Bad Brother

A middle-aged gentleman came in today. I'll call him Roger. He's a great guy, very goofy, lots of fun - just one of those kind of people I look forward to helping because I know he's a realist & not an ass. He might also be an old hippy.

A few weeks ago he came in in a panic because he had to move his sister temporarily into his place - from Alabama. We never ask for details on things because it's unprofessional & none of our business. It doesn't mean we don't want to know. He filled us in - his sister was bitten by a brown recluse spider, had been hospitalized for 6 weeks, and while she was in the hospital her husband had a massive stroke & was also admitted into the hospital in unstable condition. Bad luck. Since she had an immense open sore on her something or other & was in no shape to take care of herself, Roger decided to fly down and pick her up. The boss set him up & he was on his way the very next day.

Today he came in looking a little too joyful. I invited him to have a seat & he told me it was time to take his sister back home. And that he couldn't be happier because it was way past time for her to get out. I asked how she was doing, not expecting any real details, but just to be polite - okay okay - I may've been slightly curious about the spider bite.

He launched into the whole wretched saga. She was making him crazy because she's basically a deadbeat. Her husband hadn't had a stroke at all but rather suffered the seriously ill effects of too many "bad drugs" and what sounded like dirty needles. He now has hepatitis - I don't know much about hepatitis but I believe Roger said he had 2 or 3 different kinds. Ugh! Also, this couple had many animals including a horse, about 20 dogs, who knows how many cats, a vast number of chickens and four goats. Someone was supposed to be taking care of these animals but had lapsed in their duties. When Roger arrived, he was greeted by two dead goats among other dead animals and chicken eggs strewn about the house (I didn't ask why the chickens were in the house) - one having hatched and died on the kitchen counter , but he must've seen the flinching horror on my face & didn't share anymore. Good thing. Stuff like that makes me want to drive down and chop somebody's head off.

While Roger was at the house, for all of a half hour because, as he said, he "doesn't even want to be there in the first place", the Humane Society showed up & wanted to cite him for being a downright terrible animal parent. He explained the situation to them & agreed to round up all the animals. He did say they were taken to a no-kill shelter which he seemed quite ecstatic about. I still wanted to chop someone's head off. And, while he was there - he expressed much disbelief himself that all of this could happen within the short time he was there to toss some of her clothes into a suitcase - the cops rolled up.

Turned out the couple was dealing drugs. Not just pot (which as we all know is not a bad thing at all - if you do think so, save the preaching for your local DARE program), but hard bad stupid drugs. And apparently these drugs were still in the house. The cops flashed a warrant, told him they were going to search the place, questioned him about whether or not he knew what was inside to which he replied, "Nope - don't know, don't care, search the place & good riddance. I'm just here to take my sister home." Who knows what sort of trouble these two will be in once they're home, but I'd imagine hepatitis & suppurating wounds will be the least of it.

Roger stayed on an extra day to make sure the animals were dealt with which cost him more money due to changing both tickets and came home with sister in tow.

And now here he was at my desk, volunteering all these terrible things, and saying he was a bad person because he hadn't been very nice to his sister as of late. I told him he was a good brother & he said he wasn't willing to put that to the test and that he felt very horrible about the way he'd been treating his own flesh & blood.

To me, the guy answered the call to duty. Even tho' he may not approve of his sister, her husband, her lifestyle, he went down there, spent his own cash, picked her up - not to mention dealing with the cops & animals - and flew her to his own home where she was taken care of, fed, and dressings changed. People aren't always what they seem, but I don't imagine this guy to be an abusive, even verbally, sort of man. Whatever berating he may've dealt out to his sister over the past few weeks was more than likely deserved - with any luck, a good dose of reality was unleashed upon her. Someone had made the comment to him that he was just practicing "tough love" and he said it was more "tough" but not much "love". His usual good-natured demeanor was dampened and his face was downcast as he poured out his heart. Sometimes people just need to let it out. Sometimes it's to me even tho' "psychiatrist" certainly isn't in my job description - those folks have the office down the hall.

I shook my head solemnly. I had to tell him. None of my business, but I could see he was genuinely disturbed because he thought he was a terrible person. I didn't want him walking out of here disappointed in himself. I told him he was a good brother, that there are a lot of families who wouldn't have opened their homes to a person like that, kin or not, and that he had done the right thing. He didn't look convinced. I then told him that the sister needed to hear what he had to say whether he thought it was cruel or not. Maybe she'd think more about her actions & her husband's in the future. He didn't seem too certain about that either - that these were the type of people who would never learn.

