Daddy's home!

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George gets back from a ten day fishing trip to Alaska today.  I miss him so much when he's gone. He is my best friend, and after twenty-seven years of marriage, his absences are difficult to bear. We are pretty independent as individuals, but, we love the togetherness.

It has become an inherent part of our relationship that we each go places for a week or more, sometimes up to a month, to enjoy our individual pursuits.  Visiting kids, lounging on the beach, camping, hunting, fishing...  

Getting back together is so neat; sharing the stories, laughing, seeing the restful relaxation in the other's eyes.  

I wrote our vows, and, in them, I wrote, 'This love is not in spite of, but because of, the absences', referring to a few months- or years-long break ups during the ten year courtship. We grew as individuals, and brought more magic and spark back to the relationship.  It is that way now.

I look forward to the relaxed, youthful person I will greet at the airport.  He is closer to the man I fell in love with, and I am happy for him.

Early shift

Monday.  Hoo-yaw, Master Sergeant, Sir.  Going to work at, get this, 0630.  Not my usual shift. Doing it for a friend with out-of-town guests.  I think it is only made difficult because I am not used to the early hour.  Being a morning person, I could get used to it quickly.

I really like early shifts in the hospital.  When I was a nursing student out on the floor, the early morning smells of coffee, toast and bacon greeted me upon arrival.  Patients were rousing themselves for another day, and a feeling of hope and healing prevailed.

Now, though, I work in an isolated unit that does not feed patients nor keep them past the amount of time it takes them to become stable following surgery.  No homey smells, just a clean, neutral smell and occasionally a hint of alcohol or bleach.

But, still the feeling of hope and healing.  That comes from within my heart, and one of the reasons I keep showing up to be the best nurse I can.  Through my efforts, I can facilitate the healing.

Gift of love

Google image (really!)

This morning, I found a dead mouse on my doorstep, laid out, belly up, like a virginal offering to a god.  It is, actually.  Well, I don't know about the virginal thing (probably not, since this mouse was older than the usual mating age of mice, which is about fifteen minutes), but is was an offering to a god.  My cat's god, that is.  Me.  (I am distorting reality here.  My husband is really her god, but he is gone and I now control the food and faucets, so she is sucking up.)

Anyway, it thrilled me.  Not because I get all gooey over dead and murdered rodents, but because our old lady still hunts.  And kills.  She hasn't lost her touch.  She used to hunt daily, piling up the results at our door like a daily delivery service.  For the past few years, though, she mostly rests. So this burst of activity thrills me.

I think she feels vulnerable, with George out of town.  She and I have an uneasy relationship, with George at it's center.  The cat pulls outrageous stuff that makes me crazy and sends flying me to the yellow pages to look up 'Animal Shelters' or 'Taxidermy'.  And he defends her, or excuses her, or whatever. The end result is that he always sticks up for her.

But, now, Mama is in charge.  Welcome to the Big Blonde's Crib...  Uh-oh, suck up time.  Who says animals don't campaign? 

Burning limbs off

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I got a really cool pole trimmer today, a Poulan hot-shit long pole thing.  It has a little bar and chain on the end of a long pole to trim trees.  Like a chain saw pole vault thing.  I have wanted one forever.  With George in Alaska, I figured I needed one now.

My nephew and I got it ready to attack the limbs leaning out over our driveway.  It looked fast and effective just laying there, all neon green and sleek.

Well, he revved it up and applied it to the limb.  I whined and spun it's chain like you'd expect. But it was passing through the limb at about the same speed as if he was using a nail file.  Hmmm.

He adjusted it a little and tried again.  Same thing, but this time there was smoke.  Lots of it. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the limb has scorch marks where the chain was grinding away at it.  My God, this thing was burning the limb off!  And, slowly at that!

So, I motioned for my nephew to stop and we got out the operator's manual.  An illustration of the bar and chain showed us the problem:  the chain (and therefore, the bar) was put on backwards, meaning no cutting edges were faced in a manner to cut the wood.  So, friction-caused heat was just burning away at the limb.

