big city energy.

On Friday, my sister and I went to a few of my favorite shops--ones that will never appear in the hinterland of southern Oregon.  I bought teas, exotic spices and breads.  I found some biscuits (cookies) that I haven't seen since leaving Edinburgh.  We bought some gourmet cupcakes for our Easter dessert that were as big as softballs. Only two actually made it to Sunday...

Saturday was relaxed and easy, a bit more shopping, some reading.  Then Saturday night we went out to dinner at Bernie's, a bistro in an eclectic neighborhood of Portland, with lots of cool eateries, art galleries, food trucks, old Victorian houses.  The specialty at Bernie's is the southern-style food: buttermilk chicken, hush puppies, collard greens, corn bread.  It was incredibly delicious...all of it, not just the chicken.

Sunday it was time to hike off three days of wine, whiskey and great food, so my bro-in-law took us to his favorite weekend dog walking haunt, the Washington State University campus on the outskirts of Vancouver. The original university is in eastern Washington, but now there's this new campus annex with nine miles of wetlands, hidden artworks, and glorious hiking up hill and down dale.

Go Cougars!!



Not only were the grounds and surrounding acres beautiful, but the campus itself was truly stunning, with Art Deco flourishes and unique mosaic columns...

Wetland areas were scattered between buildings, down trails, under walkways, across bridges; even the culverts were cool. The entire campus was a working, growing, thriving eco-environment that was just...totally wonderful on a quiet Easter Sunday...

There were artworks displays that appeared out of nowhere.  We were walking down a steep trail, wild grasses and giant rocks to our right, when out of the seemingly barren landscape stood this bronze sculpture...

After an hour or so, and just when I thought it was time to turn back, my bro-in-law said he wanted to show me something that I would really like. It was a long hike down (which meant an equally long hike up), but he said it would be worth it.

And it so completely was.  We entered a portion of old forest, dense and lush.  Around a slight bend...The Wailing Bell.  It was at least 14 feet tall (based on my height), the posts were massive, and the bell actually rang.

The clapper was really heavy and the sound was deep and terrible and mournful.  I understood why when I read the message inscribed on the bell itself.  Hopefully, dear readers, you can read it if you click on the photo.

I loved the way the base of the posts were wrapped with hammered copper...













What a perfect way to spend a couple of hours.  We went home, had waffles and Mimosas, and eased into a late Easter dinner.

I had such a great time, though somehow five days flew by faster than should have been possible. Before I knew it, the boys and I were back on the highway and heading south. The drive seemed endless, but wasn't really, and both dogs were thrilled to be home, rolling on the carpet, throwing toys around, then suddenly falling into their beds to sleep away the rest of the afternoon.

How I would have loved to do the same!  Numerous trips up and down the stairs, lots of unpacking, laundry, a walk to the mailbox, dinner and I was done for.

Just like you're supposed to feel after traveling...

Spring Break

Okay, so I've got the food, snacks, water, blankets and meds ready to go for tomorrow's road trip. And that's just for the dogs. Honestly, it's like having two toddlers with all the stuff I have to pack and organize.

I'm leaving the laptop, taking just my tablet and camera.  My sister is fully wired in case I have a meltdown or a sudden withdrawal spasm, though I'm hoping to just fall off the grid until sometime Monday when I'm back in the wilds of southern Orygun.  We'll see how it goes.

And so, because I won't be around this weekend, dear readers, let me wish you an early...

Happy Easter/Chocolate Bunny/Egg Salad For a Week Day!!

See you on the flip side, peeps...

Postscript

I got a few emails today from friends across the Pond with some questions about yesterday's post.

To clarify:  DQ = Dairy Queen, a fast-food place with the usual suspects (burger, fries, etc.), and also some really good ice cream treats, like sundaes and cones and my favorite:




The Peanut Buster parfait.  A layer of hot fudge, peanuts, soft ice cream, repeat until the container is full of yummy deliciousness.


Just looking at the photo makes me want to drive to the other side of town to get myself another one...though I will resist. Summer's coming after all.

Moments

Today has been slightly crazed, fraught with many errands, appointments and scurrying from one side of town to the other and back again.  Mondays.  No matter who you are, where you work, what you expect, Mondays are just...Monday.

I had to drop Oz off at the groomer's, especially now the heat and humidity are becoming a daily event and the poor wee thing has too much hair. Then it was a trip to the vet's to refill prescriptions and possibly get Max's demon claws cut at the same time.  No such luck on the claws, the place was mobbed.  Monday, don'tcha know.

After the vet's I got gas for the trip north Thursday morning, went to the grocery store, the post office, then to the bank.  It's about 12:00 when those tasks are finished, Max is grumbling for his lunch and I'm sweating in the mugginess of a semi-cloudy day with temps running toward 80 degrees already. Buggers.

Home for lunch, then I planted the peony--with difficulty since I'm on solid bedrock; the lavender didn't need such a deep hole.  I had to reconnect the hose now the danger of frost is over, then since I'd hauled the ungainly and heavy POS up the slope to water the peony, I decided to wash out and refill the birdbath.

That work done, I get cleaned up and think I should have time to sit for a while with a nice cuppa and my book. While the tea is steeping, I remember Ozzy's meds, get them out of my purse...and discover the tech gave me the wrong pills.  Quick glance at the clock. 1:45. Okay, I think I can get across town to the vet's, and with any luck at all, dash across town in the other direction and still make it to the groomer's by 2:30 to pick up Ozzy.

Are you laughing yet, dear readers, at my blithe intentions?  My idiotic naivete?

The pill mix-up is taken care of fairly quickly.  Lots of apologies, etc., which I am gracious about, mainly because I just want them to hurry up so I can get going.  Finally, back in the car, correct prescription in my purse, I give Max some water and a cookie before driving away with all windows down to help him stay cool.

You know those tiny little decisions, usually made on the spur of the moment?  The ones you always regret when it's too late to change your mind?  Uh huh, yeah, those.

It's now 2:20...I'll be late, but not too late, and I've got options.  I can head through the center of town then meander side streets to the groomer's...or take the secondary highway which skirts the high school but drops me within blocks of the groomer's, bypassing the congestion of downtown altogether.

