The Case of the Thwarted Prowler

Our entire ranch is encompassed by a six foot high livestock fence. Most of that fence has 2 strands of electric wire running along it. At night the gates are closed and locked, and we have a motion sensor alarms that let us know when a vehicle comes up our drive and when something is moving around on our property. We also have 2 dogs that patrol the area Well, ok maybe we can't really count on the dogs for security because they mostly wander about looking for small rodents or grasshoppers to chase.

Still, it would be pretty difficult for someone or something to prowl around unnoticed. Amazingly however, last night as my husband, Bruce, and I settled in for the evening our front motion sensor alarm sounded indicating someone or something had come up the driveway.

Since it was nearly 10pm we were startled and a bit concerned. I got up from the couch and looked out the window toward the driveway. If a vehicle had approached it would have been forced to stop at the gate that crosses the driveway about 40 feet from the house.

It was dark and I couldn't tell if there was a vehicle there or not, but there were no headlights shinning up toward the house . While Bruce slipped on his shoes I flicked on the porch light which did nothing to illuminate the drive way.

I grabbed a flashlight and shone it down toward the gate. I still saw nothing, nor could I detect any movement inside the gate.

Now that Bruce had his shoes on , he walked a few steps out the door and shone a large hand-held battery operated flood light down toward the gate.
"I don't see anything" he reported as he swept the front area with the light.

"It must have been the neighbors cat" he suggested, knowing full well that she locks her cat in the house at night. He does things like that so that I won't stress about things prowling around in the dark at night. I may be a farm girl, but I still worry when unidentified things go "bump" in the night.

We settled back down and watched t.v. for about half an hour, and I was just beginning to relax when the same motion alarm once again annoyingly indicated someone or something was in the driveway area.

I had the flashlight handy and my shoes on so I was the first to jump up, flick on the porch light and bolt out the door. I was determined to catch whatever or whoever was skulking about. Bruce followed with the larger brighter light. Nothing.

Our driveway makes a complete loop around the house, and allows vehicle access to the barns, coops and pens. We went into stealth mode and walked some distance together before we decided to split up. The plan was for each of us to loop in the opposite direction . I opted to take the right side of the drive (which by mere coincidence just happens to be the most open and well lit side) and told Bruce to take the left (which by contrast is the darkest and most obscured side.

Bruce walked slowly shining his light back and forth in a slow but steady sweeping motion. I walked more rapidly and mostly shone the light behind me to be sure nothing was creeping up on me.

We eventually met face to face on the back side of the loop. Neither of us had seen anything. As we waked back toward the house we heard the motion sensor sound again. Bruce ran toward the front where the sensor is located and I followed quickly, while managing to keep a safe distance behind.

When we reached the front area neither of us saw anything. "Ok that's it" Bruce said "The sensor is obviously malfunctioning...I'm going in." As he turned and walked toward the front door I started to follow, but instead lingered behind just a little. I may be a coward of sorts, but I have never let one mystery go unsolved in my life.

As Bruce closed the door behind him, I squatted down behind a shrub which offered good cover, but also allowed me to see the sensor. When something trips the sensor it sounds an alarm inside the house, but it also has a small red light on it that blinks to let us know it's working.

I waited nervously wondering if whatever was out there would come from the direction directly in front of me or from my left. Of course there was also the possibility it could scamper across the lawn toward my right or it could even approach from behind me.

I didn't have long to wait. After about 10 minutes the small red light blinked on the sensor and I knew I had the intruder. I quickly flicked on my flash light and shown it toward the sensor, then back toward the gate, then toward the house, then slowly, every so slowly I turned around and shone it behind me....nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Chuckling, I decided that Bruce was right the sensor was obviously malfunctioning. Either that or it was so high tech that it was picking up ghosts. It could be shut off from inside the house of course, but I decided it might be best to deactivate it outside, right then and there.

I bent down and shown my light directly onto the face of the sensor and to my surprise, there in full illumination stood our prowler. A tiny garden variety spider had decided to weave her web on the sensors case. Each time she spun her sparking threads of silver webbing across the sensors lens she inadvertently activated it.

I can't help but wonder if it was the blinking red light that was the deal breaker for her decision as to where to spin her web. As I looked closely I saw the web crossed the lens multiple times.

Isn't nature amazing!

Tatt's All Folks!

My husband, Bruce, and I were invited to a friends house for a barbecue this past weekend. It was a small informal get together, but still I wanted to look my best, so I slipped into a nice pair of jeans and a T-shirt. To complement my sporting outfit I chose one of my favorite pairs of earrings.

Although my ears were pierced more than 20 years ago, I've always had problems with my left ear. The cosmetologist who did the work must have been having a bad day because the back side of the hole in that ear doesn't match with the front side. Putting an earring in it is next to impossible. I always end up in a rather unique contorted wrestling match with myself. In the end, without fail, I always have to ask Bruce for help.

Bruce doesn't mind helping, but he's always afraid he will hurt me, so the procedure takes longer than it should and wears on both of us. My ear was particularly resistant that day, so after struggling with me and the earring for about 20 minutes, Bruce decided we should maybe try to reopen and align the hole with a darning needle.


Bruce was about to start his armchair surgery, when a couple of friends that we had made arrangements to go the barbecue with arrived. Seeing my dilemma they did what any good friends would do...they joined Bruce and alternately took turns poking, prodding, pulling and pushing a very large needle though my ear.

In the end, we managed to open the hole and insert the earring, but I arrived at the party with a very large, unsightly, red and swollen left earlobe .

After we had eaten Diane, one of our friends, abruptly stood, grabbed my arm and announced that she and I were leaving for a little while in my vehicle because we "had an errand to run." I didn't know where we were headed until she directed me to pull into the parking lot of one of our local "Bottle Shops" that sold beer, wine and liqueur.

I couldn't imagine why we were there since neither of us drink . When I asked what we were up to she grinned and said "Get out..you'll see"

As soon as my feet hit the ground she grasped my upper arm firmly and said "Come on, we're going up there" I followed her hand gesture toward a fairly steep set of stairs that led above the Bottle Shop to one of our many local Tattoo parlors.

Now, state of California pays ex-felons for their rehabilitation when they are released from prison. I honestly can't say how many vocational choices they are given, but from the number of shops in the area I'm guessing maybe there are only two. Harley motorcycle repair shops and Tattoo Shops.

Interestingly enough you can always tell the shop owners and employees by the way they dress. The Harley shop owners and employees regardless of the season always dress in black leathers and have an obsessive fondness for silver. Silver earrings, silver chains, silver belt buckles, silver everything. They glisten in the warm California sun.

Tattoo parlor owners and employees dress in as few articles of clothing as possible and have an obsessive fondness for displaying their wearable artwork. They are covered from head to toe in brilliant graphics. They too glisten in the warm California sun as it reflects off their numerous body piercings.

When I questioned Diane's motives she smiled coyly and said "Come on..you'll see." Although I was slightly apprehensive I concluded that she wanted to get tiny tattoo on her left ankle to match the one on her right. Diane is impulsive but at the same time very conservative.

As I followed her up the stairs we passed a multitude of young people leaving the shop. As they passed they each in turn showed us their new works of art. One girl stuck out her tongue and said something like " oook I jus gop ma tun possed " I smiled and said "Ahh, very nice. Congratulations!" I wondered why anyone would want to do such a thing. I'm not judgmental, just a coward. It looked like it hurt.

As Diane opened the door to the Tattoo parlor we were nearly knocked down by the ear shattering rap music that engulfed us along with a billowing cloud of incense. I gave her a look that I hope implied "Girl are you out of your mind?" I concluded she was when she slipped behind me and shoved me though the door.

From somewhere behind a beaded curtain a deep baritone voice bellowed "Park your butts Dudes I'm inkin' " Diane plopped comfortably into one of the two vacant chairs that somewhat resembled barber chairs and motioned for me to take the other, "Aww come on" she pleaded "lighten up, relax this is all good." It didn't feel or look good to me, but I slipped onto the edge of the chair.

In a couple of minutes a burly bald man whom I guessed to be 8 feet 94 inches tall tossed back the beaded curtain spread his arms and said "'Sup Dudes ? Look at you!" I assume he was surprised to see two over the hill ladies sitting in his victims chairs. "Aaaah right" he continued "who am I inkin' first?"