Then I told him he didn't need to beat himself up about it - he had done what he could, did right by his own sister, and if she wanted to ruin her life that was her choice. At least he didn't have to worry about the animals and he should know that he did all he could when he could. A lot of people wouldn't. At that, he smiled. He started to perk up, ever so slightly. I could almost see the relief on his face at having a near stranger justify his treatment of her & reiterate his goodness of intentions. I felt better, too, just seeing the humor return to his face.

He bought his tickets and left with a warm "Thank you".

Some days it's whiners - MOST days, but some days it's people who really need something. And not just tickets.

More Batovan

It's like having a baby - everything he does is adorable!

Except crapping in the carrier on the way to the vet this morning. Not so cute. He did look slightly ill - could've had something to do with my driving & the bumpy backroads - before fouling the thing. But, somehow he managed to be sweet & still while I was stopped in the parking lot (fortunately empty) of an ice cream shop, clutching him to me with poopy paws (yes, poo on my shirt, poo on my arm), dragging shitty towels (fortunately old) out of the carrier. I could see the neighbors of the ice cream shop, who happened to be outside, watching me covertly. Who knows what they thought, probably that I was going to fling him out into the street. But, no, he just had to endure the rest of the drive on hard, slippery plastic rather than soft raggy towels. He was good-natured about it.

Adorable I tell ya.

He has little bulgy eyes, big pink ears & a very fluffy tail. He looks like an albino squirrel with blue eyes. And, despite being deaf, he is very, very vocal. Very. Something I've also noticed with Vince who's meow sounds like a dying buzzard. This little guy's just sounds like a very shrill, very loud little cat.

Anyway - clean bill of health from the vet other than dirty ears - I left them dirty just for the vet - and that he's on the upswing from an upper respiratory infection. I figure he had that due to a big week for a sheltered kitty & didn't worry too too much about it. I was hoping he'd send me out with some amoxi tabs so I could have them on hand, but no luck since the kitty is recovering nicely.

I'm going to send that Pat lady some photos along with a very warm & heartfelt thank you card. She probably knows I was delighted, but I don't think she quite knows to what extent. I have to give her a very truthful opinion on how she's brought this little boy up - he's so sweet, loving & personable! She must've done something right! I'm glad to know there are people out there like that.

Even if she can't spell Beethoven.

Batovan

Friday morning when I got up, I had eight cats. I fed them, changed their water, cleaned their boxes while I swore at them for being vile & having bad aim (that conversation goes something like this: "Your asses are a tenth the size of mine but you can't hit a 2 foot by 1 foot plastic box? I could fit MY ass in there & do better!" Do they care? No.)

If someone had told me that by the end of the day I'd be so worked up about yet another cat that I was on the verge of tears, I would've told them they were off-their-asses-straight-up CRAZY.

But. That's what happened.

At home in my collection of cats I have Vincent. He is about 13 now. He rules the house with an impossibly soft, fuzzy & clawless (he came to us declawed) iron paw. Our 100 pound shepherd mix dog, Turkish, is absolutely terrified of him and the other cats are careful to watch his mood and get out of his way if they get "The Look". Scott & I absolutely adore him. Vince is one of those anomalies in the cat world - a white, long-haired, blue-eyed cat. And, as is the case with many white cats with blue or odd eyes, he's deaf. "Why is the dog scared of him?" people have asked. It's because Vince will launch himself at the dog, usually for no good reason other than that the dog is within a 3 foot radius, spitting & yowling with fury and smacks the dog repeatedly in his hollow head with his fat hairy paws while the dog attempts to flee. He's actually pissed himself with fear before. I didn't say he was a brave dog!

Vince, tho' he likes Scott & will let him tote him around, is, without a doubt, my cat. He follows me around like a psychotic & loyal white dog, sleeps on my pillow at night and let's me do just about anything with him inc. lifting him over my head like a dumbbell. He prefers to play with me, esp. hide & seek, and does not think he's a cat. Scott & I had both decided that if we ever ran across another male deaf white cat, we'd take him in a heartbeat.