I choose the high school route.

Of course I do.  Because there is some kind of major event going on there with traffic backed up for miles--literally--and kids, parents, cars, buses everywhere.  It is a jam of epic proportions.  There are more people along this road than live in the entire frigging town!

At last, I make it to the groomer's just a hair after 3:00.  Max is hyperventilating in the back seat, I'm sweating and my left eyelid has begun to twitch.  I run in, all ready with my explanations...to find the groomer has fallen behind due to a very matted and unkempt dog that has thrown off her entire schedule.  Can I come back in an hour?

I gave Max another drink of water, and another cookie, while I pondered my next move. I totally refused to even think about my stress levels, or the heat, or that my left eyelid is doing the rumba.  I don't want to drive all the way home, I can't go shopping because I have Max in the car and it's too hot.

Driving to no purpose or destination I pass a DQ. Huh. I haven't had a Peanut Buster parfait in years. I pull in, order, then drive to the river where I parked in a perfect spot under a large shade tree. It was quiet and peaceful with a slightly cool breeze coming off the water.  My twitching eyelid was gone by the time I was scraping the last bits of hot fudge from the bottom of the container.

I found a few precious moments of tranquility in the midst of mayhem.  It made all the difference.

Because it's Monday...but I had ice cream...

Nothing Much...

The weather has been warm and sunny, making the lawn and the weeds grow practically before my eyes, so I've spent the last three days working outside whilst battling Mother Nature.  She's winning.

My gorgeous French Lilac bush is just blooming on the back slope.  The deep purple color, with the nearly overwhelming scent...well, it's not only drawing me, but the bees and hummingbirds, too.

I saw the most beautiful peonies the other day while shopping and just had to have one. My sister gave me a lavender plant a few years ago that bit the dust over this past Winter. I'm going to put the peony in the large empty space and hope the blistering sun doesn't fry it. The plant is supposed to love sun, but it's pretty relentless in the back during the Summer.

The deer have disappeared.  Why?  Because little bambinos are being born, no doubt all across the mountain ridges, even as I write this.  At first it seems perfect timing as this will save my newly budding trees and shrubs.  Unfortunately not. What it really means is just when my garden is starting to look good, all the babies will come and eat everything in sight.  And they're so adorable, all gangly and speckled and tiny, that I almost don't even begrudge them.  Almost.

I took this shot the other day of what, I'm totally sure, is a very fed-up and ready to pop pregnant dove.  She sat on the edge of the birdbath for most of the morning taking little naps and occasionally snarking at her partner when he'd drop by to check on her. Apparently those cranky don't ever touch me again feelings are universal. She didn't even care that her tail was in the water the whole time...

I'm going on a road trip next Thursday.  Heading north to visit my sister, do some shopping in a real city and have an adventure or two for the long Easter weekend.  I'm looking forward to hanging out with her and the bro-in-law, and the boys will enjoy seeing their cousin Cooper, the Jack Russell. Chaos will ensue.  Makes me smile just thinking about it.

I plan on having lots of fun because when I get back I have to face the grueling task of power washing the two decks, then staining front and back and two flights of stairs. I skipped it last year, but can't do that this time around.  To say I'm dreading the monumental work involved is an understatement. More like I'd rather have a root canal.

Have I mentioned before that I love Winter?

Opinion vs Censorship

I belong to GoodReads, a wonderful site for writers, readers and book lovers.  One of the advantages to GoodReads is the plethora of reviews by folks across the globe, which often help me weigh the pros and cons of a book to see if I'm interested in reading it even though, in the end, I'll always make my own decision; books are just too subjective.

Now, on to the crux of this post.

Yesterday I was reading the reviews for a book I was pretty sure I wanted to read. The reviews were 4 and 5 stars for the most part, with excellent praise for the author, the plot, the characters.  There were several references to the deep, dark secret, which I found intriguing.  I was just about ready to order the book when I scrolled down to read one more review...a 1 star rating and curiously very negative mixed in with so many positives.

Imagine my irritation and total surprise when in the first damned sentence this reviewer reveals the deep, dark secret!  I was really pissed!  There is a kind of unspoken agreement, a common courtesy if you will, that pertinent, crucial details of the novel are not explained.  Otherwise, why read the book in the first place?  That's what spoiler alerts are for so the book is not ruined by someone with an attitude or personal issues.

After the Big frigging bloody Reveal, the rest of the review turned out to be one of the most scathing I've ever had the misfortune to read.  I'm not going to get into the plot device this person found so utterly offensive, but it occurs at the start and drives the entire rest of the story. And frankly, peeps, I don't know about you guys, but I sure don't live at Disneyland.  The world is cruel, life often sucks, shit happens.

This woman could have stopped reading at any time, donated the book to the Goodwill, ripped it to shreds, whatever.  But to purposefully foist her attitude on other readers, ruin the story and actually say that no one should buy this book (from a best-selling, award-winning author, with exemplary reviews)? Well, correct me if I'm wrong, but that smacks of self-righteous censorship to me.

Or does it?  After all, she's entitled to her opinion, and I will always respect anyone's right to have one, even if I completely disagree.

But then again.  When does the right to opinion shift to censorship?  For me, the moment someone tells me what to think, how to think, or feel they have the right to stop, influence or intimidate me.

Which is why I immediately went to Amazon and ordered the book...

Magpie Tales 214...Currents

photo by Kelsey Hannah

Afloat in sunbeams

Infinitesimal flotsam

Drift on gentle tides

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I really like the prompt this week from Magpie Tales.  It's a great photograph...

Week of Summer...Ugh

Yes, yes, I know.  Most folks would be reveling in the mid-70* temps, especially later in the week when it's to reach almost 80*.  I am not one of those people.

As I've mentioned before--no doubt more than once--I was born in the middle of the Bering Straits on a small Alaskan island.  I spent my school years and a goodly portion of my adult time in the Pacific Northwest before moving to Scotland. And yeah, though I've sailed the South Pacific, lived in more than one tropical climate, can you see the underlying pattern here, dear readers?  It's the chilly, cold, stormy, loads of rain environment that speaks to me; it's abundantly clear that I am not programmed for heat. The fact I will soon be facing at least six months of sweltering, sweaty, mind-melting humidity and heat almost warps my brain.