To my absolute horror Diane leaped from her chair and shoved me all the way back info mine and said "We are going to re-pierce her ears!" The chair must have had suction cups attached to it because before I could pull my self up and out of it, the moving art show pressed one of his big hands gently but firmly just below my throat and looked at first one ear and the other. My heart raced in terror.

I must have passed out from fright at that point, because the next thing I remember Diane was leading me back down the steep stairs. I had a serious headache and both of my ears felt like someone had taken a blowtorch to them. The throbbing pain caused tears to truckle down my cheeks.

As we drove out of the parking lot I glanced longingly back at the "Bottle Shop." I secretly wished I could imbibe just a little . Diane is a good friend, and neither of us drink, but at that very moment I considered dumping a friend and taking up drinking as a new hobby.

Mrs. Magoo and the Friendly Fawn

The cartoon character Mr. Magoo has been around since long before I was old enough to see him on the big screen in movie theaters. While most people find him amusing and endearing, I've always had somewhat of a standoffish attitude toward him. Even as a young child I always thought that no one could be so crotchety or so nearsighted that he'd get himself into the outrageous fixes that Quincy Magoo did. Yesterday, however, I developed a rather sudden fondness for the old coot.

Here's what happened:

Early yesterday afternoon I had an appointment with a retina specialist for an evaluation of an on-going annoying problem in my left eye. I've had many eye examinations over the years, but I've never gone though such an evasive one as I did yesterday. I don't know what they used to dilate my eyes, but it had to be some powerful stuff. Within minutes everything went fuzzy.

After the doctor did a brief first glance he asked his assistant to add some different drops to my eyes. Those drops were followed up with a dye compound and another dose of drops. By the time I walked out of his office I felt like I was maneuvering in a dense fog. I seriously have never had such obscured vision.

Since the back office nurse told me the effect would quickly wear off, I made my way out the door and attempted to find my vehicle. I knew I wasn't seeing well enough to drive, but I thought I could sit awhile and listen to the radio until the blurriness cleared.

After stumbling around the parking lot for an undetermined amount of time and setting of a wild crescendo of numerous car alarms while trying to insert my key into various vehicles that I mistook for mine, I was escorted by some unknown person or persons back to the waiting room.

A disjointed female voice came out of nowhere and said "We thought you were here with a caretaker who could drive you home... who can we call for you?" Well it's true my husband, Bruce, was with me at the onset of my appointment. He had taken an extended lunch hour to sit in on my exam however he had to leave and return to work long before the intense exam was finished. No one told me they were going to send me out into the world completely blind, otherwise he would have made other arrangements and stayed with me.

I had them call a friend who, by the way, is still giggling over the ruckus I caused in the parking lot while trying to find my vehicle.

Once I was safely deposited in the confines of my home I wandered around aimlessly trying to find something to entertain myself until the effects of the drops wore off. That gave me a new appreciation for blind people. How do they do it? Since I still couldn't see more than about a foot in front of my face I decided to listen to the television.

That idea was short lived. As soon as I settled myself in front of the t.v. with a cold Pepsi, I heard a loud fracas coming from the chickens in the pen out back. I tried to ignore it, but it grew in intensity as the ducks, geese turkeys, and guinea hens joined in. I knew something was terribly wrong..but what to do?

Finally I decided that since I had made the trip out to the pens a multitude of times in the dark of night it wouldn't be that difficult or different with my current visual impairment. I was right. I followed the path out back with relative ease. The only problem was that I couldn't see what was causing the commotion with the birds.

I opened the gate to the "free range chicken park" and felt my way along the wire fencing toward the back. I heard several branches snap in the woods beyond the pen, but I couldn't see a thing. It was like trying to drive in a blinding white-out snow storm. Everything beyond a few feet was a consumed in a complete fog-like blur.

When I heard another branch snap I knew the intruder was fairly large. I surmised it was a deer snacking on the blackberries that grow wild on bushes in the forest on 2 sides of our property. Since the birds were still in an uproar I thought I should do something to scare the deer away. I bent down and felt around on the ground until I was able to find a few rocks and short twigs which I tossed toward the sound in the woods.

Satisfied that I had frightened the deer away I returned to the house via the same path. However, as I settled back down in front of the t.v. the birds once again became hysterical. Silly birds, I thought, afraid of a deer...how ridiculous is that! Unable to ignore the bedlam, which continued to grow in intensity I once again felt my way to the back of the pen.

By now the drops had begun to wear off slightly and I was able to see something brown about 15 feet beyond the boundaries of the "chicken park." Once again I grappled around for things to throw at the deer, which I now decided was a young fawn because it showed no fear of me.

When poor little thing continued to show reluctance to leave, I accompanied my projectiles with a loud "GRRRR Get out of here! Go on..Get!" The fawn stood its ground for quite sometime while I continued to yell and toss bits of rocks and twigs at it. At one point, it moved a bit closer to me so I jumped up and down and waved my arms while I shouted in an attempt to look more menacing . At last it nonchalantly turned and walked unhurriedly deeper into the woods.

Bruce came home about an hour later and I told him the chickens and other birds were driving me nuts by over reacting to a fawn in the woods behind their pen. I asked him to handle it if they started up again.

Within twenty minutes the birds once again sounded a shrill alarm and Bruce went out to take a look. We had decided that maybe the fawn was injured or abandoned since it was so reluctant to move off when I tried to intimidate it.

Within minutes Bruce breathlessly returned to the house and loudly announced "Jodi we have a problem!" As I stood and felt my way blindly toward where he stood panting I asked "What's going on? Is it injured?"

"No" he huffed "But it's a wonder YOU aren't! .... It's NOT a FAWN Magoo it's a big Black BEAR!"

In the words of Quincy Magoo..."Ohhhh Lucy Magoo, you've done it again! "

Just Like a Man !

Now there are a lot of good things about living in the country. There are also a lot of things that are not so good about living in the country. One thing is the country scents ( ironically, and justly so, the title of my blog.)

Since we live in the country and our property backs up to woods on two sides we have an ongoing problem with skunks who wander onto our ranch. This time of year, the wandering of skunks is actually more like a mass pilgrimage . You see , although skunks are pretty much solitary animals, they always return to the den in which they were born to hole up for the winter. They also birth their young in these dens. It works like this... 5 or 6 skunks enter their communal den in late summer or early autumn, and in the spring 20 or 30 skunks emerge.

At some point back in the annals of time a few pilgrim skunks decided to hole up under where one of our small barns is now located. Needless to say our balmy country evenings more often than not waft noxious perfumes through our open windows.

Since this particular den of skunks has most likely been here since the time when cavemen roamed these hills you'd think that some men would learn to give them a wide berth. Perhaps I should narrow that down a bit and say that I should think one man in particular would learn to give them a wide berth. That man, of course would my husband, Bruce.

For the last week we have noticed an increase in acrid scents mixed in with the usual sweet perfumes of night blooming Jasmine and Nicotina. Now some say that women are smarter than men. I can't say for sure if that is an accurate statement or not, however once I noticed the obvious signs of our winter resident skunks were returning to their den I did my best to avoid crossing their path. The man in this house did not.

Let me give you an example as to why the saying: Women are smarter than men may have some merit.

Late Friday afternoon just as the sun was bidding us adieu I settled into our lawn swing to watch it slip behind the tall oak trees in the forest. I tried to coax Bruce to come and sit with me but being the self-appointed advocate of lawn care, he decided instead to mow the lawn. So off into the sunset he rode on his mower.

Being the perceptive person that I am, I immediately noticed that he had riled at least one skunk during his first orbit around the lawn. Amazingly, it took Bruce about three and a half laps before he finally stopped the mower and walked back toward me.

As he approached I slipped off the lawn swing and told him I was going inside...(and here is where the possible difference in intelligence comes into play.) Bruce looked around for a minute and then said "I think it must be under the dog house in the vegetable garden."

I agreed and suggested we make a fast retreat to the interior of our own house. When Bruce made no sign of moving I said "Are you coming?" When he didn't answer I knew he was going to have to satisfy his curious mind.

"Seriously, I think we need to go in now." I said as Bruce continued to use his nose and eyes to scan the area. When he turned and headed toward the vegetable garden I knew we were in for an interesting evening.

"What's your plan?" I asked with a knowing grin on my face. "I'm just going to see where it's hanging out so we can set a trap out a bit later" he replied. I grabbed my camera.