Well, even though we corrected the problem, the damn thing continued to be persnickety, stopping frequently and not cutting well.  I began to lose confidence.  I just knew that this thing had been assembled by a new or poorly trained (or both) employee on a bad day.  Or by a disgruntled and angry psychopath who was quitting the very day he assembled my trimmer. I just knew that the backward chain was only the tip of the iceberg with this unit.

I took it back and exchanged it for one that was correctly assembled.  I had the store employees open the box for an inspection and we compared the illustrations against the product.

Can you imagine if a less observant person had bought this, say, one of the lower 95?  There would have been a forest fire or a conflagration of some sort.  So, folks, check you chain saws and tree trimmers lest you get burned alive or seriously killed.

Eating ourselves into illness

We are fortunate in our culture and place in society that, as comparatively affluent Americans, we can choose carefully what and when we eat.  It would seem that, for many of us, that means 'a lot' and 'anytime'.  I mean, look at the size of us.  

It seems that from the time the phrase 'Supersize it' came into our nomenclature, it has gone from referring to food portions to our asses.  Not just sad, but dangerous to our health and devastating to our economy.  We are being eaten alive by medical costs related to obesity; cardiovascular disease, diabetes and all the complications thereof,  arthritis, joint deterioration, reproductive problems, accidents and cancer.

When I look at the children of today, I am often looking at overweight kids who have never spent a full day outside, children who view television and computer games as main hobbies, kids who have limited proprioception, and young folks with distorted and negative body images.  I remember when common sights at high schools were trim adolescents with sleek bodies that hinted at the men and women they would become.  Now, more and more often, I see overweight kids bulging in too tight clothing.  We have even coined a phrase to describe the phenomenon; 'muffin top'.  That makes me sad, as a mom, as a nurse, and as a child loving person.

New ears

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I got a new stethoscope!  I mean, this thing has it all; leather bucket seats, power steering, convertible roof, 427 big block engine, four on the floor,...

Okay, it's a stethoscope, but it is the Corvette of stethoscopes.  Red Corvette.  Roadster.

It is a Littmann 3100 Electronic with--get this--ambient noise reduction!  Am I hot or what?

I am so way excited, I am tempted to go in on my day off to auscultate (med-speak for listen to) and assess heart and lung and bowel sounds.  (I said tempted, not crazy...I won't really do it...But I'd be ready if I did).

See, I have been having trouble hearing what I need to hear with my other hot-shit in it's own way nonelectronic stethoscope.  Sometimes due to ambient noise, sometimes swollen/stuffed eustachian tubes related to sinus goop (wet, soggy winters ring a bell?), sometimes, who knows?  Anyway, I was lamenting and drooling over this stethy last week, wishing aloud that it wasn't so expensive.

George says, 'Well, how much are they?'  '300 dollars' I tell him.  'Just get one.'  Just like that. So decisive. Just 'get one'.  

I say how that's a lot of money.  He says that mechanics have oodles of expensive tools and tool boxes and they work on machines.  I need just this one and I work on people.  Poetic, isn't he?

Well, then I saw the wisdom of his words.  We women really do shortchange ourselves in some areas.  We would never object to a man buying a power tool, even for hobbies, but argue ourselves out of a tool for our job that will last a lifetime.  

I was a little disappointed that I am not enlightened enough to have come to this point by myself.  I guess that's why its so cool to have a partner who is smart and knows me and wants the best for me.

Today, I took delivery of my sleek new stethy.  It is laser engraved with my own name!  (It didn't make sense to use someone else's...)

Life is good....(sigh).... 

Little Peep

Our baby, Little Peep, first and only offspring of Albert, our Old English game rooster and Timora, a distinctive blue game hen.  We have been waiting two years for a baby.

ROR (raugh out roud)

google image/bumper stickers

Your dog maybe, 

but not your cat...

Heff

image from google; my pet chicken.com   (cool site!)

I was recently gifted with a trio of young Cochin chickens, a golden red rooster named Leif Eriksen and two lovely companions.  For those of you who are chicken-naive, a trio is a male and two females, a combination considered to be the building block for flock or lineage breeding.  

Cochins are feather-legged birds, and some are among the largest chickens in the world.  Like the above-mentioned Leif.  He took first place in breed and best in show overall in last year's county fair.  He is one handsome specimen.  And huge.  About thirty inches tall and fifteen pounds.  And loves to be cuddled.

