Hunting; I will go

It is deer hunting season again, a process and adventure I have participated in for most of my life. I am going to the deep woods and high mountains to get a deer. To eat. Some people don't like the idea of that. I don't like the idea of making someone else do the killing that my diet demands. Code of the West. If I wouldn't do it myself, why should someone else do it?

Because it's hard? Or icky? Or sad? Or because "I love animals too much to actually kill one"?, as I have heard people say. These same people aren't too fond of animals to forgo eating one. How the hell do they think it gets on their plate? Chickens don't selflessly eject their feathers, spill their guts, lose head and feet and wait to be packaged.

So, I will never say that anything I eat is too icky or sad to take responsibility for. I don't love seeing a magnificent animal felled. I don't look forward to the eviseration, the blood, the smell, the carrying, the skinning, the processing, the storage. It is icky. But it is real and challenging and close to my roots.

It is a hard thing to do, and results are not guaranteed. I become a visitor in an alien environment, every advantage to the animal. I must carry enough to stay alive, warm and safe. My feet are not designed for swift escape through trees, fallen logs, and snow. My senses are dim by comparison to my prey's. And yet I challenge my body and my mind to pursue the animal on his terms, his terrain. I leave behind the civilized place that meets all my needs. Hunting makes me work, think, and sometimes struggle. I learn to respect my limitations while simultaneously pushing the envelope of my skills and fears. It teaches me calm, patience, responsibility and, sometimes, triumph.

It is a wild thing to do. Not like 'girls gone wild'. Like untamed, atavistic, primitive. It speaks to my soul and my spirit and my pride. I kill responsibly, taking the best shot I can. I come close and deliver a kill shot if the dying seems protracted. I stay behind the animal as it breathes it's last mountain air, as it sees it's last glimpse of trees and sky. I have no desire to be that wild thing's last image. I owe him that dignity.

And, when he is dead, I lay my hand on him, feel his warmth spread to me, breathe in his rich tangy scent, and give thanks to him for providing my family with his flesh. I give thanks to God for allowing me to make a life and death decision over a beautiful animal. And I vow to use every part I know how to, to waste little, and to never forget the gift I have received.

I never want to forget any animal I have killed; the time, the place, the gift. It is the least I can do for the life I have taken.

Birthday Suit

Google image

Message on my telephone message machine on my birthday:

Sister: Hey, happy birthday! I would like to buy you lunch when you have time. You can wear that birthday suit you got a few years ago.

Call back; the message I left for her: Yeah, sounds good! About that birthday suit; I don't wear it out in public much anymore. I must be losing weight. It's real loose on me now...

Happy Birthday to Me

Today, I turn 55. I am the speed limit in Oregon. I am eligible for senior discounts at Burger King and Ross (on Tuesday). I am seven years from the US age for Social Security. Hmmm.

I don't feel any age at all. I am often surprised when I catch a glimpse at myself in a window or mirror, surprised at my, well, maturity. I know I look older, I just don't feel it. Age is a number. I think I quit feeling any age at all around 35 or 38. Forty didn't even really dent my dissociation with my age.

However, I react, often quite badly, when my sister, who is a year and a half older than I, reaches a landmark age. I hated when she turned 55. I kept calling her up to process my new view of her until she got mad. She really didn't feel inclined to counsel me through her aging process. The thing is, by the time I reach the same age eighteen months later, I breeze through it, it feels familiar and I am okay with it. I'm sure she appreciates her role in my coping... Right.

Well, I don't mind 55 at this point. It is what it is. I feel good, I look okay, I have a great family, many friends, and a job I love. I miss the admiring glances from men, true, but, at least I had them at one time. And what a future I have; travel nursing, being a grandma, retiring with my life love, learning Spanish, meeting more wonderful animals, and getting more and more comfortable with myself and my God.

I'll keep you posted on the ride!

Late summer bounty

The garden (and the hens) continue to offer its bounty to my family. I am harvesting glistening peppers, slender crisp French beans, squash, cucumbers, tomatillos, herbs, and several types of tomatoes. Tonight, I went outside and picked until dark. The picture shows the payback for our work.

Mud bath

My hen Quaila (so named because she did not fit in as a chick with other chicks, so was raised with baby quail) had babies. Rather, she is raising the babies from the eggs in her nest, a cross between Rhode Island Red hen(s) and Goober, a Silver Wyandotte rooster.

On the day of this video, she was teaching the kids how to take a dust bath. Well, the sprinklers had run for the morning, she chose a spot in the shade, and the result was very muddy little yellow peepers. The way they are laying on their sides and churning their legs, they look like they are in death throes. But, no, just enjoying being big kids and learning how to bathe. Enjoy... (noise in background is the dryer).

Quote

"It gets late early out there."

--Yogi Berra

Back from the craziness

I am back from the craziness that is the Reno Air Races. Each year, George and I take a long weekend and head south to the Biggest Little City in the World. We end up at Stead-Reno Air Field, at my brother's hangar, a huge edifice smack in the middle of the pit area where the big planes, crews and pilots work on the planes, sign autographs, and are stared at by hundreds of thousands of passing fans like zoo animals.