A few steps later we were both standing in the vegetable garden looking at the old abandoned dog house our ranch dog used when he was a puppy. I wisely stood about 15 feet back from it while Bruce cautiously approached. I did my best to discourage him from getting too close... really I did. Looking back at the whole thing, it's possible that maybe I didn't speak loud enough for him to hear me. But seriously did he really need me to tell him not to lift the dog house to see if a skunk was under it?

The obvious answer is yes, he apparently did need for me to shout "NO! STOP! DON'T LIFT THE DOG HOUSE UP... THERE IS A SKUNK UNDER IT!" because before I knew it (although I stood camera in hand and ready) he muttered something that sounded like "I don't think it's under here" and lifted the dog house.

Are women smarter than men? Well, at least one was on that particular evening.

Things not to say in the presence of a detective

I suppose detectives by the very nature of their profession have to quickly correlate and analyze everything they see and hear. Years of training and self-discipline have taught them that things are not always what they appear to be. That's all well and good when solving a case, but it can be quite disconcerting to an innocent person who doesn't happen to have the best motor skills when it comes to controlling her mind and mouth.

My husband, Bruce, and I recently visited the office of a local attorney who specializes in estate planning. This attorney also just just happens to share office space with a private detective.


Their offices are in an old building that was formerly a gold essay office in our downtown area. When walked into the empty reception area it was like being transported back in time 100 years. The wooden floor planks creaked beneath our feet as we ventured deeper into the somewhat disheveled but completely vacant area.

Looking behind a barred counter that looked like an old bank tellers window we expected to find a receptionist/secretary. Instead we saw a massive oak roll top desk that was cluttered with file folders and long ago abandoned coffee mugs. It looked as though someone had been there as recently as 10 or so years ago, but there were no signs of recent activity.

Behind the desk stood a mammoth sized coal-black antique safe that looked like a prop out of an old western movie. It was at least 7 feet tall and 6 feet wide. Fading gold filigree lettering adorned it's double doors.

Bruce was more interested in our meeting with the attorney so while I checked out the safe, he wandered a bit down the empty corridor that was lined on both sides with a multitude of opened office doors, and called out "Hello?"

In the dead stillness that followed I said "Wow, it would take several sticks of dynamite to blow that safe! Maybe even C-4 ." (Please believe me when I say my only experience with cracking safes is what I've learned from watching t.v.)

As my words echoed down the hallway we heard a quick movement that sounded like someone abruptly siding back a chair on the wooden floor. The sound was followed by short quick steps and suddenly a small heavy set man charged up the dimly lit hallway.

Bruce extended his hand to the man and said "Hi, we are the McDonald's are you Mr. Talbert?" In response the middle-aged baling man ignored Bruce's, outstretched hand and pointed his pen toward me and gruffly said "What's your full name and who's she?"


As Bruce told him the man made hasty notes on a yellow legal sized pad. "unhuh, is that your truck out front?" He asked. When Bruce acknowledged that it was the man pushed his glasses up with one finger, moved to the window and apparently jotted down the make and license number.

"Umm," Bruce said hesitantly "We are here to see Mr. Talbert, is that you?" The man spun around looked at me and said "So what's your interest in our safe?" Before I could answer we heard the flush of a toilet from somewhere in the depths of the old building and a second man hurried down the hall toward us. Ironically the second man looked enough like the first to be his older brother.

As he approached he outstretched his hand and said "Hi you must be the McDonald's, I'm Jimmy Talbert, that paranoid man by the window is my partner Mike Ferrell , my office is down this way."

As Bruce and I followed him down the hallway, I noticed that the paranoid Mr. Ferrell was quick on our heels.

Once we were seated in Mr. Talbert's office, and because I'm apparently a bit dim witted I said "That is a very interesting safe in the reception area, I'll be it has an colorful history." Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mr. Ferrell's head give a quick jerk in my direction as he snapped to attention "I asked a minute ago what your interest was in it." he said taking in every aspect of my features.

Before I could answer Mr Talbert waved him off with the back of his hand and said "I've got this Mike, Please excuse us."

When he'd left the room Mr. Talbert explained that Mike Ferrell was a close friend and private detective sharing his office. He also informed us that the safe in the reception area was apparently of great interest to many unsavory locals who had recently attempted to crack it.

He went on to explain that in the past 7 months the office had been broken into 7 times. "Someone actually took a torch to it." he said "they scorched the floor pretty badly, it's a wonder they didn't burn the whole building down..funny thing is that there hasn't been anything in the safe in over 3 years and the real kicker is that it hasn't been locked in all that time."

He continued "Another person or, maybe the same persons drilled the tumblers out. I guess no one has actually broken in and just pulled on the handle because as I said it hasn't been locked in ages. "

Last Tuesday we came in and found the office door jimmied and the safe door standing wide open. So you can see how everyone that comes into the office falls under Mikes suspicion" He picked up his pen and continued " I'm sorry for Mikes interrogation, now what can I do for you."

We discussed our business for about an hour and when we had finished we requested copies of some of the legal papers. When Mr. Talbert took the file across the hall we saw an elephant sized antiquated copy machine just inside the doorway. As he attempted to make copies the old machine squeaked, groaned and made numerous other indescribable sounds. It jammed, whined, sputtered, coughed and shook with such violence the floor vibrated.

In a flash Mr. Ferrell was on the scene trying to assist. Meanwhile as Bruce and I waited we began to discuss the last time we visited a probate attorneys office a few years earlier. It had been to settle the estate of a recently deceased relative. The relative had been involved in a particularity difficult marriage to an incredibly controlling and manipulative wife. As Bruce and I talked I said that I thought it was the marriage that killed him and not the illness. I said something like "If I ever see her again I'd like to walk up to her and say : Well YOU are the one who killed him.!"

Now you know it's a funny thing about machines, they always do the wrong thing at the wrong time. I'd raised my voice so Bruce could hear me over the din of the copy machine, but just as the machine shut off the last part of my sentence "Well YOU are the one who killed him." echoed though the silent building.

Trust me when I say that got Mr. Ferrell's attention. I think we explained it all sufficiency, but I'm still a bit suspicious the A-1 Pool Cleaning Service truck that has been parked out in front of the house for the past 2 days. We don't have a pool, and neither to any of our neighbors.

The Discounted Camel

Someone once said that the art of communication is the ability of a person to transmit a message so that the person receiving it could replicate it in his or her mind. It was also said that it is the responsibility of the receiver to be sure that the message is received correctly by the use of creative and artful questions. That's a pretty good definition.

Webster defines communication as: "sending, giving, or exchanging information and ideas, which are often expressed non-verbally and verbally.

Here's the thing; Do we really need to define communication? We all do it every day. Someone talks and another person listens. Simple.

Maybe not. We are all guilty of either not giving our full attention to the person speaking or of not speaking clearly enough to get our message across. This is especially true when it comes to communication between husbands and wives.

Let me give you an example.

Not to long ago I received a phone call from my husband, Bruce, while he was at work. What I thought he said was "Hey we just got in a damaged camel do we want it?"

Bruce works a a major hardware store and they carry a wide assortment of things besides hardware including household items, yard and garden art and so forth. So when he called about a month ago and said they had received a damaged camel in that days shipment, the image of a cute little ceramic camel came to mind.

I thought it might look great on our coffee table so I said "Sure, how much is it?"

I heard him shift the phone to his other ear and shuffle some papers before he said "With my employee discount it comes to four-fifty."

"Sure" I said "That sounds good, go for it. How big is it?"

"It's a 10 footer" he replied

My mind flipped from a little $4.50 ceramic camel to the image of a $450.00 ten foot camel. Now that might seem like a strange place for my mind to go, but we had recently both admired a life sized horse sculpted out of scrap metal at one of our local feed stores. A 10 foot camel didn't seem overly outrageous as the image drifted though my mind.

"Wow" I said "Ten feet? is it metal?"

There was a pause while my words flashed some sort of image in his mind and he said "Of course it's metal what did you think it was made of plastic?"

Before I could respond he added " The thing is, where would we put it?"

I immediately thought of our neighbors reaction upon waking up one morning and seeing a 10 foot metal camel in our front yard so I said "Well how about out back in the vegetable garden?"

There was a brief pause while he must have been trying to imagine it in our garden, then he said "In the Vegetable garden? Wouldn't it be better to put it out back in the chicken pen?"

Now that made no sense to me. We can't even see the chicken pen from any spot in our yard, what was the point of putting a 10 foot metal camel out in the chicken yard where we couldn't enjoy seeing it?

