tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-29187566400355027752024-03-05T15:32:28.750-08:00Country ScentsAn uncommon blog featuring actual stories from my life as a "Lucille Ball" clone. All my life "happy accidents" have shadowed me and made my life a comical sketch.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.comBlogger48125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-28336315435285594552015-03-01T10:23:00.000-08:002015-03-01T10:25:02.056-08:00Like Mice in a Trap<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
accountant has an office in a two story building that also houses offices of
various other professionals.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a beautiful
building with an indoor waterfall and a few reflection ponds.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Tall broad leaf plants reach to the top of
the second story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It gives the illusion
of being in a park rather than inside a man-made structure.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
telling you this because we had a meeting with our accountant in that
particular building this past Friday at five 0’clock.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>An odd time to be sure, but because tax
season is in full swing he often works beyond the traditional five o’clock time
when other professionals go home to relax with their families.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our
meeting lasted roughly an hour and at the conclusion he told us that exterior
door to the building would <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>most likely be
locked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a problem he said, because
from the inside one only has to twist the lock to the right and it opens then
automatically locks again when the door falls shut.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
gathered our tax support papers and took the elevator to the first floor
lobby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enjoying the beautiful décor we
strolled to the door and indeed found it locked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Bruce, my husband, turned the dead bolt to
the right as instructed and gave the door a push.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It remained locked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He twisted the bolt to the left and pushed
again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The door remained stubbornly locked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With my
superior woman fortitude, I gave it a try.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>First turning it to the right as instructed and then to the left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The lock would not budge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I noted there were three distinct clicks when
the bolt was turned so I tried each position.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The door obstinately remained locked.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At this
point I suggested that Bruce go back up to the accountant’s office to ask for
more specific instructions or some physical assistance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard his footfalls fade and then the I
heard the elevator door slide shut with a faint ding followed by a <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>whir as it made <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>its way up to the second story.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I continued to fruitlessly turn the blot
left, then right, then left, and then right again.</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From
somewhere on the opposite side of the building I thought I heard the soft
whoosh of a door closing followed by a very distinct “click.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Joy oh happy joy, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>someone else was on the first floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I dashed though the maze of plants, fountains
and rounded the waterfall just in time to see our accountant exiting though
another door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s right, another
exterior door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me make this clear…
there was another exterior <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who knew?</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I called
out his name and ran toward that door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
reached it just in time to see his red tail lights fading out of the back
parking lot… there was a back parking lot? who knew?</div>
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<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I tried
pushing on the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was locked.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I tried turning the bolt to the right then to
the left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sadly, It like the main front
door, remained securely in place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From
somewhere above me I faintly heard Bruce pounding on a door and yelling “Mike..Mike..are
you in there?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well, I
knew Mike wasn’t up there because he had just pulled out of the parking lot. The
question was how he got past Bruce.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I turned around and saw a set of stair
that led up to the second floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Apparently Mike was descending the stairs while Bruce was going up in
the elevator. This building was a maze! No one told us about the stairs or the
second exterior door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Reluctantly and
with an ominous feeling I trudged up the stairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I
reached the second floor It was obvious that no one was left up there except
Bruce. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All the offices were dark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Only a couple of dim overhead lights remained
on in the corridor. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I
frantically told Bruce that Mike had just left through a back door that he
locked behind him and that we appeared to be the only two people left inside.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
telling you that it is a rather odd feeling to be locked inside a two story
building on a Friday night with a full weekend ahead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If ever I wanted to own a cell phone this was
the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thought of spending three
nights inside a locked building sent a rush of total panic through me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We were
hungry, stressed, and we both had to use the rest room.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Regrettably we had walked past a restroom in
the accountant’s office, but neither of us could remember seeing a public one
anywhere in the building, but then we had missed the back door and back parking
lot as well. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We
checked every door on the second floor.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>All locked, dark, or dimly lit inside and no sign of a public restroom anywhere.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We took the elevator back down to the
lobby and checked every office door on the first floor as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were all locked as well and no public
restroom. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly
a flash of cars headlights flooded in though the large glass front of the building’s
lobby.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We ran to the door and pounded on
it as the car turned around and parked with its tail toward us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We pounded on the door and yelled to no
avail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We could see the dim green LED
glow of a cell phone in use inside the car.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Someone was apparently sitting there texting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From their angle and distance they couldn’t
see or hear us. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After about ten minutes the car pulled away
and drove down the street.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
Nearly an hour had passed since I saw
the accountant drive away, and we were getting desperate. We wandered aimlessly
throughout the building looking for security cameras or some sort of alarm
device that we could activate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We did
find a fire alarm, but we thought we should reserve that for a last ditch
effort to save ourselves.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The thought of
all the paper work with fire officials was intimidating.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We would do it though, if all else
failed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All else did seem to be failing
at the moment.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
We considered breaking a window,
but there was nothing to break it with.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
benches were anchored in cement and the waterfalls rocks were mortared in
place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The potted plants were in
containers that were about the size of a refrigerator.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was absolutely nothing we could use.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In the
end we sulked on a bench <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>for a bit and
tried to analyze our unbelievable predicament. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it
happened… I caught sight of a person walking toward the building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We jumped up and rushed to the door and
tried to get the attention of an elderly man walking somewhat in our general
direction, then not in our general direction, then again in our general
direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was carrying several large
trash bags.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As he drew closer then turned and
walked away, then turned back again in our direction it became obvious he was a
homeless person.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He appeared to be totally
disoriented, possibly drunk and talking or singing to himself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was like watching a ball roll around in a
pinball machine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Off in one direction
then back in another Every time he turned toward us our hopes soared. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He finally got close
enough that we could see him fairly clearly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We banged on the door and shouted for him to get help.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For what
seemed to be an eternity, he remained oblivious then something we were doing
seemed to catch his eye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looked at us
from about eight feet away, grinned then turned in tight circles dancing and
singing. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plastic bags extended from his arms and
flew around him like fluttering wings of a bird as he turned.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>From
time to time he would stop and look at us seeming seeing but not seeing then he
would start his silly twisting dance again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Finally he set the bags down and walked toward the door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I told Bruce to grab a piece of our tax
papers and “Call 911” on it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man
came a bit closer and appeared to read the note.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Maybe he thought we were going to call 911 if
he didn’t leave because he put up his hands in the universal sign of
resignation and backed away.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He picked
up his bags and walked out of sight as we frantically pounded on the door and
yelled “Come back. Call 911”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For a
while we had hope that he understood and would tell someone about the <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>two crazy people inside a dark building, but
as time passed we resigned ourselves to the fact that he most likely moved down
to the next alcove and was fast asleep in a drunken stupor thinking he had imagined
it all.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Isn’t
it silly what we do in desperation?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As
time passed we took the elevator to the second floor again to double check the
already triple checked locked office doors.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We rattled each one hoping to maybe set off an alarm or by some miracle we
would alert <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>a poor secretary still
salving away somewhere in a back office.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It helped pass the time, and made us feel like we were doing something
useful. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Returning
the main lobby we sat down on the bench again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We tried to make light of our situation, but after a while the jovial bantering
began to wear on us and we sat in silence. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When a
large van pulled up in front of the building and the headlights shown directly
on us we just turned and stared numbly into the blinding light.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we heard the slide doors open then close
we jumped to our feet and ran toward the front door.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We were completely blinded by the glare of
the lights, but we waved our hands and yelled “We are locked in…Help”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As silhouettes
moved back and forth in front of the headlights were able to discern the images
of what appeared to be two women and a man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The man was on his cell phone and the women were headed back to the van.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
I am sure they thought that two
people were ransacking the medical offices in the building looking for drugs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That is the first thing that would have come
to my mind if I were on the outside looking in. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The man
returned to the van and backed it up about twenty or so feet. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that point we were able to see the logo on
the side of the vehicle indicating it was a cleaning service. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before long
additional help arrived …in the form of flashing red and blue lights on two
vehicles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the cautionary actions of
the police our relief of being freed soon turned to thoughts of spending the
night, or maybe the rest of our lives, locked in jail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you ever want to feel like a criminal
without really being one, I suggest you get locked in a building after closing
hours. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In time it all turned
out alright.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Our appointment with the
accountant was verified and so was our ability to stupidly get ourselves locked
in a building.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No fire alarms were
pulled, no medical offices broken into. Plain and simple it was obvious we were
Just two people caught like mice in a trap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I’m