On Friday night, on my way home from work, I planned to stop at the grocery. Thinking I could beat the other drivers in the lane I needed, I positioned myself in the left turn lane. No good. And, I wasn't going to be that asshole - the one that is in the wrong lane & then cuts over in front of everyone causing horns to blare & fingers to wave. I sucked it up, decided that since I was now headed that way anyway, I might as well go to Petsmart & pick up a bag of litter.

Petsmart has a section in their store where they offer pets from the local Humane Society for adoption. I always pass by to see what's there, to depress myself, but mostly to see, if on the off chance, there's a young white cat........

I'm not a religious person, but whatever gods may be were with me that night, saying, "Sure! You can beat those people, dumbass! Just give it a try! You know the Goat is as slow as a slug, but YEAH - get in the left lane!" knowing that I would go to Petsmart. Because these gods must be my own personal ones & they know things that I don't but should.

Even tho' I had passed by those cages earlier in the week, I walked by again. And there he was. I saw the longhaired white cat snoozing in the big cage & stared at him. I read the little info card taped to the cage. The name was "Batovan" - odd. Male, 6 months old, "a very special boy will fill your home with love & know no fear." That sentence alone choked me up - we always talk about how most of our cats are fearless because they've never known anything they should fear. The card also went on to note that he was deaf & was being fostered by someone who worked there that had Final Approval on the adopter. I stared at the kitty some more. He woke up, yawned, and fixed his beautiful blue gaze on me & stood up with a friendly "meow" & strolled to the front of the cage. My heart filled up to the point of explosion & I told him not to move while I went on the search for an employee. I tracked one down, a highschool kid with glasses & curly hair. I told him that I HAD to see that cat. He apologized & said that the adoption center closes at 7. It was 7:07. I blinked at him, willed him to forget about 7 minutes. Then I tried batting my eyes *gag* and a flirtatious smile *gag* and saying please. Presto.

He led me into the visitation room & got little Batovan (what the hell did that mean, anyway?) out & handed me the soft ball of fuzz. I sat down on the bench & talked to the little kitty - even tho' they can't hear, I always fancy the vibrations mean something to them. He purred. He stretched out, back feet on my belly, front feet on my chest, and reached out to touch my face with a dainty paw. I looked at the kid, "How do I go about this adoption process?" He blathered on something about background checks & that the woman, Pat, got the final approval, I nodded, petted the kitty, and made up my mind. I stayed with Batovan while the kid cleaned cages & fed the other charges. I called Scott while Batovan meowed at me from inside his cage. Scott listened to the "there's a cat" thing with a doubting grunt (not that I truly cared about his opinion at that point) then when I told him what the cat was, he perked up. Good boy. I went up front to the cashier to buy my litter. I was delighted to see that the woman that's always there & knows me enough to banter was working the register. I announced, "That little white cat back there? I MUST have him." She told me exactly what I needed to know, "You need to talk to Pat. She's here in the morning - you could call!" I said, "Even better - I'll come in. What time does she work?" She told me.

On the way home I thought about the cat. What the hell kind of name was Batovan anyway? Not literary - surely I'd get that. Something to do with Star Wars? A surname? What? Then, phonics hit me. Beethoven. Ah. Deaf cat, deaf composer. Someone apparently knew their trivia but didn't know how to spell.

At 10 am Saturday morning I was in the store standing in front of Pat. She asked me many questions, started to go into the spiel about deaf cats needing special care when I pulled my trump card. Vincent. She looked at me, her eyes getting big, and said, "So you know how to deal with deaf cats? You'll never let him outside? Is your dog aggressive?" To which I replied, "Nope - in fact, he's petrified of the white cat." She smiled at this & told me she had another girl who was interested in him, but if that girl didn't take him by the end of the day, he was back up for adoption. My heart plummeted. Who could resist him? She also wanted me to fill out an adoption application just in case, and handed me off to another woman while she continued with her work. The new woman led me to the back & let Batoven out again while we did the application. My stomach was spinning, I was actually getting an ulcer right there. I filled in the app, put my number down, and told them both I really hoped I'd hear from them. I could tell the second woman was really rooting for me. I went on to Mom's since we were doing a little mother/daughter bonding day, but I was sick. I had to have that cat. He was mine, I could feel it in my gut. If he wasn't, I was sure my heart would break & it would be a miserable weekend.