Now, understand, he came with the name.  He has been rechristened, though.  After seeing him run out to greet me or to race over to check out why one of his hens is shrieking, I could tell that he reminded me of something...but, what?  I watched and watched.  One thing I knew for sure, he was not a Leif or a Sean Connery or a Rhett.  No.  He is huge and ungainly and thunderous and ponderous and all those other things that describe the not-so-graceful movements he makes.

He sways from side to side on densely feathered legs and feet, in an almost robotic movement. Then, it hit me!  

Remeber Winnie the Pooh?  Heffalumps and Woozles?  He runs like a Heffalump!

Ergo, his new name Heff.  Not short for the more obvious Heffner, after the legendary woman lover and Playboy king Hugh.  Heff for Heffalump!

I want a puppy!

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Am I crazy or what?  Well, wait, don't answer that.  What I mean is; I recently lost my beloved doggy, Cali.  And I miss having a dog of my own.  Winston is here, and helps, but he is not my own.

In fact, this is the first time in nineteen years that I have been dogless.  Lousy timing, considering my recently emptied nest.  At first, I thought these feelings seemed treasonous to Cali's memory. I felt guilty and undeserving of the selfless regard that she held for me.

But, then, I began to realize that Cali was all about love, and her biggest concern was me.  She looked directly into my eyes until her last moment on earth, no matter who held her or what was being done to her.  We had an amazing connection.  

I think she wants me to be happy, even if that means watching me from afar as I hold another doggy.  She is a benevolent spirit in my heart.  She was a kind and forgiving fur person in life.  

At least that is what I tell myself as I think occasionally about getting another dog in a year or so.  That she would understand.  That she knows that, as long as I am dogless, there is a piece of my heart missing.  That, if she were here, I would not be so lonely.

You can't enter dust bunnies in the county fair

Chickens are messy.  They poop and scratch and fling bark-o-mulch.  Having said that, there is another side to them.  The more important one.

They are wonderful pets and companions.  They are good for the land, eating bugs, pooping little piles of soil amendments everywhere, turning over surface soil and eating seeds of unwanted plants.  

But, damn, they are messy.  I love order and cleanliness.  Yet, I live on a farm.  I have animals.  I have kids.  Dust swirls into and onto everything from the fields nearby.  Animals stroll about, rearranging order into disorder and cleanliness into messiness, depositing you-know-what willy-nilly.  People come and go, bringing in dirt, leaves, sawdust, poop, and bugs in.  Even though I have a no shoes in the house rule, it often goes unheeded.

And chickens are a social breed.  They love to be near people.  I've written before about how, if a door is left open, they stroll in to roost for the night or to visit, or to lay an egg.  Bringing in the mess.  My compulsively clean nurse-self is frustrated, wanting to pen them up and steam clean everything.  My farm-girl-self is amused and weirdly gratified, knowing that these are special relationships and special times.

So, I walk around behind the critters, cleaning up poop, spritzing and scrubbing carpet and floor, sweeping up piles of dirt.  I steam clean the carpet every three weeks.  I fantasize about wood floors.  But, I never lock up the critters.

Quote

Happiness makes up in height for what it lacks in length.

                                                               --Robert Frost

Baby Cakes

My sister and I gave our niece a shower for her soon-to-be-born daughter.  It was held outside in a beautiful setting next to a creek.  Turned out to be a wonderful gathering, the type of which I'd been avoiding for years.  Don't know why.  But, I was pleasantly surprised.  Multiple generations of women, grouped together to welcome a baby, but, more importantly, to demonstrate support for the new mom.

There were over forty women there.  They laughed, told their own pregnancy stories (none of them scary) and enjoyed the tradition and ages-old comraderie.  It was a great experience.

We made a 'cake' out of disposable diapers, rolled, stacked and decorated.  It took nearly 200 diapers.  The top is newborn size, the middle layers small, and the bottom medium.  Cute, isn't it?  We got the idea off of the internet.

If You're Bored...

Emily and I have found a new cure for boredom.  We love it, but the animals are ambivalent, to put it mildly.

Make up your favorite pancake batter.  Make little pancakes.  Let them cool (NOTE:  this is an important step if you want your models to sit still for the fitting).  Place on various animals' heads.