Instead of addressing the issue of location I said "Well in reality I guess we shouldn't spend $450.00 on yard art anyway, we need other things more. Let's think about it and talk it over tonight."

"Yard Art?" he said a bit harshly "Why would you consider it yard art? I think they are kind of obtrusive so putting it in the chicken yard makes total sense to me!"


At this point I wondered why on earth he would want to bring home a very expensive 10 foot metal camel that was ugly and obtrusive, so I asked "Obtrusive? How damaged is it?"

"Not bad" he said "There is a tweak on one side is all, I might be able to pound it out."

"Well, ok" I said "let's talk it over tonight when you get home."


"Ok" he sighed, "but if we don't want it Jimmy wants to take it home for his dog."

I tried to imagine Bruce's co-workers Labrador puppy playing with a 10 foot metal camel. "What would Jimmy's dog do with it? " I asked "Spending $450.00 on a fake companion for his dog is a bit eccentric don't you think?"

Bruce let out an audible sigh and said "What are you talking about? What fake companion?"

"What are you talking about?" I asked "I'm getting confused! You just said Jimmy wanted to take home the 10' metal camel for his dog"

There was a very long long pause in which Bruce said nothing, so I finally said "Well? isn't that what you just said?"

"Wait" Bruce said "Repeat what you just said"

"What do you mean repeat what I just said...I said I don't understand why Jimmy would want to take a 10 foot metal camel home to keep his dog company. It doesn't make any sense."

"A 10 foot what?" Bruce asked

"A 10 foot camel" I answered " isn't that what we've been talking about?"

I could hear a hint of a laughter in his voice when he said "Ok, I'm going to say a sentence and you fill in the blank word ok?"

Sighing I said "Whatever Bruce, I'm getting very confused."

"Ok here goes are you ready?

"YES I'm ready" I answered

"Ok we received a 10 foot damaged ? _________" I waited to see if that was the blank pause I was supposed to fill in. When he didn't continue I said "Camel."

Bruce laughed and said "Would you spell that for me please?"

"Bruce this is getting crazy and we are both busy" I said

"Come on, just humor me, spell that last word" he said

Sighing I irritatedly spelled C A M E L

Bruce broke into a laugh

"OK" he said " I we have a communications problem here, I'm talking about a 10 foot by 10 foot by 6 foot high damaged DOG KENNEL That's spelled K E N N E L, aren't we looking for one to house the peacocks in?"

So there you have it! A lesson in the art of communication, and that's spelled : c o m m u n i c a t i o n.

Anna Graham

One of my daughters Mia Grain gained unwanted fame in one of my earlier posts "Primer on Toilet Training Tots." To keep things fair she feels I should write something about her sister, whom I shall call Anna Graham (anagram) because she seldom means what she says or says what she means.

A side note for those of you who are a bit fuzzy about what an anagram is, let me explain that it is a word or phrase that can be arranged to reveal a hidden message. For example the word anagram can be rearranged into nag a ram.

Now, don't misunderstand Anna Graham is incredibly intelligent, it's just that words sometimes tend to tumble out of her mouth in random order. When this happens if you listen closely you can generally grasp the hidden message. Sometimes it's a bit like going on a verbal treasure hunt.

This story dates back to when the girls were both tweeny-boppers, that amazing age between adolescence and teens. At that time I was working at a Chiropractors office as a physio-therapist.

It wasn't easy juggling between the girls and my job, but it pretty much worked out. I timed my day so that I generally arrived home about the same time the girls did. On occasion however, if traffic was gnarled or I had a difficult patient I ran a few minutes late.

On the rare occasions when I was running late I didn't worry too much. The girls were very responsible and adhered to a strict set of rules such as:

1: Do not answer to door to anyone that is not a close personal friend of mine no matter what they say or do.

2: Limit phone conversations to 3 minutes or less in case I'm trying to call.

3: Check in with our neighbor Mrs. Worth and let her know I'm running late and you will be in the house alone for a very short time.

4: (And this is really the only relevant one here) In case of fire, do not hesitate, run out of the house, do not stop for anything, not even the pets and get to Mrs. Worth's house then call 911.

There were a few other rules, but they are tedious and number 4 is really the only one you need to be made aware of at this time...you may want to back up for a minute and re-read it.

Now let me tell you about the fateful evening in mid December that aged me about a hundred years.

I was running about 20 minutes behind schedule that evening. As I rushed about the office picking up odds and ends and wiggling into my coat the phone rang. I was tempted to neglect it, but because of the lateness of the hour I thought it might be the girls calling to check on me even though I had called them a bit earlier to let them know I was running late.

I hastily snatched up the phone but even before it came in contact with my ear I heard Anna Grahams shrill voice reverberate in my ear "MOM MOM THE HOUSE..IT JUST BLEW UP!"

Trust me when I say those are not words anyone, especially a mother of two home alone preteen daughters, wants to hear.

My heart raced and my throat immediately went dry but I managed to find enough courage to croak out "Are you both ok? Where are you?"

Anna Grahams voice sounded small against the cacophony of wailing sirens in the background "We are ok mom, we are at Mrs. Worth's house.. but MOM.. the house..It just BLEW UP!"

Relieved that my children were alright, but sickened that I had just lost our home I reached for the back of a chair to steady myself before I said "Put Mrs. Worth on the phone."

There was a moment of silence then Anna Graham tearfully told me that our little silver miniature Schnauzer "Dolly" didn't make it out of the house.

Dolly was an intricate part of our family in fact I called her my DOGter, and the news hit me hard, but I managed to say "oh.. ahhh..." before I ran out of words.

Anna Graham, now crying harder said "MOM...maybe I should go back and try and get her."

"NO NO!" I shouted "Absolutely not! Do Not go back to the house. I'll be home in just a while, it will be ok."

I heard more sirens blaring in the background and Anna Graham said "Mom the police just got here, should I have them get Dolly for us?"

"NO" I shouted "Absolutely not you both stay put!" I calmed myself a bit and added "Put Mrs. Worth on the phone."

After a minutes hesitation while she cleared her sobs, Anna Graham informed me that Mrs. Worth was out back talking to the firemen.

"OK , ok " I said.."Promise me you will stay put do NOT go outside, do NOT try to get back in the house... I'll be right there!

With that I hung up the phone, raced to my car and peeled out of the parking lot. I broke every speed limit and violated every driving law on the book..I know this because about 2/3rds of the way home I picked up a Highway Patrol car hot on my tail with his lights flashing and his siren wailing . I glanced in my rear view mirror, but decided I just couldn't take the time to stop. I kept imagining Anna Graham trying to rescue Dolly. I sped on...Nothing was going to keep me from my burning home and frightened children...nothing.

Very shortly a second and then a third Highway Patrol joined the high speed parade. I broke into a sweat and fought back nausea. It was all too much for my delicate nervous system. My sense of justice tole me I should stop but my sense of motherhood made me drive faster and faster. Surely once we arrived at my destroyed house the police would understand.

Cresting a small hill about 5 blocks from my house I saw billows of black smoke pushing against the darkening sky. Every nerve in my body was so on edge that my teeth were chattering. Tears flooded my eyes and washed down my cheeks soaking the front of my coat. This was the absolute worst tragedy of my life.

Finally I flew around the corner on my block with my tires squealing and caught the first gimps of my home... To my uncomprehending eyes there it stood...completely in tact just as I had left it that morning.

I slid sideways into my driveway and slammed the car into park. It took me a minute to comprehend it was NOT my house that was on fire, it was the house directly BEHIND mine. As the police piled out of their vehicles Anna Grahams voice rewound and played again and again in my ear "MOM MOM THE HOUSE..IT JUST BLEW UP!"

THE house, she hadn't said OUR house. Everything began to spin violently around me. I remember reaching for the car door handle and then everything went black.

I awoke with my daughters and Mrs. Worth peering wide eyed at me through the double doors at the back of an ambulance. My next awareness was of the ambulance attendant asking me if I knew my name , what day it was and what the name of the president was.. I had no idea.

They treated me for shock. I think I still suffer from Post Traumatic Syndrome. Raising two daughters that I feel free to call Mia Grain and Anna Graham has taken a serious toll on me.

Ok..so the bottom line is I went to court to fight the more than eight hundred dollars worth of traffic tickets. When I explained my long winding tale to the judge everyone in the court room had a good laugh.