I really need to find a little cabin up north, or maybe a beach shanty, or..sigh...an igloo.

While outside this morning, trying to figure out what to tackle first in the garden chores, I was most pleased to see the California poppies are starting to bloom on the back slope. Because I had to pull out several of the Snapdragons that didn't make it through the Winter, the backyard looks like a big ol' weed patch right now, except for the startling vibrancy of the poppies. They're so bright, and orange, and cheerful...

Well, break over.  Time to get back outside in the nuclear sunshine and spray my shrubs with the deer repellent before the voracious marauders arrive for dinner.  And pretty soon there will be little Bambi kidlets all over the place too.  I'd really like to save some of my front yard while I still care.

Because once the endless Summer hits, I will lose my will to do anything except lay on the cold kitchen floor, panting with the dogs...

Love My Boys

I was walking the dogs around the VA complex this morning.  It was quiet, one of the main reasons I enjoy going there on weekends.  The grounds are lovely, with lots of flowering shrubs and trees; the new blooms helped to offset the dreary, damp weather and my mood.  Alan was heavy on my mind--this being the month I became a widow three years ago--and of course, I can't think of him without also getting homesick for Edinburgh, my friends, the family...my old life.

As we left the large field where the dogs can run free and crossed the road back to the sidewalk, I could feel that painful prickling in my eyes, a warning of imminent tears. Thankfully, before I could lose the plot, the boys spotted a squirrel and dashed toward a tree, dragging me with them as they were leashed. Ozzy went around the tree to the left, Max to the right, and naturally, I got stuck pressed against the tree.  It was funny...and chased away the demons.  Such good dogs.

Nearly back to the car, just passing the main entrance to the hospital, a woman came out the doors and began to walk toward us.  She was tall, attractive, with long gray hair past her shoulders even though she only appeared to be in her late 40s or so.  She was wearing scrubs and a coat and at first I thought she was one of the nurses or doctors on staff. Except then I saw she was clutching a medium-sized, very scruffy black and white teddy bear, and her face was...sad, careworn, distressed.

At that point, I had sidewalk options: left around the building, straight on to meet with the woman, right to skirt a parking lot.  Rather than bother her, I decided to turn left, but just as the boys and I veered away, she said, "Oh, please! Don't go!"

Startled, I turned back and waited for her to catch up with us. Now I could see the lanyard around her neck, her patient tag and ID in the plastic holder.  "I saw you from my window," she said, pointing toward the upper floors of the hospital.  "I just had to come out and see your dogs."

She told me that her dog had recently died and she missed him terribly...and was it okay if she petted mine.  I told her Max was the love puppy, Ozzy wouldn't give her the time of day.  The words were barely out of my mouth when Max went right up to her, wagging his tail like a windmill.  She knelt down to pet him, then pulled him close and began to sob into his neck.

Oh man.  I had been teetering on the brink myself just moments before.  Now the lump in my throat was so big I could hardly breathe.

And then Ozzy came over.  Mr Aloof, the dog who never speaks to strangers, let alone allows anyone to touch him, pokes his nose under the woman's arm and she's holding them both as she cries.  It was horrible and heartbreaking and painfully wonderful that my boys were giving this woman comfort.

Course I cried.

After a few minutes she collected herself, gave them each a hug and a scratch and stood up.  I handed her half of a crumpled tissue I had in my jacket pocket; I took the other half.  She showed me the teddy bear that had belonged to her dog and I could see the telltale slime marks around the bear's middle.  I asked her if she was going to be all right. She nodded, then thanked me for the "therapy" and walked back into the hospital.

Swept away by my own pain and memories, I have a tendency to forget one crucial thing: There's always someone out there who has it worse...

Holy Jet Li, Batman!

Snake Creeps Down

So.  In the attitude of wellness, getting fit and killing improving myself, I've stepped up my t'ai chi forms.  I used to do the flexibility and strengthening postures, but yesterday I changed it up, adding in martial arts movements.

Can I just say that the lovely sounding 8 Pieces of Brocade is totally excruciating?  Those gentle words seem so...fluid and soft and wispy, don't they?  Ha. Though perhaps my shroud will be fashioned from those 8 pieces, because--with heart racing and sweat dripping--Snake Creeps Down is bar-none the most evil, tormented pose ever invented.  I can hardly move my legs today without groaning.  Okay, I can hardly move my legs with lots of groaning.

This afternoon is the treadmill.

Will crawling on my hands and knees count?

Hilaria

April Fool's.  A concept that took hold in the Middle Ages, though much farther back the Romans had a festival around the same calendar period called Hilaria.  Considering my track record with the gods during this, my least favorite month, that word works really well for me.

I make an effort each April to stay positive and mindful; I try not to anticipate worse case scenarios--self-fulfilling prophecies and all that--but in a month historically fraught with memories and loss, pain and chaos, it's hard not to dwell...there are just too many monsters under my bed.

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In the spirit of taking charge, moving forward, being in this moment, I decided to start my new regime of exercise on April 1st.  I made up a schedule, alternating with one day of treadmill, one of t'ai chi, followed by meditation, starting this afternoon.

The weather has warmed after several days of wind and rain and the grass is too tall for the dogs, so a few hours ago I thought to do a quick lawn mowing before the treadmill workout.

An hour and a half later, I'm revising my schedule.  Yard work counts as exercise.  I mowed, edged, swept, weeded and hauled the rubbish across the road to hurl down the ridge.  My shirt was stuck to my chest/back, sweat was running freely down my red face, my hair plastered to my neck.  I didn't mean to get so carried away, but with one thing leading to another, well, what can I say?

Still. The point of exercise is to sweat, get the heart pumping, move, stretch, utilize those muscles. Mission accomplished.

And only 29 days to go until May...

Torturous Tale of a Treadmill

Remember last week when I bought a treadmill at Sports Authority?  One of the main reasons I went there was to get it delivered so I wouldn't have to hassle with getting it up two flights of stairs by myself.