wondering if any of this could be written off as a tax deduction.</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJeYm_D25UcrIDxnXRQM-6L5K9vXrpplx4vaAgqhrLSXkohaw_ZdO7VDrD7YjjU-N7C2us36U6tjWINGasgEoOzp8iPnJqyW7H7l79vLeFfhETsXrbKzWk5lyTRtJpt9gVaeT7UAc3tXmX/s1600/mouse-trap-bait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-50792309296661933002011-10-24T18:23:00.000-07:002011-10-24T20:20:12.158-07:00Son-of-a-Heatgun!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0poJUIKCWZJdml7iw20_qRS8u5kJ1tRP7ABYZYc5bDl_hD0FuJX2DXtxXPTOLXBr77o8BTfapSL2fj4CtbJs13HJGfHmK5U1loLn4tfIXb6sKunZO8QGWuESBUK50ADJHno5F3uymH9MD/s1600/heat+gun.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 189px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0poJUIKCWZJdml7iw20_qRS8u5kJ1tRP7ABYZYc5bDl_hD0FuJX2DXtxXPTOLXBr77o8BTfapSL2fj4CtbJs13HJGfHmK5U1loLn4tfIXb6sKunZO8QGWuESBUK50ADJHno5F3uymH9MD/s200/heat+gun.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5667258111663192626" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:+1;"> I bought a small shrink wrap machine set-up for a friend of ours who is starting out a Hand Made Soap business. She will pick it up in a couple of days but... well, you know Lucy...I had to try it out. Actually I've been looking at everything that doesn't move and wondering how it would look shrink-wrapped.The problem is it is a small set up and will only work on things 5 inches wide or less which means most of the household objects are safe for the time being.<br /><br />Anyway to make a long story even longer, the friend I bought the set-up for gave us a couple bars of soap as a <span style="font-style: italic;">thank you</span> gift for helping her out, so I decided to shrink wrap them. After all, if you are going to do a test run on something then doing it on the actual item makes sense.<br /><br />I don't know if you've ever used shrink wrap equipment, so I'll give you a quick review . First you put the object you want to shrink wrap in a special plastic bag then you put it on a machine with a heat tape to seal the bag. Once you have done that then you then use a hot air gun to shrink the plastic bag firmly around the object.<br /><br />Now, here's the thing (and this is kind of important) They call them heat guns for a reason. They get hot. Really really hot. Hot enough in fact, to peel paint off a wall or varnish off furniture. As a further point of fact, if a heat gun is aimed at anything longer than about 3 seconds the result can be a spontaneous combustible flaming inferno. As in <span style="font-style: italic;">POOF </span>instant fire. Don't ask me how I figured that out, but suffice it to say I firmly believe that those kitchen sink sprayer attachments really should come with a longer hose...what were the manufacturers thinking by making them so short that they only spray the sink and immediate area?<br /><br />But I digress, I should have begun this tale by explaining first about the sealer. You see, a shrink-wrap sealer is a unique thing that looks like a gigantic stapler. It even sort of works like a stapler. You lay the plastic bag with the object in it on the heat tape then </span><span style="font-size:+1;"> depress the lever ..not rocket science. It is actually quite simple and straight forward. One only has to look at the equipment to understand it's simplicity.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Ahhh</span>, yes. So here is what happened:<br /><br />I plugged the incredible heat sealer in and then, seeing the heat regulating dial went from 1 to 6, I wisely chose the #2 heat setting which seemed to be a good starting point for the test. Believing I had made a sound judgement call, I sat back and waited. Nothing happened. The heat tape did not get hot. It didn't even get warm. I know this because I kept testing it with my fingers. Before long, I moved the dial to the #4 setting. Still nothing happened. Again, I know this because I used the old-fashioned lick the finger and see if it sizzles it on the heat tape routine. If it sizzles, the tape is hot, if it doesn't then the tape is still cold. When my finger didn't sizzle so I deduced the heat tape was still cold, so I moved the dial to #6 and went though the routine again. Still nothing.<br /><br />Saddened that I had bought a faulty shrink wrap set up for my friend I decided to take immediate action. I found the phone number of the crook that sold the equipment to me and gave him a call. I haughtily told him I was not happy because he sold me a bad machine. A really<span style="font-style: italic;"> really</span> bad machine because it didn't get hot.<br /><br />He patiently asked how long I had it plugged in and I told him it was about 10 or so minutes which, in my opinion, was plenty long for the contraption to heat up. He remained calm and apologized saying that he sold the machine to me "Brand New" as described. He added that he hadn't tested it, but he had never had problems in the past with them. He added that he would happily refund my money if I returned the machine.<br /><br />As we were about to end the conversation he asked if I still had it plugged in. I said I did. He said "So let me go over this again...you are telling me that when you put the plastic in the sealer and depress the lever nothing happens?" I sighed and said "Look mister, I didn't even get that far because the tape never did get hot." There was silence on the other end of the connection for a couple of beats then he said "Did you read the instructions?" I said "No but that is irrelevant because the heat tape never did get hot."<br /><br />He said "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ok</span>, well one of two things...either I can tell you what you are doing wrong or you can read the instructions." I said " Fine, why don't you tell me what magic will make it this defunct machine work?" I can't be certain, but I thought I could sense him smiling and that really upset me Fortunately for him, I held my temper and listened while he said "If you read the instructions you will find the machine has a safety feature. The tape only, I repeat <u><span style="font-style: italic;">only</span>,</u> heats up when you put the plastic in and depress the lever, otherwise it remains cold."<br /><br />There was silence on the phone again for a couple of beats, but this time it was me being silent... then quietly I said "So you are telling me that when the lever is up the tape does not heat up and that it is only when it is depressed onto the plastic it does?" I sensed another grin from him as he said "You got it" "Excuse me" I said Could you please hold on a minute ?"<br /><br />Setting the phone down, I put a piece of plastic in the sealer machine and depressed the lever and <span style="font-style: italic;">son-of-</span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">heatgun</span> it worked." There was nothing left for me to do except apologize profusely and disconnect. So I did.<br /><br />Having successfully sealed the bar of soap in the bag, I next used the heat gun portion of the set up to shrink the plastic around it. This brings me back to the portion of this tale where I began . Really I'm serious about this; manufacturers should defiantly put longer hoses on kitchen sink sprayers. You know...just in case a person wanted to put out small fire or something.</span>Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-23106715561607206332010-10-01T18:07:00.000-07:002010-10-01T19:35:07.632-07:00The Case of the Thwarted Prowler<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMpDlP-YiTHBKd5IBotNxT0ybpvOr8TTyLLFqzsGoz3kAwQ8KLPbEpGEAFCv1SL1Rn7J-dYG_A4j2E8X6n74fnVsAxvdwx2EBh98JeD5uoOzvkJlB9SkSKvdhsFM92Cf6fj8bQ6mgUoaZ/s1600/web.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 137px; height: 109px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidMpDlP-YiTHBKd5IBotNxT0ybpvOr8TTyLLFqzsGoz3kAwQ8KLPbEpGEAFCv1SL1Rn7J-dYG_A4j2E8X6n74fnVsAxvdwx2EBh98JeD5uoOzvkJlB9SkSKvdhsFM92Cf6fj8bQ6mgUoaZ/s200/web.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5523271667463356546" border="0" /></a><br />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, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ok</span> maybe we can't really count on the dogs for security because they mostly wander about looking for small rodents or grasshoppers to chase.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I grabbed a flashlight and shone it down toward the gate. I still saw nothing, nor could I detect any movement inside the gate.<br /><br />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.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"I don't see anything"</span> he reported as he swept the front area with the light.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"It must have been the neighbors cat"</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"bump"</span> in the night.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />When we reached the front area neither of us saw anything. <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ok</span> that's it"</span> Bruce said "<span style="font-style: italic;">The sensor is obviously malfunctioning...I'm going in."</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Isn't nature amazing!Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-78640716864876882012010-08-23T09:20:00.000-07:002010-08-23T11:16:43.931-07:00Tatt's All Folks!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjd4NfK5I85Cv7gAQXQ8g0KwCx1519BIhObwrsrEH0GLF8ffmWzVlu5tPLXbRAJi48K4SV5_j67qELB5k8PNfZIIfSAiG-ct5JKTFP2QpG-c2Y6-Xo2pQEHloEDSUjeYFGm_s4B7coFfm/s1600/butterfly_tattoos_9.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 194px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdjd4NfK5I85Cv7gAQXQ8g0KwCx1519BIhObwrsrEH0GLF8ffmWzVlu5tPLXbRAJi48K4SV5_j67qELB5k8PNfZIIfSAiG-ct5JKTFP2QpG-c2Y6-Xo2pQEHloEDSUjeYFGm_s4B7coFfm/s200/butterfly_tattoos_9.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5508670908536949842" border="0" /></a><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />Bruce was about to start his <span style="font-style: italic;">armchair surgery</span>, 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.<br /><br />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 .<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"had an errand to run."</span> I didn't know where we were headed until she directed me to pull into the parking lot of one of our local <span style="font-style: italic;">"Bottle Shops" </span>that sold beer, wine and liqueur.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"Get out..you'll see"</span><br /><br />As soon as my feet hit the ground she grasped my upper arm firmly and said<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Come on, we're going up there"</span> I followed her hand gesture toward a fairly steep set of stairs that led above the Bottle Shop to one of our many local <span style="font-style: italic;">Tattoo parlors</span>.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />When I questioned Diane's motives she smiled coyly and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Come on..you'll see." </span>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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">oook</span> I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">jus</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">gop</span> ma tun <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">possed</span> "</span> I smiled and said<span style="font-style: italic;"> "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Ahh</span>, very nice. Congratulations!"</span> I wondered why anyone would want to do such a thing. I'm not judgmental, just a coward. It looked like it hurt.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"Girl are you out of your mind?"</span> I concluded she was when she slipped behind me and shoved me though the door.<br /><br />From somewhere behind a beaded curtain a deep baritone voice bellowed <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"Park your butts Dudes I'm <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">inkin</span>' " </span>Diane plopped comfortably into one of the two vacant chairs that somewhat resembled barber chairs and motioned for me to take the other, "<span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Aww</span> come on"</span> she pleaded <span style="font-style: italic;">"lighten up, relax this is all good."</span> It didn't feel or look good to me, but I slipped onto the edge of the chair.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"'Sup Dudes ? <span style="font-weight: bold;">Look at you!</span>"</span> I assume he was surprised to see two over the hill ladies sitting in his victims chairs. <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Aaaah</span> right"</span> he continued <span style="font-style: italic;">"who am I <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">inkin</span>' first?"<br /><br /></span>To my absolute horror Diane leaped from her chair and shoved me all the way back info mine and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"We are going to re-pierce her ears!"</span> 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.<br /><br />I must have passed out from fright at that point, because the next thing I remember Diane was leading me <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">back</span> 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.<br /><br />As we drove out of the parking lot I glanced longingly back at the <span style="font-style: italic;">"Bottle Shop</span>.<span style="font-style: italic;">" </span>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.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-49938045795770275582010-08-18T08:06:00.000-07:002010-08-20T22:52:37.756-07:00Mrs. Magoo and the Friendly Fawn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0V21wPIw7Cp9ZwLxiZ3Kwb6a1j4Q_Pd27h60deH9BfMyACs1HnUBf6P87V2mLYVDbpcxocIuVRYUeGySvUVoWVBRwlM8C4qhqqKfzi0J_wh7bkHWvJ7wlv8Tuk6wigDVAHfNoA5qu2G-N/s1600/fawn.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 195px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0V21wPIw7Cp9ZwLxiZ3Kwb6a1j4Q_Pd27h60deH9BfMyACs1HnUBf6P87V2mLYVDbpcxocIuVRYUeGySvUVoWVBRwlM8C4qhqqKfzi0J_wh7bkHWvJ7wlv8Tuk6wigDVAHfNoA5qu2G-N/s200/fawn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5506791906662717810" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />Here's what happened:<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />A disjointed female voice came out of nowhere and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"We thought you were here with a caretaker who could drive you home... who can we call for you?"</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">listen</span> to the television.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I opened the gate to the<span style="font-style: italic;"> "free range chicken park"</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Silly birds</span>, I thought, <span style="font-style: italic;">afraid of a deer...how ridiculous is that!</span> Unable to ignore the bedlam, which continued to grow in intensity I once again felt my way to the back of the pen.<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> "chicken park."</span> 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.<br /><br />When poor little thing continued to show reluctance to leave, I accompanied my projectiles with a loud <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">GRRRR</span> Get out of here! Go on..Get!" </span>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Within minutes Bruce breathlessly returned to the house and loudly announced <span style="font-style: italic;">"Jodi we have a problem!"</span> As I stood and felt my way blindly toward where he stood panting I asked <span style="font-style: italic;">"What's going on?</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> Is it injured?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"No" </span>he huffed <span style="font-style: italic;">"But it's a wonder YOU aren't! .... It's NOT a FAWN Magoo it's a big Black BEAR!"</span><br /><br />In the words of Quincy Magoo..."<span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ohhhh</span> Lucy Magoo, you've done it again! "</span>Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-35138645224872437892010-08-15T11:08:00.000-07:002010-08-15T17:02:59.825-07:00Just Like a Man !<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC9RGSeqLI47c420hvXAM-FqgxVKOCdiUl0eiLloCuM-uWFCgESv4aQJPYxpOh6srol41l6qFcEssLFZlaJDycMajgV4wRBmpy1dANgpoNnAKAaAHyT0YUq7JfrMbF-1dB3RhMih0dhJL7/s1600/bruce+skunk+close+up.png"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 123px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC9RGSeqLI47c420hvXAM-FqgxVKOCdiUl0eiLloCuM-uWFCgESv4aQJPYxpOh6srol41l6qFcEssLFZlaJDycMajgV4wRBmpy1dANgpoNnAKAaAHyT0YUq7JfrMbF-1dB3RhMih0dhJL7/s200/bruce+skunk+close+up.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505723451274222082" border="0" /></a><br />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.)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Let me give you an example as to why the saying: <span style="font-style: italic;">Women are smarter than men</span> may have some merit.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Are you coming?"</span> When he didn't answer I knew he was going to have to satisfy his curious mind.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Seriously, I think we need to go in now." </span>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.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"What's your plan?"</span> I asked with a knowing grin on my face. <span style="font-style: italic;">"I'm just going to see where it's hanging out so we can set a trap out a bit later" </span>he replied. I grabbed my camera.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">I did</span>. Looking back at the whole thing, it's possible that<span style="font-style: italic;"> maybe</span> 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?<br /><br />The obvious answer is yes, he apparently did need for me to shout <span style="font-style: italic;">"NO! STOP! DON'T LIFT THE DOG HOUSE UP... THERE IS A SKUNK UNDER IT!" </span>because before I knew it (although I stood camera in hand and ready) he muttered something that sounded like <span style="font-style: italic;">"I don't think it's under here"</span> and lifted the dog house.<br /><br />Are women smarter than men? Well, at least one was on that particular evening.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-62754175387626998242010-07-27T09:14:00.000-07:002010-07-27T11:24:19.999-07:00Things not to say in the presence of a detective<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_CnP8ZO36Rrzvv-ZtzQ_KMctLIUDSJy_ot3RDYSfBJ7b-IjAyL68mvyqxuFAdKk1N4anTyhXbun3y2hl3f3v4nMen6R6fhJcs-vGi-FhIcv7zmoAUk3ru-fMaL-iP_majWvlsZN9WjxB/s1600/detective.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ_CnP8ZO36Rrzvv-ZtzQ_KMctLIUDSJy_ot3RDYSfBJ7b-IjAyL68mvyqxuFAdKk1N4anTyhXbun3y2hl3f3v4nMen6R6fhJcs-vGi-FhIcv7zmoAUk3ru-fMaL-iP_majWvlsZN9WjxB/s200/detective.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5498653566185214738" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?"<br /><br />In the dead stillness that followed I said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Wow, it would take several sticks of dynamite to blow </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">that</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> safe! Maybe even C-4 ." </span>(Please believe me when I say my only experience with cracking safes is what I've learned from watching t.v<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span>)<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>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.<br /><br />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?"<br /><br /><br />As Bruce told him the man made hasty notes on a yellow legal sized pad. <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">unhuh</span>, is that your truck out front?"</span> 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.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Umm</span>,"</span> Bruce said hesitantly "<span style="font-style: italic;">We are here to see Mr. Talbert, is that you?"</span> The man spun around looked at me and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"So what's your interest in our safe?"</span> 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.<br /><br />As he approached he outstretched his hand and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"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.</span>"<br /><br />As Bruce and I followed him down the hallway, I noticed that the paranoid Mr. Ferrell was quick on our heels.<br /><br />Once we were seated in Mr. Talbert's office, and because I'm apparently a bit dim witted I said <span style="font-style: italic;">"That is a very interesting safe in the reception area, I'll be it has an colorful history."</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"I asked a minute ago what your interest was in it.</span>" he said taking in every aspect of my features.<br /><br />Before I could answer Mr Talbert waved him off with the back of his hand and said "<span style="font-style: italic;">I've got this Mike, Please excuse us." </span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />He went on to explain that in the past 7 months the office had been broken into 7 times. <span style="font-style: italic;">"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."</span><br /><br />He continued "<span style="font-style: italic;">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. "<br /><br />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" </span>He picked up his pen and continued " I<span style="font-style: italic;">'m sorry for Mikes interrogation, now what can I do for you."