Apparently the judge had no sense of humor and obviously didn't have pre-teen children, because he said "Having Anna Graham for a daughter and speeding home to a house that did NOT blow up is not a legitimate excuse for endangering your life and the lives of others, it's bad judgment on your behalf. The fines stand, you may pay the bailiff on your way out."

I remember thinking that he should live with Anna Graham for a few years and see how it affected HIS judgment!

A Baaaad Mooove

The pasture area on our little ranch is divided into 4 sections. There are 2 sections to the left of our driveway and 2 sections on the right. In order to keep the pasture from getting overly grazed we occasionally rotate our livestock from one section to another.

To do this we place two heavy green livestock panels at about midpoint on the driveway and chain them together. This blocks the lower portion of the driveway and keeps the stock from running out onto the road. There is a metal gate at the top of the driveway closest to the house that we close. With both ends blocked, it creates a sort of alleyway for the stock to use during their transition from one side to the other.

Once the driveway is blocked at both ends we simply open the gate on one of the pasture sections and then open another gate on the opposite side. Since our livestock adhere to the old adage "The grass is always greener on the other side of the fence," things generally go very smoothly.

Unfortunately here is what happened last night.

We have five new lambs on pasture with our young bull. Since the lambs are new to the ranch we knew they wouldn't know how to rotate pastures smoothly, but we hoped that they would follow the bull, who is a veteran at playing the game of pasture rotation.

That was not entirely a wrong assumption. The problem was that one of us (and I'm not owning up to anything here) neglected to shut the upper gate. I spotted the error about the same time the bull did. Why he chose to run up the driveway instead of crossing the alleyway to the new pasture is a mystery to me...but that is what he did.

Before I had a chance to react he ran as fast as he could up the driveway toward the house. He was bellowing and kicking his heels in the air and I knew the game was afoot. Now he is not an overly aggressive bull, but when dealing with large animals with horns and hormones it always a good idea to heed to caution.

Bruce and I had been tucked safely behind the panels at the lower end of the driveway but I managed to squeeze around them. I was thinking I could get to the gate and swing it shut before the bull got to it. Now I know from past experience that I can't outrun that bull, so what made me think I could was pure insanity. By the time I was neck and neck with the bull I realized that I had made yet another dumb move. Fortunately he was more intent on getting through the forbidden gate than he was on slamming me to the ground so he just gave a few shakes of his head in my direction and kept running.

He of course made it to the gate ahead of me, but I kept going thinking I could at least close it before the five lambs reached it . That too was a thought gone totally astray. My good intentions were unfortunately about five lambs too slow. Suddenly a billowing cloud of baaahing dust past me and charged though the gate.

In less than a blink of an eye we had a bull and five lambs running ramped across our manicured lawn and munching on my prize roses, day lilies, sweet Williams and a vast buffet of other floral delicacies.

By the time I reached the gate my husband, Bruce was by my side. As I stood with my hands on my hips he calmly walked up and said "now what?" Now he knows all my plans have a way of sliding sideways, and yet he always turns to me to come up with a solid plan.

When I turned around the 6 renegades mowing machines were scattering in all directions. On the bright side the upper area around the house is contained behind 6' wire fencing so we knew they couldn't go anyplace else. On the not so bright side there is a gravel driveway that completely encompasses our house like a race track. One lap around it equals 1/8th of a mile.

As we tried to herd the sheep and bull back toward the alleyway, they discovered the unique round-about driveway that could be considered the poor mans Churchill Downs Race Track. So you do the math. If one lap around equals 1/8th of a mile, then 6 laps must equal close to 100 miles..well, ok but that could be a slight exaggeration, but that is what it felt like.

One of us would get them running around the house on the track while the other stood near the gate to try and divert them back into the alleyway. The running around the house part worked well, it was the turning them down the drive into the alleyway that became problematic.

Every time we would get them near the gate they would either run right past it and the person waving their arms, or turn completely around and run another lap in the opposite direction. Finally we got so hot and tired we gave up , sat down on the cool lawn and watched as the ran laps around and around on their own.

Finally in frustration we called our dog, IsHe out. Now, he is a Schnauzer not a herding dog, but since he does round up stray chickens for us, we thought it would be worth a shot. It wasn't.

The first lap around the house with IsHe doing his best did go fairly well. We almost got the stock to turn at the gate and go into the alleyway, but just as they reached the gate, IsHe turned them around and they were off in the opposite direction on yet another lap around the house.

In a last ditch effort, Bruce and I stood side by side in the driveway by the gate waving our arms in an effort to divert them and run them back into the alleyway. We will never know if that would have worked because as the 7 of them with IsHe in the lead approached us at a full out dead run, we quickly lost our nerve and stepped out of the way allowing them to thunder by.

We gave up again and sat back down on the lawn trying to come up with another plan. Bruce kept saying "They have to be getting tired..they will stop soon." They didn't.

We finally decided that if we called IsHe off, and blocked their racetrack and the lawn with both vehicles, the stock trailer and the utility trailer they would have to turn down the drive.

Tired and overly heated, we drug ourselves off the lawn and trudged to the house to get the keys to the vehicle. Once inside we looked at each other and then out the window as the animals raced past. It was like sitting in box seats at Hialeah Race Track...all that was missing was the announcer and a tall drink with an umbrella in it. On that lap he bull was back in the lead with the five sheep close on his heels. IsHe was trotting slowly behind them with his tongue hanging out.

We stayed in the house just long enough to get a drink of water then we headed back out to move the vehicles in place. It was then that we realized the competitors had not come by in several minutes. Bruce looked at me and said "Oh oh, where did they go?"

We cautiously walked around to the front of the house. When we looked down the alleyway we saw the bull, 6 sheep and IsHe laying together panting under a large Cedar tree in the pasture we had been trying to get them into for the past 2 hours.

Bruce looked at me and laughing said "Now THAT'S funny they did it all by themselves!" I didn't laugh.

Relocating Small Kitchen Appliances

Let me begin by saying that our house was built in the mid 1930's. It's a small 2 story farm house that's been added on to over the years. In it's 75 years of existence, we are only the third owners. My husband's folks bought this ranch in the 1940's right after the bombing of Pearl Harbor.

My mother-in-law was a saint. How she managed to raise 4 children, work a ranch and entertain copious amounts of over-night guests in this house I'll never know. The kitchen is the size of a postage stamp..maybe a tad smaller. There is no counter space and very few cupboards.

The house has gone trough some minor remodeling over the years, most of it since we took over the ranch 15 years ago. Even so, the kitchen has always been a source of frustration for me.

When the house was designed, its purpose was to be a place for the folks to come in from after a hard day of ranch work, slurp down a bowl of stew and plop into bed. Comfort was not a big issue. Smaller kitchens were acceptable back then because folks didn't have all the modern appliances that we use today. There were no electric coffee makers, no electric toasters, no electric blenders, and no microwaves.

Every time I prepare a meal I have to move things around on the counter in order to eek out a foot or two of working space. It makes me crazy! and as the result, last Thursday I went a little off the deep end .

Here's what happened:

I decided to bake some cookies, but when I tried to put the electric mixer on the counter the toaster was in the way so I set it on top of the stove and tried to wedge the mixer in the corner. I grabbed a bag of flour and having no place to set it while I measured out the right amount, I had to set it on the stove as well. Suddenly I decided I'd lived with the inconvenience long enough.

I stood there looking around and decided something had to be done. The logical thing was find another spot for the toaster, microwave and coffee maker. Unfortunately there was no other place I could put them, after struggling for space for 15 years, I already knew that. Then in a totally "Lucille Ball" moment I knew what I had to do. The solution was simple. All I had to do was remove the corner floor to ceiling cabinet, and I'd have at least 2 more feet of counter space.
Simply genius if I do say so myself!

My husband, Bruce, was at work, which I decided was a good thing because if he had been home he would have come up with at least 20 reasons why taking out that one little ol' cupboard was a bad idea. I figured what he didn't know while he was as work couldn't stress him...much. With a joyous heart I removed all the items from the cupboard. Next I triumphantly marched out to his work shop, retrieved his sledge hammer and crowbar and set to work. Although I'd never demolished anything it was remarkably easy. I was a one-woman explosion of mass destruction!

The more I worked the more I liked the idea, and the next thing I knew I had removed not one but two cupboards. Then it was three. Next I went to work on the base cabinets. AhHah! Now I had a whole vacant wall to work with... a blank canvas with which to create a whole new kitchen!