I arrived at Mom's, visited with her kitty clan & looked at things (she always has things to "show me") and we set out in her car. I checked my phone. A Springfield number had called. I tried to call it back but it was a fax line. We went back to Mom's to get the phonebook & I called Petsmart & asked for Pat. "Hello Pat, this is Renee - did you try to reach me?" I was certain she was going to tell me that this other chick was there & had taken him. Instead she said, "Yes. If you want Batoven, he's yours." I nearly choked - I almost cried anyways! What the hell was wrong with me? "I want him!!!! I will be there to get him! Thank you thank you thank you!" I gushed. I told her I was spending the day with my mom & she said that that was fine, that she would say her goodbyes to him & we could pick him up later on.

Scott & I cruised back into the city that night. I had left the cat carrier in the truck from my hopeful loading of it that morning. We got into the store, I pointed out the cat to Scott, he was pleased. While I was filling out the adoption paperwork - I didn't realize that adopting a cat required so much - Scott poked his finger in the cage & cooed at the cat. He was smitten, too. I didn't want to ask about the other applicant & I didn't have to. The woman that led me thru the process was a manager. She said she knew the other girl who was interested in him & that Pat was hesitant in the first place to let the girl have him, and when I came in, Pat knew she had the right person & felt much more comfortable placing him with me. I beamed inwardly. Then, little Batoven was scooted into the carrier, Scott carried him outside & fretted about the wind blowing on him. We placed our new kitty carefully in the truck and set out for home. And immediately turned around & went back when we realized we had forgotten the bag of food Pat wanted to send home with him.

Once home, he was introduced to the other critters - basically, left in the carrier while all the other animals stared at him like a zoo animal. He didn't care in the least. He was going to fit right in.

Sure enough, we let him out & he started terrorizing the other cats. Our Siamese, Miguel, ever the Goodwill Ambassador, took to him right away & invited him to play. We got some good laughs out of this as little "Batoven" threw himself at Miguel flying-squirrel style, sending both cats tumbling across the floor in a cotton & toffee swirl. Also, he was quite taken with the dog & followed him everywhere much to Turk's dismay, swatting at Turk's super-fluffy tail & trying to headbutt his nose. Turk wasn't sure what to make of it - it was almost like we could see him looking at his nemesis, Vincent, and then at this outgoing little guy who came trotting after him with his tail up, so similar in appearance yet totally opposite in behaviour and wondering, "What the hell?".

Also, we've been going through a slew of names to see what fits. Even toying with various pronunciations on Batovan. I have a feeling he'll remain nameless for at least a short while!

When we're not in the house, I've been leaving him in our office with his toys & other necessities of kitty life. I had to leave him this morning after carrying him around for a while & felt terrible about it. He's a social little creature but I don't want him left at Vincent's mercy just yet....

I can't wait to see him tonight! I'm so excited! And very much in love.....

And I'm going to have to get another damn litterbox!

Fall Line

Tomorrow's the first day of fall - so soon?

This morning I stepped out on the back porch first thing after rolling out of bed like I usually do. 50 degrees & I'm standing out there in bare feet, t-shirt & sweatpants inhaling the crisp morning air. Fall is definitely right around the corner. Yesterday wasn't so obvious, but this morning was a sure sign. I closed my eyes & smelled the leaves, the rain & the slight breeze that held that cold edge that I love so well. Reminds me of Scotland. If you've never been there, it gets under your skin. In your blood. It's in my blood anyway, along with a predilection for fiddles & bagpipes. Even after 10 years, I can still recall the smells & feeling of that ancient place. That's one thing I love about my area of Ohio - some days hold a hint of mysticism, a certain vibe. I can drive up around the Lake & imagine it's a loch nestled in the highlands, surrounded by old forest with the mist hanging over it. And mornings like this just stir it up - the longing to go back & walk those age-old paths again through a farmer's field, past curious hairy red cows & dirty woolly sheep, over the thoughtfully-placed (and how long ago?) wooden step over the low stone fence, to stand on the sandy spit at the tip of Loch Tay, that long narrow lake that stretches north thru the gentle mountains that eventually give way to the craggy, ominous peaks of the Highlands.

In my mind I can still walk that path & feel that pull to that unfamiliar yet totally familiar landscape..... How long until I walk it again for real?