</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"If I ever see her again I'd like to walk up to her and say : Well <span style="font-weight: bold;">YOU</span> are the one who killed him.!"</span><br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"Well </span><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">YOU</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> are the one who killed him." </span>echoed though the silent building.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">A-1 Pool Cleaning Service</span> 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.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-39928321947835426552010-07-14T09:47:00.000-07:002010-07-14T17:24:08.211-07:00The Discounted Camel<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFIfj8t1tSJA5ZJSyVzmTQmtRq1NW65GtNckXfcx3UUNfrR6mHg3v_vb3fhYrNc4wwDJwrKCpKH7qlukyrJSYzlA3w1zrQ-OgDOaxq_UorlsBm0PdgieI3edFtekef_Hihi8ECt4fcvu7Z/s1600/camel.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 189px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFIfj8t1tSJA5ZJSyVzmTQmtRq1NW65GtNckXfcx3UUNfrR6mHg3v_vb3fhYrNc4wwDJwrKCpKH7qlukyrJSYzlA3w1zrQ-OgDOaxq_UorlsBm0PdgieI3edFtekef_Hihi8ECt4fcvu7Z/s200/camel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493829016614649922" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />Webster defines communication as: "sending, giving, or exchanging information and ideas, which are often expressed non-verbally and verbally.<br /><br />Here's the thing; Do we really need to define communication? We all do it every day. Someone talks and another person listens. Simple.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Let me give you an example.<br /><br />Not to long ago I received a phone call from my husband, Bruce, while he was at work. What I thought he said was "<span style="font-style: italic;">Hey we just got in a damaged camel do we want it?"</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />I thought it might look great on our coffee table so I said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Sure, how much is it?"</span><br /><br />I heard him shift the phone to his other ear and shuffle some papers before he said <span style="font-style: italic;">"With my employee discount it comes to four-fifty."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Sure"</span> I said <span style="font-style: italic;">"That sounds good, go for it. How big is it?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"It's a 10 footer"</span> he replied<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Wow" </span>I said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Ten feet? is it metal?"</span><br /><br />There was a pause while my words flashed some sort of image in his mind and he said "<span style="font-style: italic;">Of course it's metal what did you think it was made of plastic?"</span><br /><br />Before I could respond he added <span style="font-style: italic;">" The thing is, where would we put it?"</span><br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"Well how about out back in the vegetable garden?"</span><br /><br />There was a brief pause while he must have been trying to imagine it in our garden, then he said <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span>In the Vegetable garden?</span> Wouldn't it be better to put it out back in the chicken pen?"</span><br /><br />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?<br /><br />Instead of addressing the issue of location I said <span style="font-style: italic;">"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."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Yard Art?"</span> he said a bit harshly <span style="font-style: italic;">"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!"<br /><br /><br /></span>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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"Obtrusive? How damaged is it?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Not bad"</span> he said <span style="font-style: italic;">"There is a tweak on one side is all, I might be able to pound it out."<br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> "Well, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ok</span>" </span></span>I said<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> "let's talk it over tonight when you get home."</span><br /></span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span> <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ok</span>" he sighed, "but if we don't want it Jimmy <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">wants</span> to take it home for his dog."</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>I tried to imagine Bruce's co-workers Labrador puppy playing with a 10 foot metal camel. <span style="font-style: italic;">"What would Jimmy's dog do with it? "</span> I asked<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Spending $450.00 on a fake companion for his dog is a bit eccentric don't you think?"<br /><br /></span>Bruce let out an audible sigh and said <span style="font-style: italic;"> "What are you talking about?</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> What fake companion?"<br /><br />"What are<span style="font-weight: bold;"> you</span> talking about?" </span> I asked <span style="font-style: italic;">"I'm getting confused! You just said Jimmy wanted to take home the 10' metal camel for his dog"<br /><br /></span>There was a very long long pause in which Bruce said nothing, so I finally said <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span style="font-weight: bold;">Well? </span>isn't that what you just said?"<br /><br />"Wait" Bruce said "Repeat what <span style="font-weight: bold;">you</span> just said"<br /><br />"What do you mean repeat what <span style="font-weight: bold;">I</span> just said...<span style="font-weight: bold;">I</span> 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."<br /><br />"</span>A 10 foot what?"<span style="font-style: italic;"> Bruce asked<br /><br />"A 10 foot camel" </span>I answered<span style="font-style: italic;"> " isn't that what we've been talking about?"<br /><br /></span>I could hear a hint of a laughter in his voice when he said <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Ok</span>, I'm going to say a sentence and you fill in the blank word <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">ok</span>?"<br /><br /></span>Sighing I said<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Whatever Bruce, I'm getting very confused."<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Ok</span> here goes are you ready?<br /><br />"<span style="font-weight: bold;">YES</span> I'm ready" I answered<br /><br />"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Ok</span> we received a 10 foot damaged ? _________" </span>I waited to see if that was the blank pause I was supposed to fill in. When he didn't continue I said<span style="font-style: italic;"> "<span style="font-weight: bold;">Camel</span>."<br /><br /></span>Bruce laughed and said<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Would you spell that for me please?"<br /><br />"Bruce this is getting crazy and we are both busy" </span>I said<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />"Come on, just humor me, spell that last word" </span>he said<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Sighing I irritatedly spelled C A M E L<br /><br />Bruce broke into a laugh<br /><br />"OK" </span>he said<span style="font-style: italic;"> " I we have a communications problem here, I'm talking about a 10 foot by 10 foot by 6 foot high damaged <span style="font-weight: bold;">DOG KENNEL</span> That's spelled <span style="font-weight: bold;">K E N N E L</span>, aren't we looking for one to house the peacocks in?"<br /></span><br />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.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-42329673886439416092010-07-12T20:01:00.000-07:002010-07-13T07:17:32.199-07:00Anna Graham<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAI6Q4f1l1vrSkrTayznkuJU2XeTnhnyyEGzkP-WxDek9lNLRHKxcDxKUfrxHo8SSh4KAo8FbCYN5Y9NK7L5gwv9eO6_RlaeVvpICjszudVZBJfreqbqcvI0lYBbPa3iIdvOk8PW-pnh0/s1600/fire.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 135px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPAI6Q4f1l1vrSkrTayznkuJU2XeTnhnyyEGzkP-WxDek9lNLRHKxcDxKUfrxHo8SSh4KAo8FbCYN5Y9NK7L5gwv9eO6_RlaeVvpICjszudVZBJfreqbqcvI0lYBbPa3iIdvOk8PW-pnh0/s200/fire.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5493394757283228658" border="0" /></a><br />One of my daughters <span style="font-style: italic;">Mia Grain</span> gained unwanted fame in one of my earlier posts <span style="font-style: italic;">"Primer on Toilet Training Tots."</span> 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.<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> anagram</span> can be rearranged into <span style="font-style: italic;">nag a ram.<br /><br /></span>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.<br /><br />This story dates back to when the girls were both <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">tweeny</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">boppers</span>, that amazing age between adolescence and teens. At that time I was working at a Chiropractors office as a physio-therapist.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />1: Do not answer to door to anyone that is not a close personal friend of mine no matter what they say or do.<br /><br />2: Limit phone conversations to 3 minutes or less in case I'm trying to call.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Now let me tell you about the fateful evening in mid December that aged me about a hundred years.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"MOM MOM THE HOUSE..IT JUST BLEW UP!"</span><br /><br />Trust me when I say those are not words anyone, especially a mother of two home alone preteen daughters, wants to hear.<br /><br />My heart raced and my throat immediately went dry but I managed to find enough courage to croak out <span style="font-style: italic;">"Are you both <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ok</span></span>? Where are you?"<br /><br /></span>Anna Grahams voice sounded small against the cacophony of wailing sirens in the background <span style="font-style: italic;">"We are <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ok</span></span> mom, we are at Mrs. Worth's house.. but MOM.. the house..It just BLEW UP!"<br /><br /></span>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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"Put Mrs. Worth on the phone."</span><br /><br />There was a moment of silence then Anna Graham tearfully told me that our little silver miniature Schnauzer <span style="font-style: italic;">"Dolly"</span> didn't make it out of the house.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span>Dolly was an intricate part of our family in fact I called her my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">DOGter</span>, and the news hit me hard</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, </span><span>but I managed to say <span style="font-style: italic;">"oh.. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ahhh</span>..."</span> before I ran out of words. </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Anna Graham, now crying harder said <span style="font-style: italic;">"MOM...maybe I should go back and try and get her."<br /><br />"NO NO!" </span><span>I shouted</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> "Absolutely not! Do Not go back to the house. I'll be home in just a while, it will be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">ok</span>."<br /><br /></span>I heard more sirens blaring in the background and Anna Graham said<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Mom the police just got here, should I have them get Dolly for us?"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"NO"</span> I shouted <span style="font-style: italic;">"Absolutely not you both stay put!" </span><span>I calmed myself a bit and added </span><span style="font-style: italic;"> "Put Mrs. Worth on the phone."<br /><br /></span>After a minutes hesitation while she cleared her sobs, Anna Graham informed me<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>that<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Mrs. Worth was out back talking to the firemen.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"OK , <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">ok</span></span> "</span> I said..<span style="font-style: italic;">"Promise me you will stay put do NOT go outside, do NOT try to get back in the house... I'll be right there!</span><br /><br />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 2/3<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">rds</span></span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Dolly</span>. I sped on...Nothing was going to keep me from my burning home and frightened children...nothing.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"MOM MOM THE HOUSE..IT JUST BLEW UP!"</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">attendant</span> asking me if I knew my name , what day it was and what the name of the president was.. I had no idea.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Ok</span></span>..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.<br /><br />Apparently the judge had no sense of humor and obviously didn't have <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">pre</span>-teen children, because he said "<span style="font-style: italic;">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.</span> The fines stand, you may pay the bailiff on your way out."<br /><br />I remember thinking that he should live with Anna Graham for a few years and see how it affected HIS judgment!Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-30282756927671202322010-07-09T17:42:00.000-07:002010-07-09T20:18:49.606-07:00A Baaaad Mooove<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk5gyHQUeJvlHTRbKuFTmhGbwAlQL7I8nrlIhr0BhY8UWc09OcV2M7fd-zQVXFfsr4OSlGo92863OES6-bTWFlNejkVsHa1LiR2wf0dJ4ZqhAsOkT_eZsCop5S2J63Lpk_dlJARIJuO3qC/s1600/may+2.png"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk5gyHQUeJvlHTRbKuFTmhGbwAlQL7I8nrlIhr0BhY8UWc09OcV2M7fd-zQVXFfsr4OSlGo92863OES6-bTWFlNejkVsHa1LiR2wf0dJ4ZqhAsOkT_eZsCop5S2J63Lpk_dlJARIJuO3qC/s200/may+2.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5492111696263903170" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Unfortunately here is what happened last night.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> know</span> 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.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">baaahing</span> dust past me and charged though the gate.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"now what?"</span> Now he<span style="font-style: italic;"> knows</span> all my plans have a way of sliding sideways, and yet he always turns to me to come up with a solid plan.<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> not</span> so bright side there is a gravel driveway that completely encompasses our house like a race track. One lap around it equals 1/8<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span> of a mile.<br /><br />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 1/8<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">th</span> of a mile, then 6 laps must equal close to 100 miles..well, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ok</span> but that could be a slight exaggeration, but that is what it felt like.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Finally in frustration we called our dog, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">IsHe</span> 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.<br /><br />The first lap around the house with <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">IsHe</span> 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, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">IsHe</span> turned them around and they were off in the opposite direction on yet another lap around the house.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">IsHe</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />We finally decided that if we called <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">IsHe</span> 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. <br /><br />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. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">IsHe</span> was trotting slowly behind them with his tongue hanging out.<br /><br />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?"<br /><br />We cautiously walked around to the front of the house. When we looked down the alleyway we saw the bull, 6 sheep and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">IsHe</span> laying together panting under a large Cedar tree in the pasture we had been trying to get them into for the past 2 hours.<br /><br />Bruce looked at me and laughing said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Now THAT'S funny they did it all by themselves!</span>" I didn't laugh.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-50121297057122160932010-06-14T09:16:00.000-07:002010-06-14T11:28:15.088-07:00Relocating Small Kitchen Appliances<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX97QntVjlVR_6FDShpN8xKwvm8818uIdJoSSMOBQuiaQtcMcYUp8D1ZEepejePZc7MzpsbKAgiZHUkyYDrM7wU_wHnW4GOcCrV50QOwr52IqOGYYBrorjudmm3IFFH6jF5RusTl4-ZpeM/s1600/Jodi's+big+day++A.png"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiX97QntVjlVR_6FDShpN8xKwvm8818uIdJoSSMOBQuiaQtcMcYUp8D1ZEepejePZc7MzpsbKAgiZHUkyYDrM7wU_wHnW4GOcCrV50QOwr52IqOGYYBrorjudmm3IFFH6jF5RusTl4-ZpeM/s200/Jodi's+big+day++A.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5482696284984492658" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /> 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 .<br /><br />Here's what happened:<br /><br /> 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.<br /><br />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.<br />Simply<span style="font-style: italic;"> genius</span> if I do say so myself!<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ol</span>' 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!<br /><br /> The more I worked the more I liked the idea, and the next thing I knew I had removed <span style="font-style: italic;">not one but two cupboards. </span> Then it was <span style="font-style: italic;">three</span>. Next I went to work on the <span style="font-style: italic;">base cabinets. </span> <span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">AhHah</span>!</span> Now I had a whole vacant wall to work with... a blank canvas with which to create a whole new kitchen!<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">" What the ... What the...?"