Wednesday.  A terrible and blustery day, high winds, hail and serious squalls.  Late afternoon, I'm reading, dogs are napping, the phone rings.  It's the UPS guy calling to tell me he's on his way but looking at his GPS map, it looks like my road is a dead end.  The question is, can he get out once he's at my house.  I'm sort of puzzled by this.  The UPS truck goes up and down the road day in and day out.

Ha.  Turns out, my treadmill is coming from some place in California and is being delivered in a semi. WTF?  I have a long, convoluted conversation with the dude, but I'm already getting a slightly sick feeling that he won't be able to make it to my door.  I tell him to call when he gets to my road and I'll meet him.

Twenty minutes later, just as he calls, the heavens open with a deluge that would have scared Noah. Incredible thunder, lightning, hail that fell like bullets and lashing winds. Seriously.  I wonder some days about timing and odds and the cruel humor of the gods.

To make a long, bitterly miserable story short:  The guy is truly in a flaming semi-truck and there's no way he can turn around once he enters my mountain road.  We end up taking the treadmill totally out of the box (it wouldn't fit in my car otherwise) and between the two of us huffing and puffing, manage to get this 175-lb machine into the back of the Blazer. He starts to leave.  I ask him to take the cardboard and styro--which is blowing all over the frigging place--but he says he's not allowed to take the refuse.  Then I ask how I'm supposed to get the treadmill out of my car when I get home.  He shrugs, gets in his truck and drives off. Bugger bloody hell.

It's raining harder now, I'm soaked to the skin, hair plastered to my head, running down my face, and I have to hurry home, somehow unload the machine and dash back to load the huge pieces of cardboard and styro before I have to chase it all over the mountain.

I won't go into the nightmare of trying to unload 175-lbs of unwieldy metal and motors. I will gloss over dropping one end on the driveway with a loud and ominous clunk as the weight and the rain rip the thing out of my grasp.  I drag it into the garage then dash back to collect the debris, which of course won't fit in the Blazer without being cut into pieces with the box cutter.

Now the hail is about the size of marbles, blowing in drifts like the precursor of nuclear winter, and I'm halfway hoping to be struck by lightning and put out of my misery.

I leave the damn treadmill in the garage and call it a day.  I need time to figure out how to get it up two flights of stairs when I can barely move the weight an inch.

Thursday was really busy with errands and appointments, but whilst driving all over town, still pondering the how do I get the machine upstairs issue, I remember I have those furniture slider disks.  I end up having to move the treadmill on its side, using my leg to balance it, because it won't go through the door into the laundry room straight on. Holding 175-lbs with your thigh gives new meaning to high-impact aerobics.




I call it a day with the machine propped against the wall in the laundry room.  Day Two over and I still have the worst part ahead of me: the stairs...

Yesterday, after a supreme struggle, possibly a tear or two, and definitely many, many curse words, I managed to get the damned machine to the first landing. It took me nearly an hour of sweat and angst. I have discovered muscles I never knew I had and never want to know about in the future. There was a moment whilst pulling 175-lbs up the last step to the landing when I thought all my female parts were going to fall out, then as I dropped to the floor, I wondered if maybe an alien was going to pop through my abdomen instead.  Clearly, I am out of shape.

I sat there groaning for several minutes, then called it a day and crawled up the steps.

Last night I tried to think of someone, anyone, I could call to help me with those last ten steps, but of the folks I know along the ridge, most are elderly...as in 70s and 80s.  I woke up in the night and went through various scenarios for getting that blasted machine to the main floor.  I thought maybe end-over-end might get the job done faster, quicker, though the margin for being crushed and/or crippled was greater than trying to pull it.

Virtually bench pressing 175-lbs.  Wow, who knew what agony that could be?  Still. End-over-end worked and I got the treadmill up the stairs in about ten minutes.  Then I sprawled across the machine like Desdemona and kept gasping, "I did it, I did it, I did it."

Course, I wasted another hour because I wanted the machine in my bedroom, but after dragging it there, it's too big for the space where I expected it to go.  Crap. Haul it back to the main room, move the dogs' toy box and beds and here's where the thing has to be. All things considered, this is as good a place as any.  And frankly, at this point, I don't care.

It's been an exhausting, difficult week.  I'm still very cranky with UPS.  I'm glad I didn't kill myself or have any of my internal bits become external.  Once again, I am woman, hear me....well....okay, at the moment hear me whimper, but whatever.

And with all the pushing and pulling and yanking and dragging over the past few days, I've lost two pounds already without even turning on the machine.  Cool...

Wild Weekend...

...though not the kind of wild like some of the weekends in my misspent youth.  Like that one time: a Thursday, Blues Night at the White Eagle in Portland.  Charlie Musselwhite, too much tequila, rowdy friends...and somehow we all ended up in San Francisco the next day when I should have been at work.

Ah, but that's a story for another time...

What wild weekend means in the here and now is freezing nights, hot days and turbulent high winds. The windmills started whooping about midnight down in the vineyards and continued on until late morning every day.  At first it drove me nuts, but eventually it just becomes white noise in the background, until late Monday night I suddenly realized...Hey! It's quiet!

And then the rains came, driven by the wind that is still howling and raging this afternoon. My house creaks like a ship tossed in a maelstrom and I wonder how firmly a man-made foundation can really attach to bedrock.

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I watched the resident hawks doing their mating dance on Saturday, and though I tried to take a video of the loops and dives, the raucous calls and shrieks, I couldn't follow them with just my camera.  It would take Nat Geo equipment, I think.  Still, it was amazing to stand on my back deck and see the waltz.

Later in the day, I was framing some new photos to replace two I've gotten tired of looking at, and glanced out the den window to see more stuff going on in my birch trees.

Two doves, kissing and loving each other up.  Seriously.  He would nuzzle her, she would tuck her head under his chin, he would rub his cheek on hers.  It was very sweet...

Even with crazy weather, it seems love--and Spring--is in the air as far as the wildlife is concerned.