Lots of fun.  Try it.  Photograph it.  Be the envy of all.

Locked out

A couple nights ago, I was very tired, so I went to bed early.  George stayed up for a while.  I thought he could handle locking up and getting himself to bed.  I was wrong.

He went outside to turn the water off in the garden.  He was dressed in his under shorts.  Tighty whities.  Egyptian bun huggers. Big boy diapers.  You know the kind...  Oh, and black dress shoes.  No socks.  (Sorry I had to lodge that image into your memory bank, but it pertains, really)

Well, at the moment he was closing the door, he had the horrifying feeling that he had not disengaged the knob lock.  Too late, he fumbled and, in his desperation, slammed the door.  With sinking heart, he tried the knob.  Locked.  Okay, think...   No, really, think...  Nothing.

He went to the front door and rang the doorbell.  Again.  Again.  And again.  Apparently, I was really out by then.  Anyway, he started a circuit around the entire house, searching for an unlocked door or window.  Nothing until: voila!  The window above the kitchen sink!  He had not yet locked it!

He ran to the window, perused the height, the planter below, the size of the window, and decided he could do this!  He got a folding chair from the lanai/Florida room/screened room thing and stood on it.  It sunk six inches into the soft soil of the planter, taking parsley and chives with it.  He exchangde it for a tall bar stool from the Tiki bar.  It sunk eight inches into the soil, tearing out oregano and cilantro.  But, tipping slightly and sinking quickly, it held long enough for him to open the window, get a leg into the house, and a foot into the sink that had his late night snack bowl in it.  Full of water.  

To appreciate this, you must know that George has very long, skinny legs.  White.  And wide shoulders.  And the window is smaller than he is.  He high centered on the sill and nearly screamed like a woman.  He had almost become a woman.  Sweating and in pain with sore crotch and wet shoe, he made it into the house, to lay on the kitchen floor, panting from the exertion.

Telling me about his excellent adventure the next day, I asked 'Why didn't you just use the extra key?'  He said 'We don't have one'  'Yes, remember, we decided to put it right here?' and produced it.

For a few moments, he looked at the key like he was trying to set it on fire with his eyes, then at me.  'Well, shit.' he said as he walked away.

Quote

When women are depressed they either eat or go shopping.  Men invade another country.  

It's a whole different way of thinking.

--Comedian Elayne Boosler

Finally!

So, Saturday, I took my husband out for breakfast for his birthday (calories and cholesterol don't count on that holy day, do they?!).  Who do I run into but my first real boyfriend.  Well, man friend is more like it.  He was 24 to my sixteen.  Now, before you get your panties in a twist, I was a senior in high school, working, and very mature.  And, maybe a little sexy, okay.

Anyway, we were steady for over two years.  He will always have a special place in my heart, because he walked me through my first college registration process, helped me to figure out getting an apartment and utilities, and, as important, put my huge, crazy, dysfunctional family into perspective.  He came from a similar background, and had left at seventeen, the day after high school graduation, to the Navy and Vietnam.  He helped me grow up when my parents were too busy with my out-of-control siblings to pay attention to a cheerleading overachiever, the first in my family to go to college.  Oh, yeah, and the first girl to graduate high school unmarried.  No kidding.

Anyway, the title 'Finally!' refers to the fact that when I saw my old flame on Saturday, I looked great!  I was having a good hair day, I had no blotches or zits, and no cold sores.  I was well dressed and did not have food in my teeth!  Finally!  Score one for the big blonde!

Anyway, nearly forty years later, it was fun to see him and his newer wife, who was a doll.  And the experience was made more fun because I didn't look like I'd lived the intervening years in a women's prison for violent murdering drug addicts.  Yay, thanks, God!

Wii bowling team

This is my bowling team; from left to right, Dangerous Dolly, Deadly Dana, Loftin' Lily, and Marvelous Missy, according to the embroidered names on our fuschia retro bowling shirts.  You notice the actual small size Brunswick bowling bags in which to carry our personal controllers, shoes, flask and Wii game disc.  The bag and shoes are personalized with bling; rhinestones and studs and stuff.