</span><br /><br />By way of explanation I said <span style="font-style: italic;">"I needed to move the toaster, microwave and coffee maker.</span>" By then he must have drifted into deep shock because his only response was a barely audible <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">ok</span>"</span> as he turned and walked into the living room and plunked down in a chair.<br /><br />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 "<span style="font-style: italic;">would suit my needs."</span><br /><br />We spent a <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">very</span> quiet evening.<br /><br />The next morning after Bruce left for work, I measured the wall and headed out to find new cabinets. <span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">Surprise!</span></span> 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.<br /><br />Seriously...Who knew?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 3/16<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">ths</span> 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.<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> two.</span> 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!<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"so what do you figure the final cost is now Lucy?"</span><br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><ul><li> 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. </li></ul>Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-53402771318678154972010-06-02T08:52:00.000-07:002010-06-02T10:26:49.796-07:00Green Eggs and Sam<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJLNgdSxz7d6NnrNwI2J3ruzEPLJjH8se4CUvykrMBZn5inFUZPaNfaFdgK3nP6SOj7WvhgJEwlOVYgaSWv_TT9v_GFY4RXimIMqnauA1Y4h2IS3PwnF_QOi8077_oP7e-Ib7zSNIwBjeM/s1600/green+eggs+and+sam.png"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 154px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJLNgdSxz7d6NnrNwI2J3ruzEPLJjH8se4CUvykrMBZn5inFUZPaNfaFdgK3nP6SOj7WvhgJEwlOVYgaSWv_TT9v_GFY4RXimIMqnauA1Y4h2IS3PwnF_QOi8077_oP7e-Ib7zSNIwBjeM/s200/green+eggs+and+sam.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5478220294027563154" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Which brings me to Green Eggs and Sam:<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Without provocation she turned to me and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"I can't believe the price of a dozen eggs can you?"</span> Before I could answer she added <span style="font-style: italic;">"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."</span><br /><br />I smiled, reached into my purse and handed her one of our business cards and said "<span style="font-style: italic;">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."</span><br /><br />She hesitated and I could tell that a bit of pride was holding her back so I added <span style="font-style: italic;">"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."<br /><br /></span><span>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.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span>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.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span>When I opened it he handed me our business card and said</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">"Mom said you could sell us some eggs. She wants to know if you have some."<br /></span><br /></span><span>I </span><span>told him I did and asked him to come in while I got them out of the refrigerator. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">"No ma'am" he said <span style="font-style: italic;">"I can't go into strangers houses. We don't know if you are a bad person or not." </span></span><span><span>Then he turned and pointed to the car and added </span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"And don't you worry, my mom is watching." <span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span></span><span>I smiled and told him he was right and that he should remain on the porch."</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span>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.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span>The boy suddenly had a horrified look on his face</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">"Stop!"</span> </span><span>he said</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><span>firmly </span><span style="font-style: italic;">"I can't take those eggs!" </span><span>When I asked why he said </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, my mom won't like it if you sell her eggs that aint' ripe yet."</span><br /><br /></span><span>I asked him what he meant by eggs that were not ripe yet. He beamed and said</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">"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."</span><br /><br /></span><span>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 </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Do it look ripe to you? It's green as it can be lady, don't you have more ripe ones in there?"</span><br /><br /></span><span>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.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span>When I finished he thrust $3.00 toward me and said </span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"Lady if you want to keep selling your eggs to people you'd best not try that one again."<br /></span><br /><br /></span><span>When I closed the door I burst out laughing.<br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span><span>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.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">No green eggs for Sam!</span></span>Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-10733632743704383802010-06-01T09:02:00.000-07:002010-06-01T10:40:03.547-07:00Oh Honey !<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTAItfof2q38guoo7ypYm1wQ35CGEspcHhuLpSL7dHWrEwIDw6XcS5g4-kJdR7naeKwkyhGOxCu3r_JUkGLadUA8EYITF2_njW3EJAyE7F-149e3DDeCHsbnMItl3SRLUzxCMR75n_KwD/s1600/Bee+with+pollin.png"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 174px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXTAItfof2q38guoo7ypYm1wQ35CGEspcHhuLpSL7dHWrEwIDw6XcS5g4-kJdR7naeKwkyhGOxCu3r_JUkGLadUA8EYITF2_njW3EJAyE7F-149e3DDeCHsbnMItl3SRLUzxCMR75n_KwD/s200/Bee+with+pollin.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5477861367998939202" /></a><br />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. <br /><br />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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Here's what happened:<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />I imagined rocketing sales on E-bay as teachers brutally outbid each other in order to obtain my wonderful specimens. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />The job was made more difficult because he was laughing so hysterically that he kept jiggling the jar.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!" <br /><br />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."<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />The moral of this story? Oh honey...never trust a dead bee!Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-12925845395090271732010-05-27T13:32:00.000-07:002010-05-27T22:14:42.778-07:00Wild Wild Hogs!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3RMkWupYT1GFoxE6Evrw0FnLGAs0cKRVKuwcO516AoU9yIW0VTMqTJdeXFJf9M51GF4RPBjACo_tjX1regQdWUDL8PJqpmMCrk_QAAuxIEcdkj877tyKxyx1qnXgeaQVxVFMzCMraKyWj/s1600/Rooter.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3RMkWupYT1GFoxE6Evrw0FnLGAs0cKRVKuwcO516AoU9yIW0VTMqTJdeXFJf9M51GF4RPBjACo_tjX1regQdWUDL8PJqpmMCrk_QAAuxIEcdkj877tyKxyx1qnXgeaQVxVFMzCMraKyWj/s200/Rooter.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5476080516546982850" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!"<br />When I calmed her down a bit, Kathy was able to tell me that her beloved little pet pot bellied pig "<span style="font-style: italic;">Rooter</span>" had somehow escaped from his stall during the storm.<br /><br />Referring to the place where Rooter lives as a stall it's a bit like down-playing the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Taj</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">mahal</span> . 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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Rooter, Here Rooter." </span>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."<br /><br />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<br />the road and in a vehicle. We, however would have to climb on foot so as not to overlook the little pork chop.<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"Rooter! Rooter! Rooter!"</span> Nothing. No piggy.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Rooter</span>.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> Rooter!</span> come quick!" then the line went dead.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Rooter</span> cornered at the campground. Some stupid camper made a 911 call saying there was a <span style="font-style: italic;">WILD HOG</span> trashing the campground and terrorizing everyone." She sobbed "They said they are trying to SHOOT him!"<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">under</span> the door, but there they were.<br /><br />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!"<br /><br />Bruce who had just reached into the bed of the pickup truck and retrieved <span style="font-style: italic;">Rooters</span> carrying case went slack jawed and let the carrier fall <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">nosily</span> to the ground. Everyone in the crowd took in a collective gasp and backed away from our truck.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Kathy looked uncomprehendingly at the sheriff and kept moving in the direction she perceived<span style="font-style: italic;"> Rooter</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">Rooter.</span><br /><br />The sheriff spun back toward Kathy and shouted "I said Drop It NOW!"<br /><br />Fearing Kathy was about to be shot I shouted "Kathy STOP! DROP YOUR BANANAS! The Sheriff thinks the bananas are weapons..STOP!<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!"<br /><br />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."<br /><br />I couldn't help it...I burst out laughing and said "<span style="font-style: italic;">Rooter</span>? Wild? Terrorizing? He's a PET!"<br /><br />Suddenly Kathy spotted <span style="font-style: italic;">Rooter</span> 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.<br /><br />Quietly Bruce walked over with the carrier and opened it. <span style="font-style: italic;">Rooter</span> grunted softly and walked calmly in.<br /><br />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.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-69303490771889225382010-05-23T09:19:00.001-07:002010-05-27T22:17:18.715-07:00The Boot Stompin' Boogie!<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikOzDm2wjmTNySxXyZ_p-6tNzaq6PA8_WViEToUxKFikVJP49X_vXqOtfwJvc-ZPX0xMfQdCqgFX4Ayy86gUF0ZsiBg1FqlrnnmfHnpPmsoW677Y_nznvvp0OoAQUquaFKrIzW_V3Fw-js/s1600/skunk.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikOzDm2wjmTNySxXyZ_p-6tNzaq6PA8_WViEToUxKFikVJP49X_vXqOtfwJvc-ZPX0xMfQdCqgFX4Ayy86gUF0ZsiBg1FqlrnnmfHnpPmsoW677Y_nznvvp0OoAQUquaFKrIzW_V3Fw-js/s200/skunk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474529025491141186" border="0" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />You see, the mailman is the logical choice for scapegoat because yesterday afternoon he dropped off the latest DVD from <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Netflix</span>. In order to have time to watch it we stopped our normal routine and had dinner a bit early.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">INSIDE</span> the coop, locked in with the geese.<br /><br />Amazingly the geese didn't seem to be distressed by the presence of a skunk mingling with them. Not surprisingly, I was.<br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;"> I </span>open the door. Meanwhile he backtracked about 10 or so feet.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Bruce,who was still about 10 feet away and couldn't see what was going on grew impatient.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"Did it come out yet?"</span> he called.<br />When I didn't answer he added "<span style="font-style: italic;">Well what's going on? Just leave the door open and come out here with me you don't have to stand there!"</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />Bruce, who still hadn't spotted the skunk, was obviously becoming irritated with me.<br />Finally he said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, </span><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ok</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> just stand there if you want. I'm tired. I'm going to go in and go to bed." </span><br /><br />Without moving my lips or any other portion of my body I managed to squeak out <span style="font-style: italic;">"Foot! Look! Foot" </span><br /><br />Bruce apparently wasn't able to hear or understand me because his reply was "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Ok</span><span style="font-style: italic;">, well I guess I'll see you in a bit."</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"NO" </span>I hissed though clinched teeth <span style="font-style: italic;">"Help Me! FOOT!"</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Ahh</span> I see" </span>he smirked <span style="font-style: italic;">"well tell you what"</span> he said " <span style="font-style: italic;">You use the skills you just learned from the Jane Goodall DVD to talk to it while I go get the gun"</span><br /><br />I could hear him chuckling as he walked toward the house.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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 .<br /><br />I stood there with the skunk still on my foot and with sweat rolling down my back contemplating my choices. Skunk? Gun? Skunk? <span style="font-style: italic;"></span> Gun?<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">"Boot <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Stompin</span>" Boogie." </span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />When he noticed I was free of the skunk he grinned and said "<span style="font-style: italic;">So apparently you and the skunk had an amiable conversation?"</span><br /><br />I shut the bottom half of the Dutch Door and said "<span style="font-style: italic;">I told him that if he had any respect at all for human beings he'd leave before you blew my foot off."</span><br /><br /><br />Side note: If you haven't seen it yet, take the time to watch: Jane Goodall's When Animals Talk<br />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.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-37526222206013308412010-05-20T14:01:00.000-07:002010-05-23T11:29:56.313-07:00Resurrecting Sasha<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLlC8lNpbPatT_tigcyhb50ugs_OGPSmBYZVJJVshyE-t0025iU2rUJxqFCxQAuWkG4MLG8LyvKjqs39-NIgh7vrqCgItaDR-GAsmv14eZoc9M4p1eoyv4b66Z0RfR5Z3ZXN37HGbkWEu/s1600/sasha.png"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzLlC8lNpbPatT_tigcyhb50ugs_OGPSmBYZVJJVshyE-t0025iU2rUJxqFCxQAuWkG4MLG8LyvKjqs39-NIgh7vrqCgItaDR-GAsmv14eZoc9M4p1eoyv4b66Z0RfR5Z3ZXN37HGbkWEu/s200/sasha.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474534470895794626" border="0" /></a><br />When people find out that we live in the country on a ranch they get a glazed look in their eyes and their mind drifts to some far off imaginary place. They generally say something like "Wow, I've always dreamed of living on a ranch, you are so lucky."<br /><br />We nod our heads knowingly and smile outwardly while laughing hysterically inwardly. These poor souls have no idea what hands-on ranching is really like. If ranching was a reality show most folks wouldn't last a week.<br /><br />Now, don't misunderstand, I love our ranch and as hectic and chaotic as my daily life can sometimes be I wouldn't trade it. I just think people should know it's nothing like the Hollywood version.<br /><br />For example: Yesterday I went about my usual early morning chores (in the pouring rain) of feeding all the animals and turning them out of their pens, coops and stalls so they could free range for the day. Then I rushed into the house took my shower and headed out to pick up a load feed for the animals and some groceries for us.<br /><br />When I returned home I quickly put the groceries away and rushed out to check on all the animals (in the rain.) At first glance everything seemed to be normal, or as normal as things can be around here. But you see here is what people don't understand, looking after chickens, ducks, sheep, turkeys, guinea hens, geese, cattle and 10 score and 40 more other assorted living souls is a bit like running a day care center for several hundred pre-school human toddlers. They are scattered in all directions running, flying, cackling, mooing, bickering, nickering and playing and it can be utter chaos.<br /><br />After I gave a precursory inspection and did a quick head count I noticed something out of the ordinary floating in the goose pond. At first I thought it was a twig but upon closer scrutiny I realized it was a chicken. She was bobbing lifeless in the water.<br /><br />As anyone who knows anything about chickens will tell you they not only can't swim, they generally detest water deeper than a inch. How she wound up in the water I'll never know. My emotions volleyed between sad and angry as I fished her out. Upon closer examination I realized the little hen was one we call <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span><span style="font-style: italic;">. </span> We<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>have over 40 chickens and most of them start out with names, but as they get older I often forget who is who. Then again maybe it's because I'm getting older that I tend to forget their names, however I will never forget <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span>.<br /><br />With heavy heart I carried <span style="font-style: italic;">Sash</span>a back toward the barn glancing down at her lifeless body every now and then. Then, out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw her toes uncurl a bit. Was it possible that <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span> wasn't dead?<br /><br />I rushed to the house where I tried to dry off her limp body with a towel. This is when a crash course in Poultry CPR might have come in handy. I may not be certified in Poultry CPR, but I do know that the first rule in reviving birds is to bring their metabolism up by keeping them warm, so I put <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha </span>on a dry towel in a cardboard box and rigged a lamp over her for extra warmth.<br /><br />After half an hour her under feathers were still damp and she was not responding to my EMT treatments, so I tucked a heating pad under her.