It is a celebration of the fuel powered aviation engine, speed, courage, and history. It is the early morning smell of aviation fuel exhaust accompanied by the whap-whap-whap of decades old propellers turning over for the first time that day. It is the deafening roar of jet engines screaming overhead at less than five hundred feet, heating upturned faces with blue flame. It is the tears and tight throat that come with the national anthem being played as our flag descends from the sky with a skydiver.

We get to see historical war planes lovingly tended. We get to see gorgeous young women dressed like porn stars on the arms of paunchy homely old millionaires, hanging on like he's a 401k. We see folks at their best and their worst, both stages often involving alcohol.

We learn that karaoke is nondiscriminatory; the brightest, richest or most beautiful can produce wincingly terrible vocals. (We secretly delight that the brightest, richest and most beautiful are not also blessed with the voice of an angel...)

We laugh until our faces and sides hurt, we cry when we see a rickety and ancient man wearing his WWII military uniform proudly. We return home exhausted and full of stories to last a year, proud to live in the U.S.

Pictures, top to bottom: Daft Wench, the knarly crew of the good ship Bucket o' Blood (can you find the author in the crowd?), Keelhaul Kayser, mechanics hands on the engine of Strega, Strega in the hangar with onlookers. (Black Mackster, photo credit)

Goodbye, Patrick...

Yesterday, a wonderful entertainer and devoted family man left us. Patrick Swayze lost a twenty month battle with pancreatic cancer, his family surrounding him.

He was raised by a single mom, a dancer and dance instructor, to whom he remained close throughout his life. From an early age, he was his mother's best and favorite dance partner. He married a fellow dancer and stayed married until his death. He spoke of the women in his life with true fondness and respect. Costars commented on his kindness and respect. No scandal ever attached to him. He was an old fashioned man.

He gave female hearts young and old a swoon with his lean athletic body attached to that mane of thick hair. That his face didn't quite measure up to traditional craggy handsomeness did not matter at all. Besides, that man could dance.

Patrick, thanks for the gift of your grace and beauty. Thanks for being a gentleman in an often crude world. I am glad for your sake that the pain and deterioration and uncertainty is over. But, selfishly, I will miss you and what you stand for.

Lake time

Today, we took the kayaks and the jet skis to the lake. The lake was glassy smooth and fresh smelling. After the loading, unloading, clipping, zipping, filling, checking and double checking, I found myself putting along at 5 miles per hour in the no wake zone, heading for bigger water.

Then, the 5 mile buoy slid past and I stood up, pulled the throttle back and surged ahead, the power of the 165 horse Honda engine nearly ripping my grip from the handlebars. My tummy did a lift and I leaned into the suddenly fierce wind. Faster, faster, faster, the water slid by in a blur and I shouted out loud.

I looked down to see the digital readout at 66 miles per hour. Man, I love a hot engine. I raced around, turned 360's, stood the machine on it's tail, powered out in a surge of water, working up a sweat and exhilaration. It was a good, good day on the lake.

The Towers

The Towers went down today, eight years ago, in a tragic, fiery, horrific act of cowardice and hatred. Please, please, never forget the feelings you had when you witnessed the act and the aftermath on television. It was an attack on our nation, our belief system, and our very homeland. God help us all.

More Little Golden Books that never made it

Doctors Can Cut You Open

Medicine Can Kill You

When Sally Got Sucked Down The Drain

The Boy Who Spent His Whole Life Strapped In A Car Seat

Learning To Find And Pour Out Your Parent's Alcohol

Grandpa's Wart Is Alive!

Special Names For Kids of Other Colors

Mixing Up Medicines So Grown-ups Act Funny

Quote

I'm troubled. I'm dissatisfied. I'm Irish.

--Marianne Moore

Diseases you have never heard of

microscopic view of Vitamin C, Google image

In nursing, I have encountered names for diseases that don't exist; that is, they are mispronunciations of real diseases. I am keeping a list of these because they are so charming, and sometimes, just plain funny.

My maternal grandparents called influenza 'hen-flew-end-ways', a primitive way to remember how the name sounded without really remembering it. And, said quickly, it almost sounds right.

A nursing instructor of mine was confused when her grandfather told the story of a ship he was on being quarantined in New York Harbor because of an outbreak of 'speedle-ma-jesus'. After years of head scratching and questioning, it was discovered to be spinal meningitis.

I often hear of 'Oldtimers' for Alzheimer's, but a recent twist was 'All-timers'. Because, the patient said, it never went away.

One patient confused me when asking about grafts from gadivers. Turns out she meant cadavers.

I would love to have the time to travel and ask the questions that would add to my list. I feel that it would paint a portrait of health care, education, regional influences and superstition.