About that time Bruce came home and stood in stunned silence . I was covered in debris and grinning wildly. I held a sledge hammer in one hand and a crowbar in the other. His head swiveled back and forth between me, the blank wall and the pile of demolished cupboards. When he was finally able to speak all he could say was " What the ... What the...?"

By way of explanation I said "I needed to move the toaster, microwave and coffee maker." By then he must have drifted into deep shock because his only response was a barely audible "ok" as he turned and walked into the living room and plunked down in a chair.

I followed him and told him that I had it all under control and that I planned on going to the Habit For Humanity second hand building materials store the next day to find cupboards that "would suit my needs."

We spent a very quiet evening.

The next morning after Bruce left for work, I measured the wall and headed out to find new cabinets. Surprise! None of them would fit into the space I had opened up. Apparently older houses have a problem with room sizes and wall dimensions being much different than those in standard modern homes.

Seriously...Who knew?

From the Habitat for Humanity second hand store, I went to two local stores that carry new cabinets. They both gave me the same bad news. Either I would have to leave a lot of unused space or tear out a wall to make new cabinets work. One store did say that there were older style cabinets available, but they were only sold on the east coast, and I would have to pay an exorbitant shipping cost and in addition there would be no way to return them if they didn't work out.

When home I got on the phone and called every store on the west coast that sold cabinets. Every one of them told me the same story. They all suggested I call a cabinet maker. By day's end, I wasn't feeling too good about my remodeling job.

Bruce came home that evening expecting to see a truck load of second hand cabinets, instead he found me trying to figure out how to fit the pieces of the cabinets I tore apart back together. He laughed. I cried. Then he assured me we'd figure something out.

The next day I was busy on the computer trying to figure out what to do with the blank wall, and low and behold I discovered Home Depot carries a line of inexpensive small unfinished cupboards in various sizes that seemed like they would work. I measured the wall, and phoned the 3 closest Home Depot stores. Amazingly between the 3 stores, they had all the cabinets in stock that I needed. I breathed easier.

Early the next morning I hit the road and collected all the cabinets . When Bruce got home I beamed with pride. I told him I'd pulled together a brand new functional kitchen for under $500.00. He was impressed....that is until he checked my measurements and told me I was 3/16ths of an inch off or some other silly little measurement. He said he was sure the main cabinet, the one I wanted the most, would not fit.

The next day was Bruce's day off work, so we started mounting the cabinets that we knew would fit. Although I'd been in denial, it soon became evident that Bruce was right, one of the cabinets wouldn't work...actually when it was all said and done, it was two. He did a great job of holding his frustration back, but I spent most of the day feeling ill. By late afternoon I was battling a migraine. I suddenly loathed all toasters, microwaves and coffee makers!

The next morning, we measured, remeasured, drew more diagrams, argued over what would and would not work. Then we measured, remeasured, drew more diagrams and...well, it went on that way for nearly 2 hours. Finally we came up with a plan that would work. We returned the two cabinets to Home Depot and picked up spacers, fillers, composite floor board, caulking, pine boards, and three different cabinets. Through it all Bruce was stoic and unwaveringly clam. On the drive home he quietly said "so what do you figure the final cost is now Lucy?"


The kitchen is pretty much back together now, and yesterday I was able to relocate the toaster, microwave, and coffee pot which left me with 3 new feet of counter space. I suppose there must be an easier way to relocate small appliances, but I'm really happy with my new kitchen. When I ask Bruce if he likes it he just quietly nods his head. I think he will like it more once the initial shock wears off.

• As an interesting side note: The sledge hammer and crowbar have gone missing along with most of the smaller power tools. Bruce thinks maybe someone stole them, but oddly he doesn't seem too upset. I'm not sure what to think...strangely enough I can't even find a hammer.

Green Eggs and Sam

Someone once asked me to name the foremost thing that I like best about living in the country. Without hesitation I said it was the ability to raise most of our own food. What a joy to fix a meal that contains almost all, if not all, of meats and produce raised right here on our ranch.

There is nothing like sitting down at breakfast and savoring the flavor of farm fresh chicken eggs. We have a variety of different breeds of chickens that free range our property by day. Among them is one specific breed I am rather fond of: Araucana. These chickens lay eggs that range in color from pale blue to a nice rich green.


I think it's great fun finding a green or blue egg mixed in with the standard brown ones that the other breeds of chickens on our ranch lay. It's even more fun to see the expression on the faces of children who, for the most part, delight in seeing naturally colored green eggs.

Because we have an abundance of eggs at the end of each day, we either give away or sell the excess to local folks who are not lucky enough to raise their own chickens. Often times we donate the overflow to the local food bank. No egg is wasted.

Which brings me to Green Eggs and Sam:

Not to long ago while I was in one of our local grocery stores I happened to pull my shopping cart along side a young mother with several children in tow. I was waiting patiently for her to make her selection of eggs so I could reach in and grab a pound of unsalted cooking butter.

Without provocation she turned to me and said "I can't believe the price of a dozen eggs can you?" Before I could answer she added "I really try to feed the kids good food, but the cost of eggs is making it difficult to give them a good nutritional breakfast."

I smiled, reached into my purse and handed her one of our business cards and said "Well, maybe we can help each other out. We live on a ranch about 4 miles from here and we always have more eggs than we know what to do with. I'd be happy to share some with you."

She hesitated and I could tell that a bit of pride was holding her back so I added "Really, you'd be doing me a favor. I hate to waste food. We get several dozen eggs every day and we simply can't use that many."

She said she would take some but only if she could pay for them. I told her that generally we just gave them away but if she felt better she could pay me $1.00 per dozen, which I added, was the standard price when we did sell them. She brightened and said she'd stop by in a day or so.

A few days later an unfamiliar vehicle slowly crept up our drive. It was pouring rain and the wipers on the car were going at full speed. Before long a young boy of about 8 climbed out of one of the rear doors and ran up to the door.

When I opened it he handed me our business card and said "Mom said you could sell us some eggs. She wants to know if you have some."

I told him I did and asked him to come in while I got them out of the refrigerator. "No ma'am" he said "I can't go into strangers houses. We don't know if you are a bad person or not." Then he turned and pointed to the car and added "And don't you worry, my mom is watching." I smiled and told him he was right and that he should remain on the porch."

Noting he had 3 one dollar bills clutched in his hand I quickly grabbed 3 cartons of eggs from the refrigerator and returned to the half drowned little boy on my porch. In his presence I carefully opened each carton to inspect for broken or cracked eggs. The nice assortment of green and brown eggs looked fine to me so I started to set them in a shopping bag.

The boy suddenly had a horrified look on his face "Stop!" he said firmly "I can't take those eggs!" When I asked why he said "Well, my mom won't like it if you sell her eggs that aint' ripe yet."

I asked him what he meant by eggs that were not ripe yet. He beamed and said "Sometimes you have to really watch what people sell you so you don't come home with stuff that isn't ripe is what I mean."

I tried to assure him the eggs were fine, but he reached down into the bag, pulled out a carton, opened it and said "Look here!" he pointed at a green Araucana egg and spouted "Do it look ripe to you? It's green as it can be lady, don't you have more ripe ones in there?"

I nearly laughed out loud, but I could see the little guy was dead serious. When I couldn't convince him that the eggs really were ripe and that different types of chickens laid different colored eggs I gave in and got several more cartons of eggs from the refrigerator and substituted brown eggs for the green Araucana ones.

When I finished he thrust $3.00 toward me and said "Lady if you want to keep selling your eggs to people you'd best not try that one again."


When I closed the door I burst out laughing.

Much later when the weather cleared and I was able to talk to his mother I told her the story. She laughed and said that since their dad left them Sam felt he was responsible for the family's well being. Apparently right after her newest baby was born, she sent Sam into a store to buy a bunch of bananas while she stayed in the car outside. When Sam returned with green bananas she tried to explain the difference between green ones and ripe ones. Obviously, he took the lesson seriously.

No green eggs for Sam!

Oh Honey !

A worker honey bee has a very short life span. In fact the average honey bee lives an average of 28 days, which means the hive is constantly hatching new ones to replace the ones that expire.

When old worker bees die, their hive mates carry them to entrance of the hive and drop them out. I suppose it's more or less the bee's version of a "burial at sea."

The make up of a bee colony is incredibly interesting, but the couple of facts I've already mentioned here will give you some idea how my creative mind got me into the following situation.