<br /><br />When I checked her after an additional 15 minutes she still hadn't come around, and her body still felt damp. I had nothing to lose so I wrapped the towel around her and headed to the master bathroom where I set my blow dryer on low and turned it on her. She still had no real reaction other than an occasional involuntary twitch of her legs every now and then.<br /><br />Bruce came home and knocked on the bathroom door and asked what I was doing. When I told him he opened the door and was immediately engulfed in a massive cloud of stray feathers. More were stuck on the mirror, the shower door and the walls. I had been concentrating so hard on getting <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span> dry I hadn't notice how many of her feathers were blowing about the bathroom.<br /><br />I kept the blow dryer on her for about 20 minutes moving it slowly across every inch of her body. In the end, even though she was thoroughly dry she was still unresponsive.<br /><br />Bruce knows better than to say anything when I'm trying to revive a sick or injured animal, but I saw the hopelessness in his eyes, so I laid <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha </span>back in her box with the heating pad and heat light and set about fixing dinner.<br /><br />Every few minutes I checked to see how she was doing. By the time we'd finished dinner she was still laying on her side with her eyes closed.<br /><br />By the time Bruce and I went to bed I was able to prop <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span> limply against the side of the box. Her head was drooped and her eyes were still closed. I was resigned to the fact she would be dead by morning.<br /><br />Dead? Did I say she'd be dead by morning? Oh no! Not <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha!<br /><br /></span>Around 1 AM I was jolted awake by what sounded like a helicopter landing on the roof of our house<span style="font-style: italic;"> . </span>I jumped out of bed<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>dazed and confused and stumbled wildly around the bedroom trying to make sense of the noise. Bruce was sleeping soundly. Bruce always sleeps soundly. Nothing short of a blast from a steam ship whistle can wake him once he falls asleep.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>The flapping, fluttering and whirling noise appeared to be coming from the bathroom and it took me a few minutes to remember that<span style="font-style: italic;"> Sasha </span>was in there.<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>I opened the bathroom door and was assaulted by a furry of flapping wings and raspy squawking.<br /><br />In a flash <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span> flapped her way past me and shot like a torpedo onto our bed where Bruce continued to sleep soundly. The commotion woke our 2 dogs, IsHe and WillHe, who immediately thought a new game was afoot. Simultaneously Sasha, the 2 dogs and I landed on the bed. Bruce moaned and rolled over (sometimes I think I should hate him for his ability to sleep so well.) I grabbed for <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span> but IsHe was faster, before I knew it he engulfed her in his mouth, bounded off the bed and ran into my office which is adjacent to the bedroom.<br /><br />Somehow <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span> managed to escape IsHe's grip and flew onto my desk sending the stapler, calculator, keyboard, desk lamp, assorted pens and papers cascading to the floor. IsHe tried to jump onto the desk, which sent Sasha flying into the living room. There was a blur of dogs and feathers as I tried to catch hold of any part of the three crazed animals. Meanwhile books and magazines slid off the coffee table, a floor lamp went down, and a cushion from the couch flipped into the air.<br /><br />I caught the cushion mid-air and flung it back toward the couch but missed and knocked over a vase of flowers sending water and flower petals flooding across the floor.<br /><br />Finally, I managed to grab hold of the littlest dog, WillHe, and quickly tossed him out the back door. Meanwhile <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span> and IsHe bounded their way into the kitchen. By the time I got the back door shot and managed to stumble and fumble my way into the kitchen <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span> was on the table and IsHe was running wildly in circles under it. I grabbed IsHe and pushed him out the kitchen door and turned back toward the table to capture <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span>. She was gone. I finally located her by following the clatter of dinner dishes breaking in the sink.<br /><br />When I finally had both hands of my hands firmly on <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha</span> there was a very brief moment in my sleep dazed, half crazed, mental state where wanted to find a very large stew pot and toss her in it. Instead however, I lifted her so I could look here in the eyes and said "So <span style="font-style: italic;">Sasha,</span> you are obviously quite well and alive eh?"<br /><br />I tucked her under my arm and walked out to the barn where I sentenced her to spend the night in solitary confinement in a small but secure cage. Walking back to the house , barefoot and coat-less (in the drizzling rain I might add) I tried to remember the perks of living in the country on a ranch. Curiously none came to mind.<br /><br />Opening the back door I was greeted by a discombobulated Bruce holding a shotgun in one hand and the phone in the other. "OH THANK GOD" he shouted. "I woke up and found the house trashed, and you were gone.. I thought we had been robbed and you were taken hostage."<br /><br />Sure..... after it's all over he wakes up.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-8233318732494830052010-05-01T12:13:00.000-07:002010-05-23T11:32:38.492-07:00The Headless Moose on Isle 9<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK6a8HaDhApGple-suGFKIEqdjzcwWodyIrnAVpWbZb2i7LjRHdD1BUdxCLRM4_05g9vpYo9FA0lKEiygNwCN7DNTMXixSH2_bY3RcnHJZ3dJVW5Z9bg_wePigz1tDxc_i1jGA-LQb-bMi/s1600/moose_head_mount_traditional2-big02.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 170px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK6a8HaDhApGple-suGFKIEqdjzcwWodyIrnAVpWbZb2i7LjRHdD1BUdxCLRM4_05g9vpYo9FA0lKEiygNwCN7DNTMXixSH2_bY3RcnHJZ3dJVW5Z9bg_wePigz1tDxc_i1jGA-LQb-bMi/s200/moose_head_mount_traditional2-big02.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474535171503264658" border="0" /></a><br />I've just returned from an interesting trip to one of our local up-scale grocery stores. Here's why it was interesting:<br /><br />A couple of our friends more -or-less invited themselves over to our house for a barbecue later this afternoon. Since I was unprepared for guests I asked them what they would like in the way of refreshments.<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>They said<span style="font-style: italic;"> "Oh a couple of Moose Head Beers would be great if you have them." </span>I told them that a 6 pack of Moose Head would be in the refrigerator cooling when they arrived. When I hung up the phone I made a quick list of things I needed for their unexpected visit and rushed to the store.<br /><br />When I parked my car and rambled up the ramp to the front door of the store I was approached by 4 small children dressed in the uniform of our local Catholic School. I guessed them to be in Kindergarten or maybe First Grade. They were selling raffle tickets to benefit there school... <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Ok</span></span>, well you might as well know this about me, I'm a sucker for cute little kids selling things, and these little girls were way beyond cute, so I bought a couple of tickets and went into the store.<br /><br />Things were going pretty well in the store until I hit the beer isle. To my surprise there was only one carton of Moose Head beer in the cooler and it was missing one bottle. Since it was the only pack on the shelf there I put it in my basket.<br /><br />Things really started going wrong at the checkout stand. When the clerk saw there were only 5 bottles of Moose Head beer in the 6 pack carton she look suspiciously at me and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Where's the other bottle?"</span> I told her there were only 5 in it when I found it and that it was the only pack on the shelf. She stared me down for a brief moment taking my measure, then quickly slid the 5 pack under her counter and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, I can't sell a broken pack."</span> When I explained that I was expecting company later in the day and they had requested the beer she showed no sympathy and continued to slide my other items across the scanner. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Please"</span> I pleaded <span style="font-style: italic;">"Can we call the manager or someone to help, I really do need to buy a 6 pack or even a 5 pack for our guests."</span><br /><br />She stopped scanning, scowled at me and put one hand on her hip. With her other hand she picked up the intercom and said in an irritated yet monotone voice <span style="font-style: italic;">"There is a lady in the express isle who is missing a Moose Head can someone help?"</span><br /><br />There was a collective gasp from behind me and when I turned around I saw the 4 tiny tots who sold me my raffle ticket. They each clutched an orange juice carton in their hands. Their mouths were agape and their eyes as large as silver dollars. I smiled and was about to attempt an explanation, but then I thought better of it. I didn't know which would be worse; letting them think I was looking for a missing head from a real moose or that I was buying beer in front of their innocent little eyes. I decided to let it go. Meanwhile the checker stood with both hands on her hips and shouted an apology to the ever growing line behind me. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Sorry folks, this lady needs another Moose Head, it will just be a minute."</span><br /><br />The guy behind the little girls saw the humor in the situation and said<span style="font-style: italic;"> "I think I saw a headless moose on isle 9 if that helps"</span> I tried to laugh but what came out sounded more like a dog choking on a bone. Meanwhile, the little girls spun in unison, rocketed up on their tiptoes, and tried to see where isle 9 was." The rest of the line just smirked, their interest was obviously only in getting the line moving again.<br /><br />In a minute, which seemed like an eternity, a young employee came to the check out stand and asked what was going on. The clerk said <span style="font-style: italic;">"This lady only has 5 Moose Heads in this pack " She pointed under the counter. "So go look in the dry pack section to see if there is a warm one there she can buy."</span> He shook his head and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"We don't keep Moose Heads in the dry pack section, just in the cold case, but I'll see what I can find in back."</span><br /><br />I looked down at the little girls who were now clutching their orange juice containers close to their chest. They looked deeply disturbed and I really wanted to say something to them, but words failed me. They were deathly silent and wide-eyed . They kept spinning around as though they expected a headless moose to come charging out from one of the isles at any moment. I imagined the horror running rampant in their minds as they imagined me cooking 6 moose heads for dinner... maybe boiled in a witches cauldron. It's likely they will be having nightmares tonight."<br /><br />Once again the clerk started scanning more of my items and yelled a second apology to the mass of people in line behind me "<span style="font-style: italic;">We're working on getting this lady another Moose Head, it will just be another minute." </span>People pushing carts past the checkout stand stopped and looked in my direction. They too were totally confused. I wanted to yell <span style="font-style: italic;">"It's a brand of Beer, not a real moose head"</span> but embarrassment collected in my throat and was strangling me. I just smiled weakly and turned my back on them.<br /><br />Suddenly I felt a tug on the back of my T-Shirt. I turned and looked around, then down at one of the little girls who had apparently collected enough courage to speak. She said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Why don't you want the whole moose not just it's head? I like moose's." </span>The girl next to her was apparently fortified by the first girls courage because she added <span style="font-style: italic;">"That's mean!"</span><br /><br />About that time the young employee ran up with a bottle of Moose Head and set it on the counter. <span style="font-style: italic;"> "OH look"</span> I said to the little girls <span style="font-style: italic;">"You see, it's not a real moose head, it's just a drink by that name...see Moose Head"</span> I pointed to the bottle of beer and hoped they were not old enough to read but...of course they were. When the clerk pulled the 5 pack out from under the counter and plunked the new bottle down into it's slot the girls shouted in loud unison <span style="font-style: italic;">"BEER?"</span> A look of total disgust and admonishment was so prevalent on their little faces that I almost wished they had been a real moose head instead of just beer.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-10511522155906717772010-04-18T10:24:00.000-07:002010-05-23T11:36:36.563-07:00Only Fools Rush In<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76xO2dENVunRRA6OrIRJkIzCz7ZpR3BeB4vmpOcT7pw8x29ytSssMm1vIzCExXtdA2DP4uVHicjus5ZfBCs0xa2TQFCnxuvJcx9Dv7D-VY_A4akLZ9CeheQk0jukAkXn7ncL7gsXhFUxk/s1600/skunk+2.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 184px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi76xO2dENVunRRA6OrIRJkIzCz7ZpR3BeB4vmpOcT7pw8x29ytSssMm1vIzCExXtdA2DP4uVHicjus5ZfBCs0xa2TQFCnxuvJcx9Dv7D-VY_A4akLZ9CeheQk0jukAkXn7ncL7gsXhFUxk/s200/skunk+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474536175194779954" border="0" /></a><br />As previously mentioned, perhaps more times than necessary, we have a problem every spring with a mass invasion of skunks. Admittedly they are cute and if they would keep their distance I'd be <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ok</span></span></span> with them. Unfortunately they do not keep their distance. Instead they flock to our chicken and small stock pens like a mob of hungry teenagers at a McDonald's fast food restaurant. In a single night they can kill a multitude of birds. When that happens something has to be done, so I set traps.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ok</span></span></span>, I know that will upset some of you. Seriously though, it has to be done. Unless you are a rancher you most likely have no clue how destructive a predator raid on a chicken coops can be. Not only do they kill in mass, they also create the potential for introducing disease and pests.<br /><br />Hopefully you understand, so I will continue with the story.<br /><br />One morning, not too long ago I went out to feed the chickens and found a skunk had dug under one of the pens and killed 4 nice laying hens. That evening, in frustration, I set a couple of traps and baited them with the skunks all time favorite food...Sardines.<br /><br />A little after 5 am the following morning I woke to the unmistakable pungent smell of skunk. I immediately knew I had caught one in a trap. Now my husband, Bruce, is a sound sleeper. The skunk could have been standing on his chest spraying and he would never have awakened. With that in mind, I knew I was on my own, so I got up, slipped on my Jeans and Sweat-Shirt, grabbed a flash light and the .22 rifle and trotted out to look at the trap.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Ahh</span></span></span>, well no need for the .22 because the door of the trap had fallen and caught the sunk around the neck. It was dead. With a sense of relief I went back into the house and since it was almost time to get up anyway I started a pot of coffee.<br /><br />Now tell me why the smell of coffee will wake my husband but the putrid smell of skunk wont. It's one of the great mysteries of my life. At any rate, Bruce stumbled into the kitchen and asked what was going on. I told him about the skunk being killed by the falling trap door. He said he didn't see how something like that could have killed it, but he'd have a look.<br /><br />I shrugged and sipped my coffee while he slipped into his jacked and headed out the back door. A few minutes later he came in and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Well, strange as it seems I think you are right...it's dead."</span><br /><br />When the sun came up we decided we'd best bury our dearly departed. Walking out back toward the pens, Bruce said <span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><span style="font-style: italic;" class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Ok</span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"> you take it out of the trap while I get the shovel, then we'll bury it in the woods."</span><br /><br />As I approached the trap I noticed that the skunk, who had previously been laying on its left side was now laying on its right side. I assumed Bruce had turned it over to check it, but I was curious why he hadn't removed it from the trap in the process. Even though my keen sense of perception told me there was something wrong, I bent down and began to lift the door on the trap.<br /><br />Just then I though I saw a faint movement in the skunks chest area..did he just take a breath or was it the gentle breeze ruffling though its fur? I took a closer look. HOLY CRUD! It was breathing! It was taking very shallow breaths as if it were in a deep sleep. But.. OH NO..Not DEAD!<br /><br />In a panic I turned and started to run while calling out a warning to Bruce....Unfortunately I had forgotten there was a small Pine tree directly in my path. That momentary lapse in memory caused me to smack face first into the tree. The force knocked me backward which caused one of my feet to land on one of the skunks hind feet and who, because he was <span style="font-style: italic;">not dead</span> ...sprayed!<br /><br />As Bruce came around the corner of the barn it didn't take him long to figure out what was going on. At that point he began lavishing me with sympathy. At least that is his version when he tells this story. It sounded like hysterical laughing to me. In all honesty I can't be certain because I was coughing, gagging and staggering around half-blinded with watering eyes and running nose.