We really do bowl better with all this stuff, and, even if you said we didn't, we would shout you down and humiliate you with odd names and dredging up things you thought we'd have forgotten long ago.  Not a team that loses at anything gracefully. No, no.  We will award style points, effort points and fear points and take away points for having something stuck between your teeth, taking too many bathroom breaks, or forgetting a teammate's birthday.  So, you see, this is a viciously competitive team playing a win-at-all-costs game.

The term team is probably not accurate.  We mostly compete against one another.  When our husbands play, it is more fun because we don't have to be so cutthroat to one another, but, alas, that is our fate most of the time.  All is forgiven in the end, and we award real trophies.  

And isn't that what life and friendship and teamwork is all about, anyway?  Win at all costs, look good doing it, sneer at the underdog, and go home with a big trophy?

Wide open spaces

"Wide Open Spaces"

Who doesn't know what I'm talking about 
Who's never left home, who's never struck out 
To find a dream and a life of their own 
A place in the clouds, a foundation of stone 

Many precede and many will follow 
A young girl's dream no longer hollow 
It takes the shape of a place out west 
But what it holds for her, she hasn't yet guessed 

She needs wide open spaces 
Room to make her big mistakes 
She needs new faces 
She knows the high stakes 

She traveled this road as a child 
Wide eyed and grinning, she never tired 
But now she won't be coming back with the rest 
If these are life's lessons, she'll take this test 
She knows the high stakes 

As her folks drive away, her dad yells, "Check the oil!" 
Mom stares out the window and says, "I'm leaving my girl" 
She said, "It didn't seem like that long ago" 
When she stood there and let her own folks know 
She needs wide open spaces

by Susan Gibson

What's your excuse?

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Okay, I just read in the paper that a state track and field title for a high school team was awarded to Bonnie Richardson, of Rochelle, Texas.  You read that right: one girl on the team, one girl beat out teams from 56 other high schools!  Well, that's pretty cool, but get this:  IT IS HER SECOND CONSECUTIVE STATE TITLE!  Holy dexedrine, Batman, this girl has energy and speed!  

So, aside from being the class valedictorian, she won medals in the long jump, high jump, discus, 200 meters, and 100 meters for the title.  Can you spell overachiever?  She is quoted as saying, 'It's great.  It's over.  It's done.  It's nice that I can relax now.'  

Yeah, right, I'll bet she relaxes standing up juggling.

Report card

I have been doing empty nest duty, that is, going through old boxes of clothing, toys, books, school papers and craft projects to thin out the amount of Stuff we have to store and shlep.  It is a slow process, each item assessed for it's uniqueness, it's value as a memento and it's ability to evoke a particular memory.  Slow and rich and sad and heart wrenching.

Like excavating layers of strata to uncover historical evidence of a natural area, I am uncovering the important epoch periods of my children's lives.  I find evidence of comfort objects formerly inseparable from each toddler, of initial efforts in writing and drawing, of first love letters, usually to Mommy.  It is the collected evidence of happy, contented lives in a middle class American home.

I also find report cards that summarize the accomplishments of bright, motivated kids.  They are also my report cards, telling me whether my efforts as the primary care giver and mom were effective. They tell me that, like my kids, I mostly got A's. 

My husband's birthday

Today, my husband is sixty four years old.  Sixty four.  Whoa.  I met him when he was twenty-eight, all sinewy tight muscles, full beard and gleaming smile.  He laughed at life, knowingly enjoying the privileges of being a well educated, beautiful, physically fit young man with a trust fund.

He had a devilish quality that made efforts to be serious with him seem futile.  He was, generally, the most frustrating and the most interesting man I'd ever met.  But, I was more than a decade younger, so what did I know of men?  I was a teenager.  Ten years later, we married.  He was still just as frustrating and interesting, but not as devilish or cavalier.  He was growing up, becoming more serious.

Today, he is quite serious about many things, his ability to laugh at whatever life throws at him diminished by his concern about finances, the future, our health, his work, and his elderly widowed mother.  Life has a way of getting your attention and keeping you on task.

But, away from work and duties, he becomes, sometimes for just a little while, the fun loving carefree person I knew.  He still loves baiting me, making me feel silly, catching me in non sequiturs, laughing at my lack of physical coordination, and generally being a burr under my saddle.  He challenges me to be better than I otherwise might be and to keep up with his blazing intellect.  In return, I interpret the feelings and emotions that he is unable to comprehend in himself and others.  I urge him to listen with his heart to babies and old people and animals.  