Last night

A good friend of mine from high school and his wife were in town last night from the NYC area. They had a room at a Days Inn in the shifty part of Springfield that I booked for them & the plan was for Scott & I to pick up some Mexican food & beer & meet them there. We didn't make it there until about 9:15, the restaurant closed at 10, T & N met us outside, fretting because they closed in 45 minutes. I found that odd since it was 45 minutes after all, and instead of ordering from the room & having it delivered as planned, they wanted to drive over there, order the food, sit around & wait for it, then bring it back to the room. I found this odd, too. But, that's what we did.

We haven't seen them in a couple of years, but that's not unusual. T is tall. His hair is now as long as mine, which is fairly long, he was wearing a very tight, dark plum long-sleeve tee & black pleated dress pants that were most likely women's along with a pair of black flipflops. He moves and speaks much more effeminately than he used to. Also, he was wearing some terribly cloying perfume that attached itself to me after I hugged him. The first thing that popped into my head when they came out of the hotel was, "Oh my god, it's Gene Simmons." Not that he looked like Gene Simmons, but if it weren't for the girly garb, he would've looked like a rocker. I think he thought he was passable as one anyway.

We got to the Mexican place which was much nicer than I expected. Scott & I were a bit worried because that side of town is questionable, but no one got mugged or killed. After we ordered the food, the host invited us to sit at the bar while we waited, so we ordered a round of beer & started chit-chatting. The Mexicans kept peering out of doorways to gawk at T.

Apparently they had never seen a 6 ft 3 transexual. T was either ignoring or unaware of their stares. I suppose he must be used to it by now - even in New York he's bound to get some looks, but I know he's rather sensitive about it. It's not a lifestyle he intended.

We'd brought a 12 pack of beer, a case of water (figuring they might want some for the road, too), a roll of paper towels, some limes, and our laptop along with a couple photo CDs, and unloaded all this from the truck to haul up to the room along with the food. Scott was wearing his Arrogant Bastard shirt and looked more than slightly ruffian, T was, well, T, N & I both looked average enough. We entered the lobby & the little Indian man that was working was on us in a flash. "No no! What is going on here? You are not guests - you are visitors! We do not allow visitors! It is against strict policy! I will give you full refund!" All in his little accent, pacing around us in a very sorrowful & worried way. We were taken aback by this & moved automatically into a buffalo stance, backs facing in while the man circled us like an elderly, plaid-shirted wolf.

"That's a very strange policy," I stated before thinking that he probably does have a lot of problems with people on that end of town.

T was baffled, trying to explain that we were old high school friends & they were back in town & we just wanted to visit & view pictures. "We have a laptop! I'm 34 years old!" he declared, as if that explained everything. The man was having none of it & stuck to his guns, repeating the same thing over & over again. T reacts strangely to some situations, usually not in a positive way, especially when he's on the defensive or feels that he is being attacked by ignorant & irrational non-New Yorkers. The three of us could sense him getting edgy & tried to soothe him & the Indian man at the same time as T had started to respond to the accusation in the man's voice by adopting the stance & tone of a bitchy woman & asking him not to speak to him in that way and not to raise his voice. From what I could tell, the old fellow was only growing increasingly agitated with our polite rebellion, but wasn't speaking harshly, he was just concerned for his business. Understandable.

"You can sit down here in the lobby & eat your food & look at your pictures. No guests in the room. Strict policy. Full refund. Very sorry." We all looked at each other, pleaded with the man once again. He jabbed a finger at Scott, standing quietly with his shirt & brew. "Look at him! He is ready to party! He has beer and water!" I almost lost it. I was very amused by the whole thing in the first place because the guy was so genuinely upset by our plans & this comment struck me as extraordinarily funny, especially followed by the look of shock & dismay on Scott's face at being singled out & accused. We really are respectful folks & generally leave hotel rooms in the same condition we found them & we take great pride in not being slovenly, inconsiderate assholes.

"No! We're not here to party! We will be quiet!" We all chimed in at once. At this point, a red-headed woman came out of the back, sized up the situation, and whispered to the Indian fellow who had moved behind the counter, tsking & shaking his head.