Bad dogs

My granddog, Winston the Wonder Dog, a black-black Pug, hates bad dogs. When I watch Dog Whisperer, he barks at the bad mean dogs and tries to jump up to the television. He gets happy and excited when all the dogs are playing and having fun; he'd like to join in.

But, let a cranky or vicious dog appear, and he will go nuts. I think he is trying to discipline it, to make it behave. He looks back and forth from the t.v. to me, as if confirming his indignation. He seems to want my approval for being such a great dog.

Goddess Size

Big women sized clothing is called many things; queen-sized, woman's world, plus sizes, you know. Well, that addresses the women who are regular gals with extra pounds. Or the smaller than normal women who have sizes called 'petite' (don't get me started...) What about the women like me, or my daughter, or my eldest son's girlfriend, who are of normal weight but just, well, bigger than most women. We are left out, that's what.

We spot some delightful bit of apparel, hold it up to ourselves and feel the texture, drink in the color, dream of where and when we would wear it, and take it to the fitting room with hope in our heart. Then, our arms go too far into the sleeves, or the waist line comes to a screeching stop at our armpits, or the full length skirt hits us mid knee. The dream shatters like a two dollar tiara.

My mother used to say that I looked like I had 'jumped too far into my clothes'. Real funny, plus-woman. For a gawky and painfully thin adolescent, it was fodder for phobias. As I grew up, other inequities arose. Skirt length, for example. In high school, girls wore short skirts. It was the fad. But, when a skirt was deemed too short, a rule was made; skirts could not be more than four inches above the knee. For the little tiny specimens, that skirt could be right under their ass cheeks. The tall girls' skirts were a full yard long. I could not get anyone to listen to my contention that, to be fair, the skirts should be measured from the butt cheeks down.

My daughter and I hate 3/4 length sleeves. Why? Because every damn woman's shirt we put on has 3/4 length sleeves, on us. We go to the men's department to get sweaters and sweatshirts and tee shirts. Giving us a slightly androgenous look that, frankly, sometimes we'd like to avoid.

So, I have coined a new size designation. This is for the tall, long limbed, wide shouldered gals who are still feminine, still fashion conscious, yet ignored. We are Goddess sized. We stand tall and proud. Tall, therefor, as Emily says, 'closer to God'.

I am a hooker

Google image

I have come to realize, after long and extensive practice, that I am one of those people known as a hooker. I hook onto everything that extends more than one quarter inch from a wall or corner or piece of furniture.

It is a joke in my family. 'Ha, ha, ha...Mom just got hooked (or snagged or caught) on ___'. Then the disbelieving guffaws, while I am trying to wrest my clothing or purse strap or pocket off of the offending claw of doom.

I regularly get my purse strap caught on things. I have gotten yanked to a painful stop by back pockets on tight jeans! And the things that catch me up are usually insignificant bumps on the terrain of life, like cupboard handles, door knobs, appliance handles, hand rails, or even textured walls, for cryin' out loud.

I wonder if I walk too closely to stuff, or if I subconsciously swerve into things, like some drivers swerve slightly at oncoming traffic. Whatever it is, I am tired of the sudden stops, the wrenched muscles, the public disbelief and derision. It is not easy being a hooker.

Jobs I do not want

Google images

My daughter and I compiled the following list when we were on a roadtrip. It is a list of jobs that sound perfectly boring, disgusting, or too weird for us. So, if you ever lose track of us, don't look for us to be doing or working at any of the following:

Beeper World

Recliners Unlimited

sewage truck driver

turkey sperm extractor

Perfumania

Vitamin World

deodorant testing armpit sniffers

Why do I hunt?

Why do I hunt? It's a lot to think about, and I think about it a lot. I hunt to acknowledge my evolutionary roots, millennia deep, as a predatory omnivore. To participate actively in the bedrock workings of nature. For the atavistic challenge of doing it well with an absolute minimum of technological assistance. To learn the lessons, about nature and myself, that only hunting can teach. To accept personal responsibility for at least some of the deaths that nourish my life. For the glimpse it offers into a wildness we can hardly imagine. Because it provides the closest thing I've known to a spiritual experience. I hunt because it enriches my life and because I can't help myself. . .because I have a hunter's heart.

--David Petersen

Rain

It rained tonight. Opened up and poured. The smell of wet soil and damp vegetation filled the air. I could almost hear the plants and trees sighing, melting into swaying, relaxed, relieved poses in the dusk.

The chickens stirred on their roosts, responding to the sound and maybe the smell. Safe and dry.

Tomorrow is September. Fall comes in September. And, the rain is here already. How did the summer go so fast? Didn't my poor fingers only just thaw and turn from the white cold stiffness of Reynaud's disease to healthy pink and warm? I don't think I am ready for the winter.

But, I love the fall. I get to hunt, to watch the leaves turn to yellow, to orange, to red, to brown. To find the perfect sweater. To wear cozy fabrics. But, my knees protest the confinement of pants and my toes grieve for flip-flops.

It is raining, less vigorously than before, but raining. Wait, summer, come back! I am not through with you!