He has changed physically from the young man I fell in love with, but I have changed, too.  He still thinks I am beautiful.  I ask him what happened to him; when I met him, he had money, muscles and a Corvette.  He replies that the only consistent factor has been me.  Probably real close to the truth.

To George:  still funny, still too smart for my own good, still strong, still beautiful, still loved by this clumsy emotional gal. Happy birthday, my friend, my partner, my love.  Many more to ya!  Many more to us...

Winston, my grand-dog

I have written about Winston the Wonder Dog.  He was my dog-smell connection during my first few days after Cali's death.  He worried about me, cuddled me and drew me out.  He absorbed my tears and cast long looks into my eyes as if to ask, 'What can I do?' and 'Are you okay?'. 

He is a Pug, a black-black Pug with 75% cacoa eyes.  He is long legged and athletic with a tongue-lolling joie de vivre that gives him the confidence to know he is welcome anywhere and on any lap.  He follows conversations with direct eye contact and a great deal of head tipping. He gets excited to watch animals on the television and often runs up to watch while standing on hind legs under the tv, looking up.  He runs flat out in the wheat field, ears and tongue flapping back in the wind.  He snores, wheezes and snorts.  He gives kisses and hogs the bed.  He sometimes forgets himself and crowds through legs to get outside.  He is a wonder.

Well, yesterday, I wrote about a dog bed in the living room.  I thought the reader deserves an explanation since we went through my loss of Cali and my grief together.  Winston has come to live with us, as often as I can 'borrow' him. In a kind of 'custody arrangement', my son's girlfriend has agreed to let him stay as often as we want!  I am soooo thrilled, kind of like a non-custodial parent with a benevolent ex.

With a spirit too big to be confined to one part of the house, he has the run of the place.  He greets me in the morning, hangs with me on my day off when I am at home, and wanders the yard at will.  He is good with the chickens, only occasionally showing a little too much curiosity, which is curbed by a soft sh-h-h sound, Cesar Milan-style.  ('Dear Cesar, I love you.  If I wasn't 50 something, I would have your children... Meanwhile, we could try'... wait, okay, back on track).  Winston.

Back on the farm, Winnie is running amok, checking everything out.  He gets a little hinky at night, though. He often sees or hears danger, emitting small little 'wuff' noises.  Pugs don't really bark.  They have a Rod Stuart/Bonnie Tyler breathy gruffness to their voices that results in a 'wuff', not a 'woof'.  I hope he can get used to the night sounds of the country.  If not, his little breathy exhalations are cute and tickle me and George.

Meanwhile, I again have a canine companion after not having after one Cali died for the first time in nineteen years.  George is self proclaimed as 'not a dog person', though he is loving with and tolerant of them.  We have discussed the pro's and con's of getting another dog, and I understand that they restrict freedom to travel and travel nurse.  But, for now, I don't have to make that decision.  I again have a dog in the house.  And it feels good.

Chicken in a box

(Google image.  I tried to find a visual for you but most 'chicken-in-a-box' enquiries came back with the Kentucky Fried type...)

My little hen, Timora (okay, Emily...My daughter's hen Timora), wandered about the house this morning, Albert in her wake, shopping for an egg laying place.  She explored and rejected the hearth, the pantry (it was cleaned and all recycling taken out yesterday, so no good hidey-holes), the knee hole in the desk at my feet, the dog bed (see next blog for explanation), the stairs. Finally, she wandered out into the' lanai/Florida room/screened room thing' to the Tiki bar.  Remembering her old comfy spot, she decided to check out the second shelf. 

Now, if you have never seen a hen contemplate jumping up or onto something, you probably need an explanation.  They don't just hop up like a dog or cat.  They ponder, discuss, dither, loooook (which involves a stretched out neck with the head tipped every which way), take a step or two and then back off, all the while clucking, gabbling and commenting.  It is cute and curious, but enough to drive me crazy sometimes.  Well, okay, they're chickens, what else have they got to do but savor the experience?  Then, they lower themselves as if to jump up, and just hunker there, motionless for a few seconds.  Stand up, hunker.  Looook.  Talk.  Hunker.  