He eyeballed T. "You are from Yellow Springs, right?" This threw us all off. I wasn't sure what to make of it, whether it was a good thing or a bad thing, opened my mouth to ask, because I was honestly curious, why YS was suspect & also to offer up that I worked in the town. But, for once I thought before I spoke, and bit my tongue as he didn't seem to think YS was a good thing at all. T isn't familiar with YS & was even more confused - he might've been more offended had he known why the fellow thought he was from the little alternative village. I think the guy thought we were local people who were choosing to trash his hotel room rather than our own pad.

"Yellow Springs?" repeated T, not understanding. "No - I'm from Englewood, New Jersey."

We could see the old fellow was relenting with help from the woman. "How many more of you are coming?" He asked us, resolve obviously weakening.

"It's just us. We'll be quiet, we just want to visit with our friends."

"Okay - because I have a lot of elderly people staying here & they don't want to be awakened by your partying!"

"Old people like us - we're not partying!" I blurted unhelpfully.

The woman gave us an apologetic smile and said, "We have a lot of problems with people doing drugs & trashing up the rooms. But I'm not saying you do those things!" she added anxiously. I think she saved us from lobby purgatory. All I could see was the four of us sitting at these tiny, flimsy plastic tables with our laptops & our beer next to us, undrunk.

The old Indian sighed & peered at us over his glasses, "If there are damages, you will pay?" We all nodded solemnly. He let us go amid a profusion of thanks.

We figured he had stalked by the door several times while we were in the room, but with the exception of a couple loud, excited, not unusual outbursts from Toni, we were well-behaved. Scott & I even hauled all the trash from our little get-together out to the truck & took it home so it wouldn't stink of stale Mexican food & beer. All in all, a very pleasant visit & a funny story.

Thanks very much! Have a safe drive home, gals! Love ya!

Barn Tour

This past Saturday I decided to do something rather uncharacteristic - I did a self-guided "Barn Tour" around the county. I have a thing for taking pics of barns & churches, so I figured this would be a free pass to explore some barns & take some photos without getting the usual weird looks. The theme was "Barn Quilts", with each barn on the loop bearing a handpainted quilt square mounted on the barn. 5 barns were open to the public with special presentations including quilts, local arts & crafts, antique tractors, and barn restoration. I'm not sure what the other was. There were another 13 or so barns that were on the driving loop, and presumably the owners were expecting people to drive up their lanes & take pictures- another good reason to do the tour. Usually this is something I wouldn't dream of doing for fear of angry farmers with shotguns.

I did think the tour was somewhat laughable at first, even tho' I had decided to do it as soon as I found out about it - the idea behind it was to enlighten people on our county's agricultural heritage. Several years ago was Ohio's bicentennial year. This was celebrated by hiring an artist who painted Ohio bicentennial logos on a barn in each county - 88 in all. Last year our county's barn was razed to make way for a SUPER WALMART, a thing that I loathe even more than grubs. In fact, I won't even shop at the bastards & haven't done so for years. Scott wanted me to do the tour & then complete it with a picture of this eyesore & label it "Ohio Bicentennial Barn" and then mail the whole batch off to the newspaper. I cannot even bear to look at the damn thing in all it's atrocious cookie-cutter evilness, so I didn't waste a photo on it. But, in defense of the city where the barn stood, the mayor that shooed that whole deal thru has been impeached & replaced with someone who has a better grasp of what our rural county needs. And, I hope the folks who sold off their barn & land to make way for the dumb store are pleased with their profit - and may Urban Sprawl Hell surround them whereever they now live.

Anyway.

I went by myself since everyone else was working or had other plans or just didn't want to spend the day looking at barns. So, I set out Saturday morning with an Ohio Gazetteer & a list of barns & a vague plan of what I wanted to see. First on the list was West Liberty to pick up an orange & blue basket (to match my kitchen) from the Free Trade store, easily one of the coolest stores in the area. I had seen the basket about 2 months ago on an outing with my mom & didn't want to spend the money on it at the time. The more I thought about it, I decided that if I found something that matched the kitchen I should probably just get it. Fortunately, they still had it. The day had started out well.

From here I headed south to a farm market, the location of the first of the barns on my list. I bought a bunch of cheese and veggies and some other goodies, and was delighted to see that while the barn had its roof intact with "Mad River Farm Market" shingled on it, the barn itself was open, its wooden frame without walls. The market folks were very gracious about me wandering around it & taking pictures.