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Sunday evening, rather than walk toward the mail box, I took the boys in the other direction to the end of the road and the viewpoint.  Max got a bit carried away looking for a place to do his business and went down the steep part of the slope a bit too far. Most folks would no doubt have left the...well...business, but I'm not most people. When he was finished I slid down the embankment, picked it up and was tying the bag closed when I realized I was standing in a patch of poison oak. Frigging bloody hell and damnation.  I carefully backed away, pretty sure nothing had touched me, and scrambled up the slope.  When we got home I stripped off my clothes just to be sure, put them in the washing machine on hot, then breathed a sigh of relief.

Which lasted for about an hour.

My right forearm looks like I've been chewed on by a hoard of zombies. The itching almost drove me insane Sunday night and most of yesterday.  I tried sooooooo hard not to scratch, but seriously peeps, there's no way I could stand it; the urge just consumes your every thought and is totally impossible to ignore.  Of course, the scratching made it ten times worse and spread the poison in a nice long swath of horrid itching agony.

Today is a bit better, not so itchy, but there's no way in hell I would show my arm in public.  I'd probably get hauled off to wherever the CDC puts zombies.  And what's up with poison oak in the first place?  What could possibly be Nature's reason for such a diabolical plant?

Friday Stuff

Early this morning--really the dead of night--as I tossed and turned with my scurrilous and angst-filled insomnia, there came a sound like...a fleet of helicopters, or a plague of locusts, or possibly an alien invasion.  It was an endless refrain of whoop whoop whoop that I could in no way identify.

I got up, went downstairs to check the furnace, came back up and checked the fridge, the microwave, the oven, the dishwasher.  I looked under the sink in the kitchen and both bathrooms in case it was some kind of weird broken pipe/water issue.  The whole time I was searching for an answer whoop whoop whoop filled my head.

It's 4:30 in the morning at this juncture, and conceivably I could be the only person aware that aliens are launching an imminent planetary takeover. No question, the sound was coming from somewhere outside.  I went out on the back deck in my pajamas and bare feet and nearly froze in the blast of ice cold wind roaring up from the valley floor. The whoops were louder now, even over the wind and my chattering teeth, but still, I couldn't place the clamor or understand what could possibly be making such a racket at that hour of the night.

I went back to bed, but the constant drone wasn't in the least conducive to sleep. Eventually I must have dozed off, but when I woke up at 7:00 the noise was still there.  I went outside again, and finally figured out where it was coming from.

A few years ago the farmer who owned most of the valley below my house, sold his acreage to a winery.  They have toiled and shaped, planned and plowed.  The tiny little rows of future grapes are just beginning to sprout.  And the temperatures have plummeted into the low 30s.

The windmills generate the necessary hot air to keep the frost at bay.  This is a shot of just two windmills, there are over two dozen down there.  The force of that dozen, the quiet of the night, and the peculiar acoustics that allow sound to rise up the side of my mountain made for a very puzzling, disturbing non-sleep.  Like insomnia isn't bad enough...

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I went out to lunch with my neighbor Bunny today; she was the one who told me what the windmills actually do.  I thought they were watering things, but she said instead of the old-time smudge pots, now growers use these windmills when heat is needed.

And here's a bit of news that made my day: Remember the horrid tribe family and the guy who threatened me awhile back?  Bunny told me the couple are divorcing, the mean evil man has already moved back to Arizona (I would have thought Appalachia) and the rest of the tribe have relocated to another part of town.  Their house will be either rented or sold.  I frankly don't care what happens to the house; it's just such a relief they are off the mountain.  Later tonight I will raise my glass to thank the gods of Deliverance.

After lunch we went to Sports Authority, which has just opened up in the town mall, so I could look at a treadmill.  It's not that I'm overweight, it's more that I don't want to be overweight in the future, and I've decided I'm not getting enough exercise, no matter that I'm hiking with the dogs twice a day.  My dogs aren't exactly the kind that induce serious weight loss.  They stop at every blade of grass, nose every stone, pebble and rock, pee on whatever strikes their fancy and totally ignore me as I grouse in abject frustration, "Come oooooonnnnnnn!"

So, here and there over this past week, I've done some hardcore research and found the perfect treadmill.  Not only was it on sale at a great discount, but when it's delivered next week, I won't have to haul it up two flights of stairs by myself.  I'm marginally excited--it's exercise, peeps.  How excited can I really get?--and I will now be able to walk continuously (with four different inclines and six exercise programs) without stopping or starting every three and half seconds.  I hope.

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I'm falling behind, big time, with my 1000 Cranes project.  I've had 40 in the first stage of folding for the past two weeks and just haven't found the time to finish them. It's going to be April very soon and I have over 800 cranes left to do by the end of the year. Yikes. That's a daunting thought.

I know part of my problem is reading.  Not that I find that a problem in any way, but lately it seems there has been a veritable ocean of books that I've been compelled to read and everything else falls to the wayside.  If it's not authors whose work I love, than it's authors I've just discovered.  Were I to have any kind of addictive personality, it would be over books.  The BFF and I have talked often and long about too many books, too little time.

And on the note...

It's Friday afternoon, chores done, dogs napping, 500 Mile chai brewing and a good book awaits...

Happy Spring!!

In my little corner of the world, it's a beautiful, sunny day though the breeze is still a bit chilly. Walking along the river this morning I could almost feel the shift of the seasons. Winter's cold breath touched my neck, sending shivers down my spine, but I lifted my face to the sun's warmth, smiled at all the buds and flowers growing everywhere, and laughed at the exuberant dashing and darting of two happy wee dogs.

There's a sense of accomplishment in surviving Winter, isn't there?  A certain smugness, that somehow, against the odds, we're on the other side and still standing.  We might be slightly worn around the edges, even a bit worse for wear, but we made it, dear readers. Winter is officially over and the first day of Spring has arrived...

A Moment Along The Way

So, I'm grocery shopping this morning after the dogs' walk.  The store is semi-busy: a few screaming kidlets, vendors stocking shelves, several elder folk...the usual suspects.

Meandering down an aisle, I stopped once to help a tiny, ancient little old lady who was trying to reach something on the top shelf--about two feet above her head.  A couple aisles over, I stopped again to help her lift a case of water from the bottom shelf into her cart.  She was very sweet and thanked me profusely both times, though I assured her it truly wasn't necessary, I was glad to help.