Here's what happened:

When we went out to check our hives after a pretty severe rainstorm a few days ago, I noticed a rather large amount of bees laying on the ground. A half dozen or so is not uncommon, but on that particular day there were at least a dozen or more outside each hive.

As I bent down to examine the expired bees I noticed that quite a few of them still had pollen attached to their legs. That is not typical, but I surmised that they were caught in the heavy rain and hail and just didn't quite make it all the way into the hives before succumbing to the severe weather.

It only took me a minute to realize the potential. I wondered how many people had ever had the opportunity of seeing a honey bee laden with pollen up close and personal.

Being an educator and a wanna-be entrepreneur I immediately seized on what I perceived to be a brilliant opportunity to fill both goals. I carefully gathered all the deceased bees that were carrying pollen and took them into the house.

The bees were soaking wet from the storm, so I placed them on paper towels and laid them on the hearth in front of the wood stove to dry. Meanwhile I contemplated the best way to mount and display the bees in shadow boxes.

I imagined rocketing sales on E-bay as teachers brutally outbid each other in order to obtain my wonderful specimens.

After about half an hour I checked to see how well the bees were drying on the hearth. To my surprise one of the bees was wobbling feebly on her feet. I was elated! One was actually still alive.

I quickly rushed into the kitchen and retrieved a pint jar to put her in until she finished recovering. I wasn't able to locate a lid for the jar but I figured since the little bee was so weak I'd have plenty of time to locate some cheesecloth or similar material to stretch over the mouth of the jar after I got her into it.

When I returned from the kitchen with the jar I noticed a second one was now trying to get to it's feet. I yelled for my husband, Bruce, to come and help me get them both into the jar.

By the time Bruce came to my aid 4 of the bees had revived and were stumbling off in various directions. He held the jar while I tried to scoop each of them up with a small piece of cardboard and drop them into the jar.

The job was made more difficult because he was laughing so hysterically that he kept jiggling the jar.

Suddenly the recovery effort came to a critical point. All the bees, who had apparently been suffering from hypothermia, were snapping back to life faster than I could catch them.

Bruce was getting concerned because he was covering the mouth of the jar with his bare hand and the three or four bees already in the jar were quite apparently becoming angry. I had no choice but to stop catching the ones on the hearth and find something to cover the jar with.

I was somewhat relieved when I was finally able to secure the cheese cloth to the top of the jar. My relief was short lived however, because upon returning to the hearth there were only a couple of bees still struggling on the paper towel. The others, whose numbers were close to 20, had gone missing.

For the next two hours the house reverberated with the sound of angry bees buzzing from room to room mingled with Bruce's uproarious laughter and my frantically high-pitched calls of "Here!..Quick..Over here..I found one!"

Eventually we captured all of them but by then it was too late to put them back outside so I placed the jar in the laundry room. Bruce questioned the move and suggested that the laundry room might be too cold for them. I rebutted with "Well I don't want them to chew through the cheesecloth and get out again."

When we went to bed I wasn't able to sleep because Bruce's words haunted me. Finally about 1 AM I quietly slipped out of bed and checked on the jar of bees in the laundry room. Sure enough, they had gotten too cold. They were laying on their sides in the jar. Feeling guilty I brought the jar into the house, placed it in the bathroom and rigged a trouble light over it for warmth. Within minutes the bees had once again recovered.

It was then that I noticed I had inadvertently pulled one corner of the cheesecloth loose while moving the jar into the house. I quickly tried to tuck it back under the rubber band that had been securing it. SNAP! The rubber band broke and the cheesecloth went sailing into the air. It took me over an hour to recapture them again.

The moral of this story? Oh honey...never trust a dead bee!

Wild Wild Hogs!

Here a while back, brief but fierce storm passed though our area bringing lightening, thunder, hail, wind and rain.It was the kind of day when you think that nothing in the world could make you leave the comfort of a cozy fire burning in the wood stove.

With a glowing fire cracking in the next room, I had just settled down in the office to do some paper work when the phone rang. I can't explain it, but I personally find phones a major waste of time. I shutter when mine rings. The caller I.D. said it was a friend and neighbor from down the road a little way. I sighed heavily because I knew I would be hooked into a long conversation that I didn't want to participate in.

I gingerly pushed the talk button but even before I could say hello I heard Kathy's voice shouting "He's Gone! In this storm! He's Gone! I don't know how he got out, but he's gone!"
When I calmed her down a bit, Kathy was able to tell me that her beloved little pet pot bellied pig "Rooter" had somehow escaped from his stall during the storm.

Referring to the place where Rooter lives as a stall it's a bit like down-playing the Taj mahal . He has an automatic watering bowl (warmed I might add. ) His plush habitat is lined with cushy rubber mats that feel more like a down filled mattress. He sleeps in a raised bed with foam mattress and a hand sewn quilt comforter. There is also a light hanging in his palace that comes on at 6am and goes off at 8pm. His high-end piggy condo is also rigged with an automatic feeder that dispensed a handful of food every 4 hours like clockwork. He also has access to a large pen in the outside world via an automatic door that opens both from the inside and out. In order to activate the door, he merely has to step on the door mat, and wallah!

This pampered pig gets brushed two times a day and a bath every other day, weather permitting. After his bath he is dried off with a towel and a blow drier and is fed a half of a banana, a slice of apple and 1 mini-marshmallow (his favorite.) I would be remiss if I failed to mention he also has classic music piped into his suite. Soft soothing compositions by Johann Strauss , Frederic Chopin, and Johannes Brahms (his favorite being Brahms) float lazily into his day dreams. Why this spoiled little ham hock would wander off is beyond my comprehension. I'd happily trade places with him any time.

Unless the preceding paragraphs haven't made it completely clear, let me put it another way; Kathy adores the little porker. When her frantic call came I knew I'd soon be trudging through the soggy countryside looking for the spoiled little ham-hock!

So,before long with a strong wind blowing rain sideways and stinging my face I tromped up and down, back and forth though the woods calling "Rooter, Here Rooter." Kathy's calls echoed a few feet away. After an hour and a half we had not seen any trace of him so we decided to dry off a bit and briefly regroup. During the regrouping session, Kathy reminded me that the last time he had run off he'd gone "up the hill."

The "hill" that Kathy was referring to is actually a mountain that is every bit as steep and torturous as Mt. Kilimanjaro. Maybe that is a bit of an exaggeration, but seriously it is steep and torturous. At the top there is a small lake and camp ground, which normal people reach via
the road and in a vehicle. We, however would have to climb on foot so as not to overlook the little pork chop.

It was getting dark, so we grabbed flash lights and were about to start our climb when my husband, Bruce, showed up. He had gotten off work and found my note telling him where I'd be. He reluctantly volunteered to join in on the hunt. (Actually I pleaded.)

We spread out about 20 feet apart and started slowly making our way up the "hill." Each of us shouting loudly into the encompassing darkness "Rooter! Rooter! Rooter!" Nothing. No piggy.

We eventually made our way to the top where we checked in with the park host and told him to be on the look out for a tiny black pot bellied pig named Rooter.

The park host took pity on us and drove us down the hill and dropped us off at Kathy's house. A quick check of the stall and grounds reveled no signs of the pig. We hugged Kathy and came home to dry off and eat dinner.

About 2am the phone jolted Bruce and I bolt upright in bed. I stumbled for the phone dislodging unknown objects as I picked it up. Kathy's piercing screech blew the sleep out of my ears with "The cops are going to shoot Rooter! come quick!" then the line went dead.

I relayed the message to Bruce who really did not want to participate in any game in the middle of the night, but he begrudgingly hoisted himself out of bed. We quickly dressed, jumped in the truck and sped to Kathy's home.

She was standing in her driveway holding a flashlight. Bruce opened the truck door and started to get out, but before he could, Kathy jumped in and said "They have Rooter cornered at the campground. Some stupid camper made a 911 call saying there was a WILD HOG trashing the campground and terrorizing everyone." She sobbed "They said they are trying to SHOOT him!"

We drove at lightening speed to the campground where sure enough there was a crowd of people cowering behind a county sheriffs vehicle...among them, I might add, was the sheriff. The vehicle had both the driver's door and the passenger side door open. I've seen this tactic used on cop shows. They use the doors as a shields against bullets. I have no idea how they thought the impenetrable doors would protect them from a pig so tiny that it could to walk under the door, but there they were.