From their lot, I could see the state route running in front of it was packed, as usual, with slow-moving cars. I looked at the crossroad that I sat on, the narrow road stretching out in front of me without a soul on it, and, tho' I wasn't quite sure where it ended up, I decided that was the lesser of the two evils.

I set out on a series of backroads winding through small villages, most of which I had never been to but had heard of. I realized I wasn't missing much. The goal was to take photos of four covered bridges that I had seen on the Gazetteer. I found the first one without any problem, pulled off the road & ran around snapping pictures. The next bridge was just down the road. It was skeletal, the road it sat on was closed, and there was a trailer & a Port-O-John & the smell of fresh tar. I assume they must be planning on restoring it - covered bridges are a nice little tourist draw. But, no one was there to thwart my efforts, so I scrambled around the construction area & took pics. Then, more small towns & backroads & I found myself on a dead-end road with an attractive little bridge on it. There was a Buick LeSabre parked there as well, a sure sign of old folks, and sure enough, there was an elderly man with a small camcorder filming the bridge. We greeted each other and tried to stay out of the other's way while his wife sat in the car. I asked him if he'd taken pics of the other two barns farther north yet. He got sort of a strange look on his face & said, "Uh, yeah." Then he proceeded to tell me that they were from Maryland & that their goal was to take a picture of every covered bridge in the U.S., just because they liked covered bridges. Ohio has 122 (something I did not know) and the one we were at was #98. I thought I was doing pretty good with four in one day!!

After that bridge I tracked down the 4th, a familiar one that I passed every day when I was going to travel school. Then, I set out for more unfamiliar territory, a spiderweb of roads that would eventually lead me to the next series of barns on the other side of the county. While running down these roads, I came across a bonus item - the Bigelow Cemetery Prairie Reserve, a half acre spot of land that is a remnant of the original Ohio prairie. It is also a cemetery, as the name might suggest, one of my other favorite things to photograph & wander thru. The prairie plants were tall, covering the gravestones in a pretty way. Some of the stones dated back as far as 1843 and were in remarkably good condition, except for the broken stones which had been carefully propped against the back fence. I wandered through the mowed paths, took a couple pics of the flowers & a very nice Agriope spider, and went on my way.

I was pleased my journey had taken me this way because otherwise I never would've found the barn that was in that area - I just happened upon it by mistake. This barn was just one of the loop barns & I had to drive back their driveway to get a picture of it. The funny thing was, the barn the quilt square was on was a neat barn that had been turned into a two-car garage, but there was another barn on the property, a huge old thing with paint peeling & a silo. It was by far the more picturesque of the two so I slipped around the side of the quilt barn & snapped a quick photo of the old barn.

From here I was dumped out onto a very familiar route outside of the town of Mechanicsburg.
There were two barns in that area, inc. one of the tour barns which was my official first one
where I had to pay my $10 & pick up my "passport". This barn was magnificent & worth the $10 alone. This was the one with the quilt exhibit - over 100 quilts on display upstairs & down. I was marvelling at the condition of the grand barn, but it turned out the family had it renovated & used it as a reception hall. The roof of the barn was a half-circle & quite impressive with all the bowed planks - from the interior I managed to snap some nice shots of the curved wooden ceiling as well as a few of the more interesting quilts. I'm not much of a quilt person, but I can definitely respect the amount of labor, time & love that must go into one of these creations. Some of them weren't even of a traditional square pattern, but of flowing fields of brightly colored flowers. I showed these photos to Scott who couldn't believe that they were actually quilts. I imagine they cost a pretty penny, too! The barn was whitewashed with a red tin roof & the silo matched. Quite a looker. The house that the barn belonged to was obviously well-maintained with beautiful gardens & stone walkways.

At this barn was my one sad spot of the day, a little old woman in a walker/cart that could only see the quilts in the downstairs area, who had to be content to watch the passersby. I hope someone somehow wheeled her upstairs so she could see all the splendid handcrafted quilts up there, but I have a feeling they left her below while they went up to peruse. I felt terrible about it.

I got the shot of the other barn down the road from this one, just a loop barn & nothing special, and went back thru Mechanicsburg to follow the signs for the rest of the barns, pausing briefly to photograph a rather lovely church.