<br /><br />I somehow managed to make my way to the laundry room with, I might add, no help from my <span style="font-style: italic;">sympathetic</span> husband who trailed behind at a great distance. Once I had showered, sprayed myself down with Anti-Icky-Poo and put on fresh clothes, Bruce said he though I should be the one to go out and put the skunk out of it's misery. He reasoned that the skunk was mostly likely not only traumatized from my stepping on it, but in all probability had a concussion from the trap door hitting it on its head. I rejected his suggestion, but I did follow him back out toward the trap...at a distance.<br /><br />Hiding behind the tree that had so viciously attacked me, Bruce aimed the .22 and called <span style="font-style: italic;">"Hey I can't remember..is a head shot or a lung shot the best way to keep them from spraying?"</span><br /><br />I yelled back "<span style="font-style: italic;">Not the head!</span>" Unfortunately, being a man, (they all have an incredibly short retention span) all he heard was <span style="font-style: italic;">"Head."</span><br /><br />A split second later there was <span style="font-style: italic;">"POP"</span> from the .22 and Bruce came staggering out from behind the tree amidst skunk oil perfumed air. Tears were streaming from his eyes and his nose was running. Even though he was coughing and gagging he managed to wheeze out an angry <span style="font-style: italic;">"Why did you tell me HEAD? Are you insane?"<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span><br />Trying really hard not to laugh as I backed away from him I shouted <span style="font-style: italic;">" I told you NOT the head!" </span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Ahh</span></span> well.. I thought, moot point the skunk had the final blow...they always do.<br /><br />As Bruce staggered back to the laundry room I lavished him with sympathy...or at least that's how it goes when I tell my version of this story. He still swears I was laughing hysterically.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-13198907680257898912010-04-01T09:19:00.000-07:002010-05-23T11:39:24.101-07:00A Primer on Toilet Training Tots<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkKMH6zo-4sBEiWiLA3co8DhZ_RzPhfn18qkO8W-f7ND9rbocxtS9hcuk2S5AWPIW-4Btt2Vy6-LBuIg0UQQS4NdcWmkR_N3y453Us0F1gApKJuTYJg5j_ToXWwTsGXn3XsL1zXdDvxxzA/s1600/toilet-paper-holder.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkKMH6zo-4sBEiWiLA3co8DhZ_RzPhfn18qkO8W-f7ND9rbocxtS9hcuk2S5AWPIW-4Btt2Vy6-LBuIg0UQQS4NdcWmkR_N3y453Us0F1gApKJuTYJg5j_ToXWwTsGXn3XsL1zXdDvxxzA/s200/toilet-paper-holder.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474536930457698194" border="0" /></a><br />Gather round young parents and let me tell a tale that will make your hearts grow weak and your flesh grow pale.<br /><br />This is a brief primer on toilet training young tots...or maybe how not to toilet train young tots. Either way you look at it, it's advice that should be given due consideration.<br /><br />I'm reaching back many years here, but as with all my tales, this one is completely true. It has taken me this long to share it publicly because only now do I feel I've begun to recover.<br /><br />This particular story takes place when one of our daughters was still a toddler. I'll insert a fictitious name here to spare her undue embarrassment, even though embarrassing her a little would be fair and reasonable payback for the many embarrassing moments and headaches she's bestowed on me throughout the years. Ahh there you have it! I'll use the name <span style="font-style: italic;">Heda Ache,</span> that's appropriate. Come to think of it, <span style="font-style: italic;">Mya Grain</span> is even better!<br /><br />Alright, now that I've laid that bit of ground work, let me tell you what happened. My husband and I had recently purchased a small 2 bedroom 1 bath home. It was a nice home but it bordered on being a "Fixer-Upper." The bathroom needed the most attention. The fixtures were not only outdated, they were a gaudy pink. Someone had painted the walls a shocking green that was more of a chartreuse, and the floor covering was yellow and blue floral patterned linoleum The whole affect was dizzying.<br /><br />We ripped out the linoleum, and painted the walls, but the pink fixtures still left a lot to be desired. The only one who really like them was our daughter <span style="font-style: italic;">Mya Grain</span>. She had learned to talk and walk prematurely but for some reason she could not grasp the idea of <span style="font-style: italic;">"potty training"</span> and yet the bathroom was her favorite room in the house.<br /><br />We decided to blame her slow comprehension of the process on the pink bathroom fixtures because every time she went in there she would look around nod her head happily and say <span style="font-style: italic;">"Pink. Pink. Pink. " </span><span>but that was as far as it went.</span> She loved to bathe in her pink tub, and she loved to wash her little hands in the pink wash basin, but the toilet.. well, other than the neat sound it made when it flushed, seemed to be a complete mystery to her.<br /><br />So we saved our money and one day we went shopping for new fixtures. We'd hit several stores and after a bit I asked <span style="font-style: italic;">Mya Grain</span> if she needed to <span style="font-style: italic;">"go potty."</span> She looked around and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Pink. Pink. Pink."</span> Several stops at public restrooms only ended in frustration as she repeated her mantra of: <span style="font-style: italic;">"Pink. Pink. Pink."</span><br /><br />All in all our trip was informative and it had not been wasted. Our heads were spinning with wonderful remodeling ideas but unfortunately they all outweighed our budget. We decided to make a final stop at a Sears Super Appliance Store that also sold kitchen and bath fixtures.<br /><br />....and here is why I can't go into a sears appliance store today without flushing with embarrassment.<br /><br />As parents often do we shared keeping an eye on <span style="font-style: italic;">Mya Grain</span>. One minute she was holding tightly onto my hand and the next she was holding tightly on to her fathers hand. Suddenly I look at my husbands empty hands and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"WHERE is Mya Grain?"</span> He spun around and looked my my empty hands and said<span style="font-style: italic;"> "I thought you were holding on to her."</span> I twirled in circles as my heart beat violently in my ears and tears welled up. I didn't see her anywhere.<br /><br />Our attention was suddenly drawn to a rather large group of people all gathered around one section of fixtures and appliances. They were laughing uproariously. We assumed there was some sort of demonstration going on...and there was!<br /><br />A few people shifted to one side a bit and as they parted I saw <span style="font-style: italic;">Mya Grain</span> gleefully perched on a display toilet. Her panties were down around her ankles and her feet swung back and forth as she sang through a giggle.... <span style="font-style: italic;">"Pink. Pink. Potty Pink. Potty Pink."</span><br /><br />I can not find words to tell you how embarrassed I was. I also can not tell you how embarrassed her father was because he fled out a side door shouting <span style="font-style: italic;">"Get YOUR daughter!"</span><br /><br />Well, what to do? Scream? Cry? Flee? Faint? Encourage? Even though it was so very much the wrong place and the wrong time our dear <span style="font-style: italic;">Mya Grain</span> had successfully achieved <span style="font-style: italic;">"potty training."</span><br /><br />I did a slow dazed zombie walk toward her. I really did not want to admit she was my daughter but what else could I do. I briefly considered just leaving her there, but I quickly dismissed my need for self-preservation. Still, I envied my cowardice husband and wished I could have followed him out the door. Perspiration dripped from every pore in my body and my face flushed so badly I thought I was going to faint. Never in my life had I been so embarrassed. Seriously never. When she saw me she held her tiny arms open wide and squealed with sheer delight <span style="font-style: italic;">"Momma! Potty! Big Girl!" </span>and clapped her chubby little toddler hands together and giggled! OH how proud she was!<br /><br />Now, Lean in even closer young parents while I tell you the moral of this tale...Never ever assume the other parent is watching your toddler when you are out in public. This is especially true if you are in a fixture or appliance store. A single split second of distraction can change your life forever..and ever...and ever. Note how red my face is with embarrassment even now.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-30002049213071134092010-03-31T11:30:00.000-07:002010-05-23T11:40:41.798-07:00The Bear Horn<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiukFV5EksAJznEVtaDZNVOE3SN7xAN0WST5bIe4stBwv9mGt3qa9SgNkDpQpjG629hIWntCKn5YcyT4pY7IeoirSn_SISEcanLbQRu-gHM5ta-uQwN5JgnQiY1VwsoSUHX8N_1vwWW2w6q/s1600/black+bear.jpeg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 174px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiukFV5EksAJznEVtaDZNVOE3SN7xAN0WST5bIe4stBwv9mGt3qa9SgNkDpQpjG629hIWntCKn5YcyT4pY7IeoirSn_SISEcanLbQRu-gHM5ta-uQwN5JgnQiY1VwsoSUHX8N_1vwWW2w6q/s200/black+bear.jpeg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474537245090959442" border="0" /></a><br />As I've previously mentioned in: <span style="font-style: italic;">Bears Make Strange Fireside Guest</span>s, my husband Bruce and I enjoy backwoods camping. Our little 1976 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">CJ</span>-7 Jeep has taken us to places few other humans have ever seen...mostly because they don't want to but also because these remote and isolated places are very difficult to get to.<br /><br />Because we are seasoned campers, trackers, and fond viewers of nature, we always, <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> take the necessary precautions when we venture into the remote wilderness. By necessary precautions I mean a handgun, rifle, various knives, and hatchets...oh and a first-aid kit. The first aid-kit is there mainly in case we do harm to our <span style="font-style: italic;">own</span> bodies with the handgun, rile, various knives, and hatchets.<br /><br />Our most important precaution is a survival tool my husband invented, call <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"The Bear Horn"</span>. This handy little gadget is a devise that remotely activates the horn on the Jeep. It's really quite ingenious. One end of a long wire is attached to the Jeeps battery. The other end has a big red button mounted on a short piece of wood. When the big red button is pressed, the horn on the Jeep sounds. At night we string the wire from the Jeep into our tent. If we are ever attacked by a savage Grizzly Bear or a hungry Mountain Lion all we have to do is reach over take hold of <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"The Bear Horn"</span> and depress the button. The horn on the Jeep responds by beeping loudly and the animal either dies from sudden heart failure or flees in utter terror.<br /><br />Even though we've never had to actually use it, Bruce always, without fail, consistently, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;"></span>rigs <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">"The Bear Horn"</span> and as a precaution he double checks to make sure it is functioning properly. He never fails. <span style="font-style: italic;">Never!</span><br /><br />So, here's what happened one fateful night deep in the backwoods of Northern Montana near the Canadian border.<br /><br />We had enjoyed a long day of hiking and photographing the surrounding area and when nightfall came we were both beat, so we snuggled deep in our sleeping bags and immediately fell asleep.<br /><br />Now here is an interesting phenomenon between Bruce and I. I sleep very light throughout the night. I can hear a pin drop or an acorn fall from a tree half a mile away. However, as soon the first hint of daylight begins to break I sleep like a rock. Bruce is just the opposite. He sleeps solid and sound though the night but at the first hint of dawn he sleeps very light.<br /><br />So on this night, as always I slept light and heard every pine needle fall...but by the dawns early light I slipped deep into sleep. Suddenly I felt a sharp jab in the middle of my back. As I fought for consciousness, there was a brief pause and then another sharper jab to my back. I tried to ask Bruce what he thought he was doing but he roughly clamped one hand over my mouth and in a high-pitched shrieking whisper he hissed <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"Bear!"</span> Before I could react Bruce wrenched my head around to show me the silhouette of a very large bear reflecting on the side of our tent.<br /><br />Bears are big. No doubt about it, but when you are laying flat on the ground looking up at ones shadow I have to tell you it is heart attack time! Bruce still had one hand over my mouth and I now noticed he had the other one over his own mouth as well. Through his cold clammy clamped hand I manged to mumble <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">" Bear Horn!"</span> He shook his head and hissed though his teeth <span style="font-style: italic;"> "I forgot to set it up last night!"</span><br /><br />I reached up and I pulled his hand away from my mouth.."<span style="font-style: italic;">OK "</span>I said in a hissing whisper..<span style="font-style: italic;">" Don't panic. The guns! where's the guns ?"</span> Bruce shook his head and Hissed back <span style="font-style: italic;">"In the jeep with the horn." </span>In a faint voice I squeaked "<span style="font-style: italic;">Knives? hatchet? fingernail clippers?"</span> All Bruce could do was shake his head. We had no way to defend ourselves.<br /><br />We watched in stunned silence as the bear put one very large paw on the side of the tent about 12 inches from Bruce's face. It pushed gently and apprehensively. We were helpless. We knew we were about to become bear breakfast, and there was nothing we could do about it. We were stupidly trapped in our tent.<br /><br />Now, we are not novice campers, although we would have been hard pressed to prove it on that fateful trip. We also know a few rules about bears encounters, even though it's always <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">anybody's</span> guess as to whether or not the bears know the rules and abide by them.<br /><br />Rule 1 is that if you encounter a black bear make noise and scare it off (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Ok</span>, that sometimes works. Sometimes it doesn't) Rule 2 is that if you happen upon a Grizzly don't make noise because screaming and yelling only makes them mad...very very mad. So our dilemma here was that we hadn't studied bear silhouettes and therefore couldn't tell if we were dealing with a Black bear or a Grizzly. Then again, you have to seriously ask yourself; If you are about to be eaten by a bear...does it really matter which it is?<br /><br />The bear switched paws and one again pressed tentatively against the wall of the tent. Apparently it had never seen a big dome shaped object in the middle of its territory before and it was curious. Then it lowered it's paw and pushed hard into the tent with its big nose, sniffed and snorted loudly.<br /><br />In a flash and without thinking Bruce recoiled his arm, made a fist and smashed it directly into the bears nose. Oh My God! It was the last thing I expected Bruce to do... apparently it was the last thing the bear expected as well because it withdrew a several steps, and let out a deafening roar then fell silent. So very very silent.<br /><br />We grabbed hold of each other in a tight hug and waited. Nothing happened. Several heartbeats passed and still nothing. Slowly Bruce got to his knees and crawled to the door of the tent. He reached up and quietly inched the door zipper down. <span style="font-style: italic;">"Holy Shit"</span> he hissed through clinched teeth <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">"Grizzly sow!</span>"</span> then with a sharp intake he added <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">"and 2... maybe 3 cubs"</span><br /><br />For another minute he didn't say anything more so I whispered <span style="font-style: italic;">"What's happening? What are they doing? Why aren't we dead?"</span> He turned and looked at me..all the color had drained from his face and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"She's taking them away...down the trail we walked yesterday."</span> I got to my knees and joined him peeking out the doorway. Amazingly we saw the back end of 3 bears trotting down the pathway away from our camp.<br /><br />And now..Part 2: God's Great Sense of Humor!<br /><br />When our hearts began beating normally and we were totally convinced the bears were long gone we shouted prayers of thanks and popped open a thermos of hot coffee. We were in complete and total awe that we had survived an encounter with a grizzly sow and her cubs... even after Bruce punched her in the nose with all his might. By all accounts we both should be dead. Apparently the sow had never encountered humans or a tent and was totally confused by it all.<br /><br />But never let it be said that God doesn't have a sense of humor.<br /><br />Even though I knew the Grizzly sow and her cubs were long gone, I still chose to sit with my back snug against a large Pine tree for protection. As I sipped coffee my thoughts drifted to the part where Bruce punched the sow in the nose. Just thinking about it set my nerves on edge.<br /><br />Suddenly and silently a very large pine cone broke loose from somewhere high above and fell hitting me squarely on top of my head. It happened so silently and quickly that I didn't realize it was only a Pine Cone. I thought the Grizzly had returned! I let out a blood curdling, heart stopping scream, whirled around and punched the tree as hard as I could. Bruce laughed hysterically and said <span style="font-style: italic;">"Doesn't God have a great sense of humor?"</span> Yeah, right!Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-66426349356641546432010-03-17T08:39:00.000-07:002010-05-23T11:41:31.146-07:00Going Whole Hog<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp8c5EJtoXHZeHrfU9zFRkf9__KNLyG0isLX1O1PzS1uF84Ht1Q0nnKW4d01X1rbF40hb6QQvF-JoK0wqvQtql-BXFCZXdwqby-CF_2Y2AAjhOVbTCtPJkuBVGC2uy_WFhatWgAG28a42k/s1600/sort+005.JPG"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjp8c5EJtoXHZeHrfU9zFRkf9__KNLyG0isLX1O1PzS1uF84Ht1Q0nnKW4d01X1rbF40hb6QQvF-JoK0wqvQtql-BXFCZXdwqby-CF_2Y2AAjhOVbTCtPJkuBVGC2uy_WFhatWgAG28a42k/s200/sort+005.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474537474713893410" border="0" /></a><br />This is somewhat of a primer on how to break into the hog business, or more accurately how<span style="font-style: italic;"> not</span> to become a hog farmer. Oh, and let me assure you no animals were harmed during this episode of my life.