We came in so quickly and stopped so abruptly that it caused every one to spin toward us. Kathy jumped from the truck with a banana in each hand and ran frantically toward the mob. Apparently in the darkness, the Sheriff thought she was holding a gun in each hand because he spun and pointed his gun at her and shouted "Drop the weapons..Do it NOW!"

Bruce who had just reached into the bed of the pickup truck and retrieved Rooters carrying case went slack jawed and let the carrier fall nosily to the ground. Everyone in the crowd took in a collective gasp and backed away from our truck.

While all this was going on I was reaching under the front seat for a bigger flashlight. I have no idea what the Sheriff or the crowd of frightened campers thought was going on, but suddenly everyone seemed to perceive us as a bigger threat than a wild hog on the rampage.

Kathy looked uncomprehendingly at the sheriff and kept moving in the direction she perceived Rooter to be in. The sheriff spun first toward her, then toward Bruce, then as I popped my head up from the front seat of the truck he spun back toward me. I was so very confused. Bruce was so very confused. The poor Sheriff was very confused. Kathy, on the other hand, was totally oblivious to anything but rescuing Rooter.

The sheriff spun back toward Kathy and shouted "I said Drop It NOW!"

Fearing Kathy was about to be shot I shouted "Kathy STOP! DROP YOUR BANANAS! The Sheriff thinks the bananas are weapons..STOP!

The crowds heads were rapidly flipping back and forth like someone watching a tennis match in fast forward. First they focused on Kathy, then the pig, then the sheriff, then on me, then on Bruce. Their heads flitted everywhere.

Finally Kathy stopped and the Sheriff was able to shine his light directly on the bananas Kathy was clutching and he relaxed . "They are for the Pig" I shouted. "The Bananas are for the PIG!"

The sheriff shone his light into my face and said "Lady step away from the truck...you too sir" (meaning Bruce.) Then he added "I don't know what you people think you are doing here, but we apparently have a wild boar terrorizing this campground. It's not safe."

I couldn't help it...I burst out laughing and said "Rooter? Wild? Terrorizing? He's a PET!"

Suddenly Kathy spotted Rooter cowering under one of the campers vehicles and she called "Rooter, Here Rooter... Come.. Bananas" Recognizing her voice he let out a pathetic sequel and as she bent down he rushed into her arms nearly knocking her over.

Quietly Bruce walked over with the carrier and opened it. Rooter grunted softly and walked calmly in.

Kathy apologized for the commotion. The Sheriff said he'd have to file a report, but then he thought about it for awhile and apparently decided how foolish he might look, so he waved us off and told us to drive carefully home.

The Boot Stompin' Boogie!

Generally we go out just as it is getting dark and lock all our animals in their pens, coops, or stalls respectively to protect them from the weather and predators. Unfortunately we slipped up a bit last night. We could blame the oversight on a lot of things, but my choice for the fall guy is the mailman.

You see, the mailman is the logical choice for scapegoat because yesterday afternoon he dropped off the latest DVD from Netflix. In order to have time to watch it we stopped our normal routine and had dinner a bit early.

After dinner we plopped a large glop of Vanilla Bean ice cream into two bowls, suffocated it with bananas, hot fudge topping and copious amounts of whipped cream and nestled in front of the t.v. to watch the DVD.

It was our intention to watch the DVD for about a half hour then dash out and settle the animals for the evening. However we became completely absorbed in the DVD and didn't realize we had neglected to properly secure the animals until it was over. The title of the DVD was (and it's critical that you remember this) Jane Goodall's When Animals Talk.

It was not until the DVD ended an hour an a half later and I was rinsing the ice cream dishes in the sink that I suddenly remembered we had shirked our evening chores. We were both relaxed and the thought of trudging out in the cold darkness didn't appeal to either of us. None the less, we slipped into our jackets, grabbed flashlights and strolled outside.

To expedite the chores we split the duties. Bruce went off in one direction and I went in the other. My first stop was the Goose coop. Now the Goose coop is a converted horse barn. The back side has a door that is large enough for a standard horse to pass though, and the front has a Dutch Door which can be opened either on the top or the bottom. We generally leave the large door on the back side open for the Geese to come and go as they please and keep the Dutch door closed.

I walked around to the back side of the coop and closed the large door. As I did I detected the unmistakable sent of a skunk. I quickly shined my flashlight around the outside of the coop and was relieved not to spot one.

Next I secured the chickens and then moved on to a second duck and Guinea Hen coop. As I moved about between the coops I carefully directed the beam of the flashlight ahead of me so as not to walk up unsuspectingly on the skunk, whose order was becoming more and more intense.

Bruce finished his chores and came back to where I was and asked where the skunk was. I told him I had no idea but it was obviously very close. We began to backtrack and finally decided the scent was strongest around the Goose Coop.

We walked cautiously around the outside of the coop and saw nothing but the scent continued to grow stronger. Finally I opened the top section of the double Dutch Door on the front side and to my surprise there was the skunk INSIDE the coop, locked in with the geese.

Amazingly the geese didn't seem to be distressed by the presence of a skunk mingling with them. Not surprisingly, I was.

Bruce suggested that I close the top section of the Dutch door and open the bottom and maybe the skunk would simply walk out. Note here that he suggested that I open the door. Meanwhile he backtracked about 10 or so feet.

Other than me being the designated door opener, I couldn't see much wrong with the plan so that is what I did. As Bruce predicted, the skunk casually strolled out the bottom section of the door.... and stopped on my right foot. Amazingly it just stood there perched on my foot sniffing the air. It was one of those moments when you are just positive your head will explode from the rush of adrenalin. I was paralyzed with fear, which I suppose was a good thing because moving would doubtlessly have caused the skunk to spray.

Bruce,who was still about 10 feet away and couldn't see what was going on grew impatient.
"Did it come out yet?" he called.
When I didn't answer he added "Well what's going on? Just leave the door open and come out here with me you don't have to stand there!"

When I still didn't respond Bruce took a few steps forward and shined his flashlight directly in my face. (That helped.) I inclined my head slightly in the direction of my foot but the slight movement went unnoticed so I let out a high pitched whine though clinched lips and teeth. The skunk, still standing on my foot remained totally oblivious to me.

Bruce, who still hadn't spotted the skunk, was obviously becoming irritated with me.
Finally he said "Well, ok just stand there if you want. I'm tired. I'm going to go in and go to bed."

Without moving my lips or any other portion of my body I managed to squeak out "Foot! Look! Foot"

Bruce apparently wasn't able to hear or understand me because his reply was "Ok, well I guess I'll see you in a bit."

"NO" I hissed though clinched teeth "Help Me! FOOT!"

Finally he shone his flashlight down at my foot and burst out laughing. He's always such a big help when I get in these unbelievable predicaments.

"Ahh I see" he smirked "well tell you what" he said " You use the skills you just learned from the Jane Goodall DVD to talk to it while I go get the gun"

I could hear him chuckling as he walked toward the house.

Great, now I had two fears. The first obvious one was being sprayed point blank by the skunk. The second was trying to figure out what on earth Bruce would do when he returned with a gun? Did he actually plan to shoot the skunk off my foot? No thank you!

The more I thought about it the more I decided my chances of survival were better with the skunk than with Bruce trying to blast the little bugger off my foot .

I stood there with the skunk still on my foot and with sweat rolling down my back contemplating my choices. Skunk? Gun? Skunk? Gun?

When I heard Bruce's footfalls crunching on the pathway leading back to the goose coop and I panicked. I jerked my foot out from under the skunk and yelled "Shoo Skunk Go! Get Out Of Here!

Now I really need to know...do skunks take tranquilizers? The reason I ask is because the skunk seemed totally unperturbed at being rousted off my foot. It actually just stood there looking up at me..Again considering my choices between skunk spray and bullet spray, I jumped back about 2 feet and started stomping my feet in the manner of a "Boot Stompin" Boogie."

This seemed to amuse the skunk because it stood there watching me for a few seconds before turning and strolling causally out toward the woods.

When Bruce reached the goose coop he was carrying the .22 rifle . I silently said a prayer thanking the Lord that it wasn't the shotgun.

When he noticed I was free of the skunk he grinned and said "So apparently you and the skunk had an amiable conversation?"

I shut the bottom half of the Dutch Door and said "I told him that if he had any respect at all for human beings he'd leave before you blew my foot off."


Side note: If you haven't seen it yet, take the time to watch: Jane Goodall's When Animals Talk
If you are an animal lover you will gain insight into your animal friends. If you don't like animals watch it anyway. It's an eye opener.