For another few aisles, I pondered the ignominy of getting old, having to face that your options are dwindling, that one day you realize you can't lift certain things, or open them, or just plain do stuff like you used to.  I wondered how she was going to get her groceries in the house, especially that case of water, and hoped there was someone to help when she got home.  I had a fleeting moment where I felt the inexorable weight of time bearing down on me. One day, I will be that little old lady...except taller.

Shaking off my impending doom, I kept shopping, listened to some good tunes over the sound system as I browsed the book racks, then made my way to the yogurt section where once again I met up with the same little woman.  Her cart was blocking my path to the Greek yogurt, but I wasn't in any hurry, so just stood a ways behind her while she made her selections.

When she turned to leave, she suddenly realized I was there waiting.  "Oh, I'm so sorry," she said, "you'll have to forgive an old woman."  She had a look on her face that was...sad, embarrassed, and, I don't know, heartbreakingly resigned to the burden of her years.

"You're only as old as you feel." I said, reaching for my yogurt.

She gave me a little smile.  "Why, yes, you're right, dear."

As I put the yogurt in my cart, I said, "Course, it's a bit hard to believe that when trying to get out of bed in the mornings."

She blinked, then started to laugh.  Her eyes were bright, and her soft, twittering laugh reminded me of little birds and church socials and long-ago days.  We grinned at each other, then she laid her gnarly, knobby fingers on my arm.  "Thank you," she said, "it's been some time since I've had a good laugh."

"My pleasure."  She gave my arm a little pat, then moved on to finish her shopping as I headed in the opposite direction.

I hope she kept smiling, I know I did...

The Lion's Turn

The warm and cuddly lamb part of March was short-lived.  After a beautiful--though too hot for me--week where I spent way too many hours outside working, the weather has returned to a typical March climate.  Late yesterday afternoon the first of several squalls rolled across the valley with lashing rain and hail, high winds and sudden bitter cold.  The lion's wild roars continued throughout the night, which was cool really.  I love the sound of rain on the roof when I'm going to sleep...it's like a lullaby to me.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Yesterday was my last day to work outside for awhile.  My neighbor volunteered his grandson--a really nice 14-year old--and with his help, I pretty much finished the week of hard graft and agony.  Pretty much.  I still have to mow, and the deer spray is ongoing, but the major tasks are done. Sigh. For now.

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Walking the boys this morning, I had a little glimmer of flash fiction strike me, so came home, wrote it out and posted it over at Scribbles.  Maybe that's all I can do for the moment: baby steps, a few hundred words at a time.  And no doubt it would help my creative juices if I could get off this mountain, expand my horizons. I need a road trip, a holiday, an adventure.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I wrote awhile back about The First Line, the magazine where you are prompted with a first line and then write a story.  There are four first lines each year.  I missed the first one--"Carlos discovered _________ under a pile of shoes in the back of his grandmother's closet"--mainly because I could imagine far too many things under those shoes and couldn't pick just one.  (Feast or famine in my brain apparently).

On Saturday I got the magazine of the nine writers who were chosen from the many submissions. It's so cool to read what others interpreted for Carlos's discovery; all of them are intriguing and interesting in their own way, and I do so love a good short story.

The next first line, due for submission in May: "Please, Sylvia, give me a moment to think."  I have an idea on this one...and if I can get my head in the game, I'll be working on it.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I was on the phone with the BFF yesterday when I happened to see this odd little...thing...on the peak of my tallest pine tree out back.  It was so small, I wasn't sure what I was seeing.  Was it a tiny budding pine cone?  I got out my camera and zoomed in.

Nope, not a bud, but a wee hummingbird....

To put him into perspective: With the naked eye he was about the size of my littlest finger. I didn't actually see him clearly until I downloaded this shot to my photo program.  What a handsome fellow...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Since I purposefully ignored the household chores all last week whilst working outside, I have several tasks that need doing today.  If I quit procrastinating, I can get them finished in short order, then can sit back and relax with my book as the storm clouds play a mesmerizing game with the sun in flickers of light and shadow across the valley floor.

Lost In Space

I've lost my brain...well, more specifically, it appears I've lost whatever fuels my creativity and imagination.  Seriously.  Gone baby gone.  I've started to write three separate short stories this month, and discarded two within a day or so after struggling to make them work; I'm not into making things hard on myself these days--life's just too damn short.  My third idea is the one I mentioned a while back that would probably take six installments to tell the story, and I'm fine with that.  In a twisted, torturous way I miss the serial angst from last year.

Except, though this new tale has promise, I'm having some issues with the heroine's reasons to be on the run.  Strangely, I already know who the bad guy is, and how the story ends.  It's just...I just can't...it's not...

Aarrgghhh.

And now we're back to the beginning.  I've lost the plot.  My thoughts drift like smoke with nary a spark of imagery, illusion or inspiration. (Though, drat, it appears I'm having no trouble with alliteration).

Perhaps, just maybe, this third story also isn't worthy, hence why I've been stewing and fretting and not getting on with it. Maybe I should just write a story about not being able to write a---

Huh.

I think the pilot light just flickered...

I'm Hiring A Gardener

Since Tuesday, the weather has been so incredibly warm--unprecedented 70s--that I've had no excuse not to be outside working every day.  I've weeded and mowed, edged and pruned, cleaned out pots and hauled debris, sprayed and raked, groaned and sweated.

The front wasn't as bad as the back, probably because the deer have helped with the pruning.  After working on the front, my last chore was to spray the deer repellent and, of course, just as I got a good stream shooting out of the nozzle, a light breeze kicked in and I got a nice face, mouth and nose full.  When I was finished, I thought about burning my clothes.  Seriously.  This stuff is brutal. Even after hosing out my nostrils, I was still breathing it yesterday.  Ah well.  It might smell like Satan's armpit, but it does the trick.

I quit working around 3:00 yesterday, mainly because after two full days of bending and twisting and pulling and hauling I was so stiff and sore I could barely lift the wine glass to my lips at the end of the day.  And then there's getting out of bed in the mornings, though I've got a rolling-lurching-stagger technique that's fairly effective.