<br /><br />It all started a couple of years ago when I went to a livestock auction to pick up a few hen turkeys... and yes, I do know how to tell the difference between a hog and a turkey. However, things turned a bit sideways when by chance I bumped into a neighbor, Fred Carter, who has a cattle ranch a few miles up the road from us. Fred was at the auction looking for a weanling pig to raise for...well, you know.<br /><br />Fred and I got to talking about the sad state of affairs the American meat industry has gotten itself into, what with all the recalls of tainted products happening every few months. One thing led to another and he said he wanted... and yet didn't want, to raise his own pork. He said he just didn't have the time to put into the effort.<br /><br />Somehow at the end of our conversation he had smoothly talked me into buying a little weanling pig. The deal was that I would raise it until it was old enough to ...well you know. In exchange he said he'd give me a side of beef.<br /><br /> At the time that sounded like a good deal, but before long things got complicated. Most of the complication revolved around <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter </span>(Yes.. I foolishly named the cute little porker.) That little guy took to me like a Golden Retriever puppy. Every time he caught sight of me on the ranch he squealed and came running with joy.<br /><br />I really tried to ignore his delightful personality. Really I did. As time passed however, and the more grew, the more his personality grew, and the more he grew on me. Fred stopped by from time to time to ask how close we were to ...well you know what. I'd always say something like "You know Fred, that little guy just doesn't seem to be filling out right."<br /><br />Six months passed and Fred finally got suspicious and asked to take a look at <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span>. He concluded that about another month and it would be time for ...well, you know what. I silently thought that maybe I'd put <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span> on a strict diet, but the truth was that <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span> ate everything in sight. Grass, bugs, tree bark, acorns, horse feed, cat food, dog food, cattle food, even wild bird seed. No way was he going on a diet.<br /><br /> Another couple of months passed and little <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span> has blossomed from the tiny 10 pound weanling piglet to roughly 110 pounds and stood nearly 2 feet tall. His tusks began to develop and even though he was sweet as sugar water, he was looking a bit menacing. To make matters worse he developed a smile that looked like a vicious snarl. Apparently it is customary to have boar hogs tusks removed if you plan on keeping them for pet or breeders. Who knew he would be around so long? I never dreamed he would be ..<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">ok</span>, I'll say it... a pet.<br /><br /> Fred came by again when <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span> was 9-10 months old and said "Look here, if you don't take care of matters soon he won't be good for anything but sausage." I nodded and said "One more month Fred..just one more month."<br /><br /> So I was able to play the "just one more month" into 3 more months and <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span> grew and grew. He weighed close to 250 pounds and was now about 3 feet tall and roughly 4 feet long. His alarming long tusks curled back and upward toward his ears. To outsiders he was totally scary. To me he was just little <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span>.<br /><br />Finally Fred got the idea that <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span> was not going to become...well you know. So he came up with a plan B. He suggested that I go back to the auction and buy a sow and breed her to <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span> and then give him a piglet and HE would raise it...our deal would still stand but the exchange was reduced to 1/4 of a beef in exchange for the piglet. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>That sounded reasonable so the next time the livestock auction was held I hooked up the horse trailer, grabbed a fist full of cash and headed out. There were some nice sows offered, but I held my bids until I thought I had the hang of bidding. Finally the Auctioneer announced that they were bringing in the final lot of sows. I panicked and bid, and bid and bid. In the end, I thought it a bit seep to pay $500.00 for a sow, but hey...Walter deserved the best.<br /><br />After paying and collecting my ticket stub, I raced out to the stockyard to claim <span style="font-style: italic;">Freida </span>(yes I had already picked out a name for her.) The stock-men said for me to back my trailer up to the pen and they'd load for me. Great!<br /><br /> Once in place, I opened the tailgate on the trailer and they started herding them in. (Yes, I said <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">them</span>.) "Wait I yelled" pointing to one particularly nice looking black and white sow, " I just bought that one." One of the men looked at my stub again and said "No ma'am you bought yourself a lot of 7 nice sows." SEVEN? SEVEN? I looked frantically around and started yelling "Anyone interested in buying some sows really cheap?" No one did.<br /><br /> So there you have it. I drove 7 sows home to <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span>. He was happy. My husband was not. But after we both settled down we decided that it might work out <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ok</span>. We'd sell the piglets and the sows in the spring. Not such a big deal.<br /><br /> Well it tuned out to be a big deal. Do you have any idea how much 7 large pregnant sows and one humorously large <span style="font-style: italic;"></span>boar can eat? Yikes! We tried to keep focused on how much money the piglets would bring in and we figured it would all balance out.<br /><br /> Spring came and <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span> had grown even more. He was now nearly 400 pound, close to 3 1/2 feet tall, and over 5 feet long. His tusks had grown to roughly 14 inches. There wasn't a grown man in the county that would come within 50 feet of him, including our local vet. He was still sweet little <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter </span>but you couldn't convince anyone of that.<br /><br /> Something else that came in the spring... piglets! Alice was the first to farrow, she had 9 adorable little grunting piglets. Hooray 9 ! count them 9! Next it was Felicia's turn. She had 7 ...GREAT 7! That made 16 healthy piglets to sell. We were excited beyond belief. Next Tina proudly produced 10 ... Wow, now we had 26 piglets. Just count that money!<br /><br /> Well I will spare you the blow by blow birthing of 49 squealing, grunting piglets, but I'm here to tell you it can be, and truly <span style="font-style: italic;">was </span>overwhelming! With the barn and pasture overflowing with bouncing piggies, we began to understand why hog farmers take their broods to the auction. Seriously 49 piglets. Just try to imagine the sounds and the feed bill. Wow..who knew!<br /><br /> In the end, Fred got his piglet. We tried to give him 48 more, but he just laughed and got into his truck with 1 squealing weanling pig under his arm. We advertised for 4-H kids to come and get them for free....<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">pleeeeese</span>! Not many did, but then again, there are not 49 4-H kids in this county that want to raise hogs for the fair. In the end we made trip after trip to the auction until we sold all the sows and their broods.<br /><br /> <span style="font-style: italic;"> Walter</span>? I'm sure you are wondering what happened to <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span>. Well the old boy is still alive and well. On one of the trips to the auction I got to talking to an old hog farmer who had just lost her boar. When I told her about <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span> she said she'd like to come and take a look. When she saw him she let out a few choice adjectives , but when the shock of seeing a hippopotamus sized boar with menacing tusks smiling at her wore off, she fell in love with him... and he with her. (or maybe he smelled the sows on her. Maybe he was upset with me for selling off his ladies. I guess I'll never know.) She said "Hi big boy how hard will it be to coax you into my trailer?" He grunted softly and walked right up into her trailer and off they went.<br /><br /> I miss <span style="font-style: italic;">Walter</span>, but from time to time I stop by <span style="font-style: italic;">"Helen's Happy Hog Hollow"</span> and say hello. He acts like he remembers me. He still gives a squeal and runs over to see me. We exchange a few grunts and then he wanders off to his harem, and I swear he's laughing.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-38574446776999646082010-02-15T08:40:00.000-08:002010-05-23T11:49:55.496-07:00Primal Instincts of TheHunters and Gatherers<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6uJ5I4xt7wN4Onut38bRIgsAkUi6QElg2l8jaCm2KyF1b1EFT4BA1YRNLdprW6QyX2ti1Qp4X4roiB1kcc4z6D7Riy848Wo3qnBfsPJeKNkQrkizZQN6D1vGHsjThi4uKp0uS5ct5ZTJ/s1600/shopping_cart.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA6uJ5I4xt7wN4Onut38bRIgsAkUi6QElg2l8jaCm2KyF1b1EFT4BA1YRNLdprW6QyX2ti1Qp4X4roiB1kcc4z6D7Riy848Wo3qnBfsPJeKNkQrkizZQN6D1vGHsjThi4uKp0uS5ct5ZTJ/s200/shopping_cart.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474539634580779442" border="0" /></a><br />Picture the Savannas that lie between the Sahara desert and the rain forests near the equator and the plateaus of East Africa. It is in those fruitful grasslands that all manner of beasts must come to forage for food. It is there that each creature must risk the very life it has come to nourish and sustain in it's quest for food. The meek, though agile, vegetarians must mingle with the vicious and cunning carnivores. This daily struggle matches brain and brawn in a never ending batter for survival Just as the careful and cunning survive on the Savannas, so do the careful and cunning humans survive their hunts in the supermarkets of the world.<br /><br />There seems to be an unwritten set of rules that apply not only to wildlife foraging on the Savannas, but to human wildlife foraging in supermarkets as well. For example, only a foolish jackal would deliberately cut off a pack of hungry lionesses as they huddle over a fresh kill. So it is at the meat display case in supermarkets. Only the foolish crowed their way into a group of aggressive shopper pawing through the huge stacks of newly packaged meats...it's not so much a matter of courtesy as it is common sense.<br /><br />The wise meek animals always yield to the more aggressive ones. That rule applies both in the wilderness and in the supermarket. It is an insightful shopper who wheels her shopping cart to one side of the isle and allows a more aggressive shopper to pass. Only those oblivious to the laws of nature crowd out or cut off fierce competitors. Men, oh poor poor men. They have no chance of surviving a trip to the supermarket unscathed. The poor things always have a look of a terrified fawn about to be taken down by a Jaguar. I've seen vicious corporate executives flatten themselves against cans of soup in order to escape being mowed down by an aggressive shopper wielding a lethal shopping cart. Actually, I've been right there beside them at times.<br /><br />Here, in my own gentle, peaceful, small country community, we have honed our survival skills to the max. We have taken our hunting etiquette to the highest levels of society. It's referred to as "The One-Handed Cart Exchange." It does require a bit of skill and is not for amateurs , but with practice one can execute the relay quite cleverly.<br /><br />Here's how it works: After a shopper leaves the store with a cart full of carefully hunted bounty, the next step is to agilely transfer the items from the cart to ones vehicle. This act is usually done with one hand because the other hand is needed to steady the cart in order to keep it from rolling away and flattening an innocent little old lady. The very skilled have been observed using both hands to unload the bounty while steadying the cart with one or even both feet (Important Note: This should only be done by the very skilled. It's not for beginners.)<br /><br />Once the bounty has been transferred to the vehicle you are left standing with an empty cart somewhere in the middle of the parking lot. At this point, and quite within the rules of the skilled hunter/gatherer's, you may choose to do one of three things. You may: leave the cart standing in the middle of the parking lot in reckless abandonment and accept the disdainful glares of other more skilled hunters. You may push the cart into a "cart return" stall which is generally nowhere within a mile of your parked vehicle and hope and pray someone from the medical profession is nearby to administer CPR when you collapse from exhaustion. OR, you may opt for the more common "One Handed Cart Exchange" maneuver."<br /><br />It works this way: As a fresh new hunter approaches the feedlot, you politely say "Hi would you like to take my cart?" Note here that this move is generally done by gently pushing the cart, using only one hand, to arms length toward the incoming hunter. It may or may not be executed with a slight dainty back thrust of of ones foot. The whole scenario looks a bit like a parking lot ballet. Try to imagine the pageantry of a dozen or more hunters all doing this at one time..I'm telling you it's poetry in motion!<br /><br />Setting aside the sheer poetry of this maneuver, the whole thing works out quite well. It saves the exiting hungers from an exhausting trip to the cart return stall. It also keeps the incoming hunters from having to risk scraped knuckles and a dislocated shoulder as they attempt to dislodge a cart from the overly compacted rows of them in front of the store.<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Ok</span>, so now that you get the picture of supermarket hunting in this area, let me tell you about my experience.<br /><br />I've lived in this community for a very long time and have witnessed the eloquent One Handed Cart Exchange multiple times. As luck would have it, I've been fortunate enough be on the receiving end of this incredible maneuver countless times. Never though have I been in the right place at the right time to try and execute it from the passer's position. That is, until this weekend.<br /><br />Here's what happened:<br /><br />I had just finished some extensive hunting at one of my favorite local grazing spots. It was late in the day. I was overly tired and I had a splitting headache. Both of these factors made me give serious consideration to abandoning the cart in the middle of the parking lot. But, as luck would have it, I happened to see a well dressed woman approaching from further down in the isle of parked cars. "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ahh</span>, it's now or never" I thought "I'll give this One Handed Cart Exchange a try."<br /><br />As the new huntress approached my vehicle I whirled the cart around with one hand, gave a fanciful little back kick with my left foot and gently pushed the cart out toward her. Next I mustered my best smile and said "Hi, would you like to take my cart? I thought I looked and sounded like an old pro. Apparently not!<br /><br />The woman whirled on me with a piercing look and said in a truly condescending and disgusting tone <span style="font-style: italic;">"What? For Pete's sake ...Take your own damn cart up...do I look like a cart boy or your servant?" </span> At that moment, I would rather have been a fawn on the Savanna confronting a savage lioness. I have no idea what went so wrong. Maybe I didn't have my arm and leg extended correctly. At any rate, it will be a while before I try the One Handed Cart Exchange maneuver again. Actually I may never try it again. Hunting/shopping..definitely not a sport for the weak at heart.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-89916619940663346102010-01-30T10:47:00.000-08:002010-05-23T11:53:05.833-07:00A Mouse In My Pocket<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZr6qnZAFqc5xk7QudnlpOEpSWCnad1cej136Vxf0tc1CKflyVeBCeI38qytjNE6qAfRDRM_-pWJgiUoVAhAWLPUqBSzV7UvR7dgvvpDZ5EhXyLqQW0RDzCulB_ccfV9edoI4VHH323yqI/s1600/mouse.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 114px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZr6qnZAFqc5xk7QudnlpOEpSWCnad1cej136Vxf0tc1CKflyVeBCeI38qytjNE6qAfRDRM_-pWJgiUoVAhAWLPUqBSzV7UvR7dgvvpDZ5EhXyLqQW0RDzCulB_ccfV9edoI4VHH323yqI/s200/mouse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5474540458049154338" border="0" /></a><br />In order to convey the feeling of loneliness in his novel: <span style="font-style: italic;">Of Mice and Men,</span> John Steinbeck has one of his characters, Lennie, walking around with a pet field mouse in his pocket. Apparently Lennie and his mouse are pretty good friends.<br /><br />Now, I don't mean to put John Steinbeck down. He was a great novelist. It's just that I have a little different take on the idea of having a mouse in your pocket. Let me explain.<br /><br />Because our ranch backs up to the forest we have the occasional mouse or two or ten scampering around our barn. We, of course, take the necessary precautions to be sure their numbers don't exceed the number of stars in the universe, however it is an on-going challenge.<br /><br />A few weeks ago we had an unexpected break in the cold weather, so on that day the jacket I wore out to the barn to feed the livestock was quickly discarded. I don't like wearing jackets anyway because they hinder my movement, so I was delighted to be able to take it off and toss it haphazardly on a bale of hay.<br /><br />Unfortunately in about an hour or so the clouds rolled back in and the wind picked up, so I reluctantly slipped the jacket back on. It was amazing how quickly the weather turned from warm and sunny to cold and windy. The sudden change made my nose runny so I reached into my pocket to retrieve a Kleenex. It took me a few seconds to realize that Kleenex are not supposed to feel warm and fuzzy. Nor are they supposed to scamper about in your pocket when touched. Sure Kleenex have improved remarkably over the years, but not that much. My keen sense of perception told me there was something not quite right about that Kleenex. A quick peek into the pocket reveled two bulging eyes of a wild field mouse staring back at me.<br /><br />Shrieking and squealing louder than a frightened piglet, I jerked my hand out of my pocket. I think that normally would have been a good maneuver but the mouse, no doubt fearful of going deaf from my screams, jumped from pocket onto my hand and then ran up the under sleeve of my jacket.