Then, suddenly, they fling themselves up with a dramatic fluttering of wings and a surprised scream, as if it came as a shock to decide to actually do this after twenty minutes of preparation.  Once on the shelf, they will comment vociferously, fluff, loooook, and cautiously, raising one. foot. at. a. time, make slow forward progress.  All in all, a very determined, carefully choreographed event.

Which is what Timora intended to do.  But didn't quite complete.  You see, she miscalculated after all that reconnoitering and missed the shelf, landing head first in a nearly empty short case of beer cans.  Well, she tried to get out, but the 4x8 inch box held her fast deep within its depth.  She blended in so darkly, I would have never known if I hadn't seen it and heard the struggle. Strangely, after a brief flapping whereby she righted herself to head up, she quit resisting and just sat there, accepting her fate.  Her little black eyes glittered in the shadow of the beer box.  

I wanted a picture of this!  I grabbed my camera, found the battery dead, forgot I have another camera, and finally went to her rescue.  Albert seemed okay with his wife trapped in a box.  Probably thought it was some girl-egg-laying thing, like cramps to a human husband.  But, when I went to get Timora out, she squawked and he freaked.  He zoomed around my ankles, flapping and swearing, determined to save her from her rescuer.  Sigh.  Albert, save it, for cryin' out loud.

Fighting him and her simultaneously, I extracted Timora from the box.  Ungrateful to the end, Albert pecked her and shooed her outside, bitching incessantly at me over his shoulder.  Fine, I say, go somewhere else to lay your egg.  Somewhere I don't have to listen to you, clean up your crap, leave my computer to rescue your ass, and get bitched out in the process.  Jeez.

Tempting Fate

Google image

Last night, my son Garrett played in goal for a select US club team against a team from Mexico, Club America.  The game is called an 'international friendly' match.  The first half was exciting and fast, resulting in a 1-0 score, US favor.  Throughout the first half, dark clouds gathered and lightning flashed in the distant hills.  

At halftime, the rain began.  Then, it rained hard, huge driving drops that splashed back upwards from the turf field.  The wind whipped the lukewarm rain under the stadium roof and the rain pounded like a million drums.  Halftime ended and the teams came out onto the field, squinting against the onslaught.   They took their positions and the sky rumbled.  

A flash of lightning lit the pitch. The whistle blew and the action began.  Another flash and zigzagging bolts appeared near the end of the field.  Another whistle and the referees gathered on the sideline, talking and motioning to the sky.  The crowd waited.  The teams gathered in two huddles.

My son, the captain of his team, walked off the field at the beckoning of the referees and coaches.  Shortly, he returned to the team to discuss briefly the decision.  A twenty minute time out to let the lightning pass was declared in the interest of player safety.  As the announcement was made over the public address system, the crowd groaned in disappointment.  A further announcement directed spectators to a nearby gymnasium, again, for safety.  About two thirds of the crowd went inside.  Not my family.  

In typical 'if it's our time, this is gonna be something' fashion, we stayed put, wrapping 89 year old Grandma in a fleece blanket against the driving rain.  We sat on aluminum benches in a steel structure, watching the lightning storm.  My mother-in-law entertained us with stories about a harrowing plane ride around a lightning storm in Texas years ago.  Her play-by-play announcing and urging her seat mate to open his eyes to enjoy the show got her an abrupt, 'Shut up, lady, I am not enjoying this!'

We laughed and joked at the prospect of being struck by lightning.  God and his 'bad/good' list figured into the humor.  It was edgy, bold feeling humor.  Kind of exhilarating.  As refreshing as the wind-whipped rain to the sedate work-a-day soccer fans.  A dose of unexpected youth-infusing adrenaline. 

Eventually, the time out ended and the officials made the decision to call the game at 1-0.  It was disappointing, but not as much so for those of us who had sat out the storm in a slightly dangerous position. Because we had gotten more than the tickets could have foreseeably provided.  We had touched life on the edge, tempting fate with our boldness, allowing a glimpse into a life that addressed survival each day.  It was a heady aura that followed us into the night as we made our way to our warm and dry cars.