Yesterday, at lunch, my neighbor popped in to bring me a beautiful vase of Clematis that she pruned from her back garden.  The flowers are delicate and beautiful, with an amazing scent.  I'm hoping for some root growth, then I'll find a place to start my own Clematis vines...

 

Today I worked in the back, and frankly, I'm about ready to place a very large order for gravel or maybe cement.  It's difficult to work because it's steeply sloped, except for the flat part at the bottom for the lawn.  And there are pots and hanging baskets and oak barrels, because it's fenced and the deer can't get in so I've gone overboard with flowers.

When I stopped for the day, I was covered in scratches, sweat and dirt. I stripped off my filthy jeans and tee shirt in the laundry room, then practically crawled up the two flights of stairs to the shower. Where I contemplated the practicality of concrete. I think I got a sunburn too...in March, peeps. March. Though it could also be heat stroke.

Thankfully now, in the late afternoon, it's beginning to cloud over and with any luck at all it will rain for a few days so I can catch my breath before I have to go back out there.

And maybe by then I'll even be able to stand up straight again...

Requiem For A Tree

I've written more than once about my Hallowe'en tree, that great gnarly dead oak that filled the vista from my front porch.  It was part of my landscape, part of the charm of my mountain life, and hosted a veritable menagerie of bird life.

Not only have I written about my love for this tree, but I've photographed it--with and without creatures.

Spring...and it looms majestically over the slope across from my front yard...

 Summer...surrounded by its living relatives...

And a shot just a few weeks ago, eerie and cool, shrouded in the rain and fog...

Last night we had a monumental rain and wind storm.  Pounding rain, rolling thunder, lightning--the whole nine yards.  It was wild and wonderful.

Except this is what I woke up to this morning...

I actually stood at the front window and tried for several seconds to figure out what has wrong with the view...and then suddenly, I realized.  My most beautiful old tree was gone.

No more photos of the wildlife, perched on the welcoming branches; no more walking past the windows to see vultures, hawks or woodpeckers surveying the valley below as they claim a sturdy foothold.

I loved that tree, I loved that it was part of my world, that it served a purpose even after it had died. Now I suppose it will serve a different purpose, not for the creatures that live in the skies, but for those that dwell on the ground.

I should be more pragmatic--ashes to ashes and all that--but dammit, that tree was more than just an ol' dead thing.  I'm so going to miss the twisted, Hallowe'en limbs that framed my view, and the moments when I saw the sun gleam orange-red through the feathers of a hawk fanning its wings, the tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker searching for his early morning snack...and the startling vision of a turkey vulture, landing with a six-foot wingspan that took my breath away.

I'm totally crushed.

UGH

Picture says it all.  I'm tired, out of sorts, and cranky.  Time should not be messed with...really it shouldn't because what does Daylight Savings actually accomplish anyway? Imagine all the folks across America feeling like I do right now, out driving cars, operating machinery, performing surgeries and procedures.  The mind boggles.

I'm going to go take a nap...

Not Your Mama's Pirates

Have any of you been watching Black Sails, the new series on Starz?  I saw the original trailer clear back last Summer and could hardly wait until January.  When it got close to the premiere, I set the DVR to record so I wouldn't miss anything, then with one thing or another, didn't watch the episodes until last weekend. Which, as it turns out, was the perfect way to do it. I saw all seven shows back-to-back and got totally immersed into the best television I have seen in a very long time.

These pirates are not Johnny Depp.  The series is based on factual events in Nassau in 1715: the real corruption of most British officials, the totally raw and unbelievably grim existence for slaves and prostitutes, and the dog-eat-dog hierarchy of the pirate lords. The plot is character-driven, and though most of these guys (and women!) are sleazy and dangerous and cruel, as the story deepens, we understand the how and why behind several of the main people.

But I should forewarn you, dear readers: This isn't a program for the faint of heart and most definitely isn't Pirates of the Caribbean.  It's a serious portrayal of an incredibly brutal way of life. I cringed, grimaced, sat on the edge of my seat, held my breath, gritted my teeth, covered my eyes and at one point yelled "No! Not Billy Bones!" Beneath the main story--finding and pirating the largest treasure ever to sail a Spanish galleon--there is betrayal and heartbreak, loyalty and camaraderie, love and hate, death and loss.

And honestly, to my mind, storytelling doesn't get much better than this...

"Good To Be Alive" Friday...

After seemingly endless torrential rains, winds and wild storms, today dawned with brilliant blue skies, white fluffy animated clouds, and a warmth in the sun that should not be happening in the first week of March.  The air is fresh and clean, the view from the back deck across the valley is crisp, like my vision has begun to focus again after weeks of misty, foggy vagueness.

As the boys and I strolled along the river path this morning, I had one of those moments where you're just plain glad to be alive.  The dogs were crazy-happy, jumping and running with abandon, while squirrels chattered and scolded from the trees.  I took a deep breath of sunshine and river and damp grass...and tipped my head back to look at the incredible blue of the sky, where I saw a dragon with two tails being chased by an elephant, trunk raised as he raced to catch up.  I could almost hear his trumpet call.  I love clouds like these...clouds that tell stories and fire the imagination and remind me of childhood dreams.

On the drive home, I couldn't help but notice that trees and flowers are suddenly blooming all over hill and dale.  Maybe I've just had my head down for so long to avoid drowning in the rain, but today there is no doubt Spring is here, even if a bit early.

For those of you, dear readers, who are still struggling with the Polar Vortex, or are just getting the rainstorms that plowed through the West this week, headed East, these photos from my garden are to help you remember that Spring is really, truly coming...

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The other day I had an idea for the next Scribbles installment, though the story has already morphed from just a short to a possible six-part tale.  I'm still fiddling with the plot--in my head--and hope to sit down over the weekend to write the first bit.  We'll see how it goes.  Unfortunately, really great weather is expected which means I'll have to spend some lengthy time outside doing chores.  I definitely have to spray the deer repellent stuff before I have no buds or blooms left, should do some serious weeding, and already have to mow the frigging lawn again.  Sigh.