<br /><br />That caused me to do what any woman would do. I started jumping up and down, spinning in circles and screaming even louder. Somewhere in there, a tweak of sanity took over and I realized I needed to get my jacket off in order to free myself and the mouse from our mutual horror. Unfortunately, the jacket zipper had other ideas. It was stuck. I'm telling you... Never trust a zipper to work when you need it the most. They are totally unreliable in emergencies! I think the FDA should put warning labels on them. I can only imagine the horrors that plague men.<br /><br />I tugged, I screamed, I pulled, I screamed, I jumped up and down, I screamed, I stomped my feet, and I screamed...nothing would work. Finally I tried pulling the jacket up over my head. That not only failed but it gave the mouse the opportunity to slip down the collar of my sweatshirt and lodge itself on my left shoulder. Since the mouse now had access to my bare shoulder under the sweatshirt, I feared it would bite me, which only increased my angst.<br /><br />I tugged violently at the collars of both my jacket and sweatshirt hoping the mouse would see the light of day though the tiny opening and flee. It didn't. It crawled in deeper . Suddenly I felt it trying to slide down by back, so I began to jump up and down faster as I fanned the bottom of my clothing. At that point, I began to feel oxygen deprived from all the screaming and squealing. I was also feeling a bit queasy and dizzy from all the jumping and spinning in circles. The Whirling Dervish would have been very proud of my performance!<br /><br />Finally exhausted, I began to lose balance and on one of my rotations I collided with a bale of hay, bounced off it and fell down. Defeated by a tiny mouse in my pocket, I lay completely still and exhausted for a few seconds watching the barn continue to spin around me. I tried to come up with a plan to rid myself of the mouse, but all that came to mind was crying. Well, in all honesty, there was a brief moment when I considered shooting the mouse, but since it was clinging spread-eagle to my shoulder, I knew the outcome wouldn't have been pretty. I envisioned the local newspaper headlines reading <span style="font-style: italic;">"Crazed woman shoots self in shoulder while trying to escape mouse attack" </span> Yeah, that would nave been real good.<br /><br />It's rare, but I suppose there are times when there is logic in surrendering. In this case, apparently the mouse was relieved that I had stopped my frantic thrashing because with the speed of a flash of lightening, it ran down my limp arm and exited though the cuff on clothing. I continued to lay motionless as I watched it stagger dizzily across the barn floor and vanish under a stall door.<br /><br />I have to tell you, the whole episode frightened me half out of my mind, but.. in all fairness, I'm not completely without sympathy for the mouse. That poor little thing must have had one insane ride. The image of a bull rider clinging to the back of a crazed bull as it spins and bucks comes to mind.<br /><br />Nothing personal John Steinbeck, but one day I may rewrite your novel and call it: <span style="font-style: italic;">Of Mice and Hysterical Women</span>.Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-69328065453456248392010-01-21T10:21:00.000-08:002010-01-21T12:13:03.392-08:00Guest Speaker ExtrodinaireBecause I recently wrote and published a book on the smallest and most unique quail in the world; Chinese Blue Breasted Quail, I was asked to be the featured guest speaker at a Bird Club.<br /><br />The town that I was to speak in is about a 4 hour drive from our home. Since we were unfamiliar with the town, the club's representative, Karen, suggested we come a bit early and meet at a local restaurant on the main highway. She said the club would be honored to buy my husband,Bruce and me dinner prior to the meeting.<br /><br />Locating the restaurant and meeting up with Karen, sounded simple enough. Since since she was in the process of moving she told us to look for a white pick-up with miscellaneous household belongings piled in it. She also said we should look for a "Mutt and Jeff" combination because she was very short and she would be bringing another club member who was very tall. To further simplify things she said the tall woman, named Jane, would be walking with a cane. What could be easier?<br /><br />Since it was a long trip and we were still a bit shaky about the exact location of the restaurant, we left a bit earlier than needed. Which of course meant we arrived 30 minutes early and found the restaurant without any trouble. That's just the law of nature with things like that. We were to meet the club ladies at 5:30. It was 5pm on the dot.<br /><br />At 5:15 we saw a solitary tall woman, using a cane,walking toward the door of the restaurant. She was looking around as if she was searching for someone, so we jumped out of the truck and rushed toward her. As we anxiously approached we asked "Are you Jane?." As it turned out, she wasn't Jane, and there was a brief moment when the cane came up off the ground in a manner that suggested she might swing it at us.<br /><br />We retreated to the safety of our truck and waited, and waited and waited. Finally at 5:50 a white pick up truck struggling under the weight of what appeared to be an entire houseful of boxes and furniture raced madly into the parking lot. A short woman exploded from the drivers side and literally ran toward the restaurant's door. Catching up to her just inside the restaurant we confirmed it was indeed Karen, and introduced ourselves. Jane, the tall lady with the cane, was a no-show.<br /><br />It was a delightful dinner over which we exchanged pleasantries and talked about various types of birds. After dessert and coffee the water dropped off the bill and Jane presented him with a plastic card. The waiter scrutinized it, shook his head and explained they didn't accept debit cards. Since that was the only card Karen had...<span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">we</span> paid for the meal.<br /><br />Once outside, Karen said we should follow her to the community center where the bird club met and where my speech would be delivered. Now you would think that the deal with the debit card would have been a glaring signal telling us that the rest of the evening was not going to go well, but we laughed it off and started off in pursuit of Karen's truck. By then it was getting dark, so we were tracking her tail lights, and trying to keep her mound of belongings in sight.<br /><br />Karen, who was obviously used to rush hour driving, wove in and out of traffic like the Tasmanian Devil. I did a fairly good job of keeping up with her until a very large truck cut me off, and we completely lost her. She had given us vague (very vague) directions before leaving the restaurant. Fortunately, by pure blind luck and multiple random turns, we happened upon the community center about 7pm<br /><br />Karen was inside calmly sipping coffee. Swell. She introduced us to the clubs president and secretary who informed us the power point projector was mysteriously not working, but added that they had called for a back up unit which would arrive well before my talk which was scheduled to begin at 7:30.<br /><br />By 8:10 the back-up unit had not arrived and people were getting restless. Maybe it was just my nerves, but I was sensing a riot or a massive walk-out. At 8:15 the club president suggested a break for coffee and cookies, and he initiated a raffle. That kept everyone's attention off me for a while longer, but I was growing more and more apprehensive and nervous with every tick of the clock.<br /><br />Finally at 8:40 the new equipment arrived. It was dropped off by the club presidents son who appeared to be in his early 20's. I felt a brief moment of reprieve until I noticed the young man left without helping to set the equipment in place. In a brief flurry of discussion it became apparent that no one there was familiar with setting the new unit up let alone operating it. A migraine began to nag me and I felt a bit faint. There wasn't enough coffee or water in the whole center to quench the dryness in my mouth.<br /><br />In a group effort, everyone rallied around the machines and eventually, mostly by luck, they managed to turn it on, and I was handed the microphone. A loud cheer went up from the restless group.<br /><br />As I began to introduce myself and give a bit of background for my talk, loud stripper music blasted from the speakers and some rather interesting images began to flash on the large screen behind me. Everyone gasped. Mothers covered their childrens eyes. Men hooted. I felt all my blood rushing to my head and I had to grasp hold the podium to keep my legs from buckling. I felt very nauseous and my whole body began to tremble. I managed to croak in a near whisper "That's<span style="font-style: italic;"> NOT </span>my C.D. Seriously people, that is not my C.D. Really no, not mine."<br /><br />Well, naturally the man operating the projector couldn't figure out how to shut it off or open the C.D. drawer until it was too late...much, much too late, so we progressed about 3 minutes into the <span style="font-style: italic;">"show."</span> When he was finally able to open the drawer he ejected a C.D. and jokingly announced it was titled <span style="font-style: italic;">"Factory Girls Raw and Naked</span>" I left the stage and headed to the woman's restroom where I ran cold water over my wrists to keep from fainting and also splashed some on my face to no avail.<br /><br />Apparently the young man who delivered the projector was watching that CD when he was asked to deliver the equipment to the club. Either he forgot to pull it out, or it was his revenge for having to give up his evenings entertainment. Either way, anyway, anyhow it was the most embarrassing moment in my life...thus far.<br /><br />At 9.05 they reintroduced me and someone whispered in my ear "I know we scheduled your for an hour but can you cut it to 30 minutes or less?"<br /><br />The rest is a blur.<br /><br />Need I say I had a full blown migraine and was completely flustered, flushed, nauseated and faint by then? To top things off the stress caused my asthma to kick in and I could barely breath let along talk. My voice vibrated so bad it sounded like I was trying to talk while roller skating over a washboard sidewalk. Eventually, someone handed me a tiny paper cup of water which I managed to spill over my notes rendering them completely useless.<br /><br />As for the talk, I have no idea what came out of my mouth. The sensation felt like what people describe when they say they have an out of body experience. I was there, but not really there. I stumbled madly though the disjointed talk and consolidated it down to 18 minutes flat. Maybe the audience didn't realize what I left out, maybe they were just happy it was finally over, or maybe they just felt sorry for me, but when I finished and staggered off the stage in a daze they applauded and thanked me.<br /><br />Yesterday received a nice e-mail in the form of an apology and a request to speak again in 2 months. But you know what...I'm pretty sure I'm busy that night,when ever it is. My public speaking is pretty much a thing of the past...<span style="font-style: italic;">forever.</span>Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2918756640035502775.post-52214193973471634172010-01-11T10:00:00.000-08:002010-01-11T22:31:39.686-08:00The Kidnap and Murder of ModineIt all started out so innocently when my friend Beth called to ask if I'd help her alter a wedding dress. Now, I'm not by any means an expert seamstress but I at least know how to thread a needle and that puts me miles ahead of Beth.<br /><br />The biggest problem I saw was that since Beth works nights and sleeps most of the day we would have an awful time getting together for fittings and subsequent alterations. To solve that problem we decided we needed to find a manikin or dress form in size 16, so I could work on the dress at my leisure.<br /><br />Running thought the phone book listings we soon discovered that buying a new one was way out of her budget range, so we decided to place an ad in the local newspaper. The ad said we were open to buying if the price was right but we'd prefer to borrow one for a few weeks.<br /><br />The ad harvested only one response. It came from an elderly lady who said had a half manikin half dress form in her attic that she thought was a size 16 and if we'd come get it we could have it for free.<br /><br />As it happened that call came on a day when Beth was off work. So I telephoned her and told her to get herself up out of bed so we could pick up this strange sounding <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">maniform</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">dressikin</span>." </span><br /><br />Now that you have a bit of background, here's what happened:<br /><br />When we arrived at the home of the lady who had called we discovered that she was in a wheel chair, which meant we were the ones that had to climb into the attic and examine<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>the strange <span style="font-style: italic;"> "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">maniform</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">dressikin</span>"</span> and then subsequently drag her down to the main floor. She was perfect in every way. Her body was soft like a dress form, but her head, legs, and arms were made of a hard composite material. Not only did she look very <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">human-like</span>, she even had a name: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Modine</span> .<br /><br />So far so good... or not, depending on how you look at it. We wanted to sit <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Modine</span> in the back seat of Beth's car, but <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Modine</span> was stark naked and no matter what position we sat or laid her in we decided it was grounds for a ticket for lewd behavior in a public place. So we hauled her back into the old lady's house and asked if she had an old sheet or something we could wrap her in. The lady said that there were some old packing/moving pads in the garage and we were welcome to take one of those.<br /><br />Perfect... or not, depending on your point of view. We wrapped <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Modine</span> head to toe in the moving/packing pad and with Beth holding her legs and me holding her head and arms we hauled her out to the car again. On a whim, we decided to put <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Modine</span> in the trunk of the car instead of the back seat.<br /><br />Now picture if you will; two strange ladies hauling something that looks a lot like a body out of your elderly neighbors house and stuffing it into the trunk of a car... what would you do? Well of course you'd call the police. Someone did.<br /><br />But it only gets better, because the latch on the trunk of Beth's car doesn't always hold, and it chose this particular day to NOT hold. About halfway home the trunk flew open. Beth was in the center lane and couldn't make it to the right hand lane to pull over, so at the first red stoplight I jumped out to slam it shut.<br /><br />To my horror the pad had blown partially off exposing <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Modines</span> upper torso and head. Her hair was askew, her head was flopped back, and one hand dangled precariously into open air. I tried to shove her back into the trunk, but her head wedged between the spare tire and the inside of the trunk. It wouldn't budge, so I grabbed her by the hair and began to push, pull and tug.<br /><br />I can only imagine how it all looked. The people in cars to either side and behind us were talking <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">adamantly</span> on cell phones and <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">snapping</span> photos of me. I kept shouting "it's <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">ok</span>, she's just a manikin" but no one laughed. As the light turned green a car full of teenage girls slowly drove past...all of them started screaming and pulled out their cell phones in unison. I heard distant sirens closing fast...and yet, you know I just didn't think they were coming for us. Sure it looked bad, but she was just a "<span style="font-style: italic;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">maniform</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">dressikin</span>."</span><br /><br />Finally I was able to shove <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Modine</span> back into position in the trunk, but not before her head came off, slipped though my hands and bounced once on the pavement. I grabbed it by a shank of long black hair and tossed it to the back of the trunk and jumped back in the car. Beth was laughing hysterically, I wasn't.<br /><br />We'd only driven about 2 blocks when we were surrounded by city police, state police and highway patrol vehicles. They were on both sides of us, behind us and cutting us off in front. A voice boomed from a loud speaker telling the driver (that would be Beth) to roll down her window and show both hands. The passenger (me) was told not to exit the car.<br /><br />Beth was then told to exit the vehicle with both hands in the air, turn and put her hands on top of the vehicle. Next I was told to follow the same procedure they had just walked Beth through. I'm telling you having a dozen or so weapons pointed at you is nothing like it seems on <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">television</span>. It's down right heart stopping. So much so that Beth fainted! Some friend, checking out when I needed her the most!<br /><br />With Beth laying stone cold on the pavement while they put handcuffs on her, that left me to try and explain that <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Modine</span> was a <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">maniform</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">dressikin</span></span>" A statement I now regret making because after being asked several times to repeat <span style="font-style: italic;">"<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">maniform</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">dressikin</span>"</span> they had me take a breath-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">alizer</span> test.<br /><br />When the county coroner arrived and opened the trunk, he pronounced <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Modine</span> to be a very dead<span style="font-style: italic;"> "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">maniform</span>/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">dressikin</span></span>" but no one laughed. Some people just do not have a sense of humor!Lucy's Clonehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11938241548633876097noreply@blogger.com0