Maybe, with any luck, the fresh air and mindless graft will help solidify my thoughts. That, or more likely I'll spend the weekend moaning and groaning at the sudden backbreaking aches and pains that come from the first gardening work of the season.

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I called two of my neighbor ladies yesterday to share my pie.

What?  Peeps, you actually thought I would eat a whole pie by myself?  Okay.  I could eat a whole pie by myself, but thankfully I have a little more restraint now that my metabolism doesn't function at the speed of light allowing me to eat anything I want with no repercussions.

Bunny went off with a nice wedge to share with her husband, George, though I got the impression he wasn't going to be seeing a single crumb of it, and Jennifer said flat out she was eating the whole thing before her guy got home from work.

So, with that thought, I'm going now...to make myself a cup of tea and enjoy the last piece of what has turned out to be the Husbands Don't Get Any rhubarb pie...

A Slice of the Past

I was cruising through the Produce department yesterday whilst grocery shopping and stumbled upon a small cache of rhubarb tucked between lettuce and asparagus. I stopped and stared for a moment or two at the gorgeous deep reds and long stalks.  Visions of making a rhubarb pie beckoned.  I tried to resist the urge and actually walked away.  Okay, I walked about five feet, looked back, imagined that first, tart bite of pie...and fell to temptation.  There's a very short window for rhubarb; it's a pie made just for Spring.  I decided not to waste the opportunity.

My baking skills are pretty average, though if I have a knack for anything, it's pie.  Over time I've figured out the perfect crust--the best part of a pie to my mind--and can make a mouth-watering Lemon Meringue, though my very most favorite pie is from a recipe I got from a little old lady named Hazel.

I used to work at my college bookstore.  At the end of every term, this trio of part-time ladies would come, set up their booth and spend a week buying back the textbooks.  They were sharks, those three.  They knew the price of every used book, could flip through the pages in a nano second, find every mark and notation, and there was no arguing prices.

Hazel was past retirement age, somewhere in her seventies, I think.  She was quick, sharp and had a death ray stare that could bring the biggest jerk to a stuttering halt.  She could also bake like the best granny in the world.  At the end of their week, the ladies would bring treats for the lowly student bookstore workers and we'd have an impromptu "see you next term" party.  

Once she brought her rhubarb pie.  I had never liked rhubarb.  It was too tart, too stringy, too...whatever.  Hazel gave me a slice before I could say no and because she was so sweet--and had that blasted death stare--I took the pie, thinking I would just toss it away when she wasn't looking.  Hah.  She waited for me to have a taste.  With my first bite, my rhubarb-hating life was changed forever.  Her pie was from an old recipe, made for years and years in her family.  And it was beyond delicious.

Needless to say, I begged for the recipe.  Hazel's French Custard Rhubarb was the first pie I ever made and became the one that set me on my course of future pies, techniques, and best crusts.

I came home after shopping, had lunch, and made Hazel's pie.

Ready for the oven...all the juicy custard is oozing through the lattice...

One hour later...

 
It took all afternoon and into the early evening for the pie to cool.  The wonderful smells of fresh-from-the-oven pie was driving me nuts, but I knew everything had to set before I could cut a slice...

I haven't made a pie since leaving Edinburgh three years ago; even longer since I've made this one.  It felt good to roll the crust, chop the bright red stalks, make the filling.  I thought about Hazel as I worked, and how many times I've made this recipe.

Then finally, last night after dinner, I took my first bite...and closed my eyes to savor the creamy texture of the custard, the crispness of the crust, the tang and bite of the rhubarb.  

It's magical when a blend of ordinary ingredients can combine to make something extraordinary.

Philosophy

I was dinking around this morning whilst having breakfast and stumbled across a quiz to determine what kind of philosopher I might be.  I love these goofy--though somehow compelling--little tests. This one was pretty basic, though question two about Desperate Housewives sort of threw me in terms of figuring out my philosophical bent.

Still.

Which Philosopher Are You?

 Jeremy Bentham (1748 - 1832)

My results after taking the quiz:  "You think that everyone should have the right to express their own opinions and be heard. When making ethical decisions, you always try to maximize happiness for the greatest number of people."

I really like being in tune with Jeremy Bentham.  He was a very cool and interesting guy--even if he does look surprisingly like Ben Franklin. He advocated for individual freedoms, like freedom of expression, equal rights for women, the right to divorce, decriminalizing homosexuality. He called for the abolition of slavery, the death penalty and physical punishment for children; he also vehemently supported animal rights and welfare.  And all of this over two hundred years ago.

Bentham is considered the father of utilitarianism, the belief that the greatest happiness of the greatest number is the measure of right and wrong.

Think about that for a minute, dear readers.

It's not a bad philosophy to have, not bad at all...

Mad As A March Hare...

Original illustration by John Tenniel, 1865

March is a good month, though there is a tendency to grow lax at the idea of Spring, officially beginning on March 20th...because we forget the cruelty of April is lurking just around the corner.

In this lovely interlude, the counterfeit Time Lords will once again enforce Daylight Savings, next weekend actually. The back and forward changes are so close together now, that really, why do we bother? This is such an archaic thing...right up there with still using Roman numerals, which I totally do not understand. At all.

We will celebrate St Patrick's Day, though our reverence will come, not with religious fervor, but with copious amounts of beer (no accident this oasis of frivolity is in the middle of Lent). Rivers will turn green, and everyone will suddenly become Irish.

[Here's a bit of folklore: St Patrick was actually born in Wales, but was captured by pirates and taken to Ireland as a slave. He eventually escaped but later returned as a missionary...and became a legend.]

Next comes the Spring Equinox, when daylight at last equals the hours of darkness. The early flowers--bluebells and lily-of-the-valley and snowdrops and grape hyacinth and daffodils--begin to brighten the landscape. There's warmth in the sun and a tender hope in the air.

We should revel in the brief joy of March. It's a month of celebration and promise, a month when we realize, deep in our primordial memory, that we've survived another Winter, that better days are coming.  We should laugh and be silly and be as mad as the Hare, or the Hatter...

Because April is coming.