It was a beautiful day & had gotten rather warm, but I was very pleased with the way things
were going. I couldn't believe the luck I was having at getting good shots, at pulling stupid
traffic maneuvers that I wouldn't normally do & not pissing anyone off, and, especially at the
bridges, the lack of people bothering me or giving me dirty looks for pulling off into the
grass/field/driveway/ditch. Just the occasional yahoo squealing by in their Dodge pickup to
show me that their truck was bigger than mine. No shit.

The rest of the barns were back in relatively familiar territory. The first was the restoration-
themed tour barn, an ornate Victorian building with the usual rectangular barn but also a
dodecagonal barn (a new word, I assure you - means "twelve-sided") attached to it. The whole
affair was painted a muted lavender with a quilt square to match. The folks had obviously
put a lot of money into that barn to restore it & it was worth it. Housed inside the 12-sider
were the non-working stables (not on that day at least), set up in circular fashion with an
opening in the ceiling, I figure where they must've tossed the hay down from up above.

After checking out the next couple of barns, I realized I had forgotten one back in the
direction I'd come earlier, and since I had so many of them thus far, I made up my mind
to seek out the others just to finish the job. One I hadn't planned on going to as I was
there just a few weeks prior to pick raspberries. This is the Rothschild's Berry Farm, a
place that has made a killing on their red raspberries, packaging them in everything from
salsa to hot mustard to coffee. Not to mention their high-end gift shop & tidy little cafe
catering to the area's "elite" aka snooty folks. The cafe does serve up some tasty food tho', and some of their concoctions, inc. a non-raspberry (at least I think it's raspberry-free) jalapeno dip, are fantastic. Another thing I was delighted to find out is that my old friend Rusty works there.

To cut it short, Rusty is the best friend of my first love, longtime ex-boyfriend Steve, and Rusty & I have stayed friends ever since. I saw him walking across the lot as I was snapping the
pic of the quilt square & barked, "Russell!" and he beelined for my truck & yapped at
me for a while, asked if I had a coupon which I was supposed to get with my barn
tour info, and, when I did not have the coupon, he declared that, "The motherfuckers
ripped [me] off. Those motherfucking bastards." I love Rusty.

From there I drove all the way out to the barn I had missed, and when I saw it, I thought,
"I drove all the way out here for this?" since it looked like a lean-to with metal siding.
Upon reading the history of it afterwards, the barn has been standing for over 100 years
and the metal siding was added to protect the original wood. I guess not all old barns
are huge!

By then, I had missed the other three tour barns since they closed at 5 o'clock, but I still drove off to take photos of them. Much to my dismay, I realized the first tour barn, and one of the hardest to photograph from the road (which involved me darting off the busy road into a ditch, probably ticking off a whole batch of drivers), was right across the road from the farm market where I had made my very first barn-stop. I had seen the address & thought the barn was further south on the road, but, that's my fault for not paying attention, I guess. The other tour
barn was actually right down the road from me, and originally Scott had planned to join
me for the last couple barns, but by that time, all I could do was take a picture of it.
I was all barned out anyways!

At the end of it all, I had been gone for 6 1/2 hours, drove 150 miles - most of these in
my county, and fed one stray dog half of my sandwich that I had hurriedly picked up from
Wendy's. Granted, if I hadn't screwed up my route, I could've shaved both mileage and
time from my journey, but I might not have seen all the neat stuff I did. And, it was like
being on a solitary mini-vacation, very nice for me. I think I'll have to make it a point to
do more things by myself. Not that I don't enjoy company, but this time, being able to
do things at my own pace was a grand thing.

After I arrived home, I woke Scott up from his nap &, despite being very excited to check
out my handiwork from the day (not that it takes a lot of skill to photograph square
structures standing still), we set out for the fishing pond where we idled away the evening
by ourselves, drinking beer and watching the sun set. I grew bored with my bait & the lack
of bites on it, and started catching the baby frogs, fresh from the tadpole stage. Scott claims it's one of the things he loves about me. Sick, huh? Knees in the water, filthy with pond mire, small frog tucked carefully into my clenched fist, I found him beaming at me adoringly. What's not to love? They were truly the smallest bullfrogs I've ever seen - small enough to sit on my thumbnail!

A busy but fantastic day. I need more of those!

A Quote

Seems like the powers that be are encouraging me, or at least inspiring me, to get the hell out of town. Hm.

"Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the tradewinds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." --Mark Twain

Five Years Ago

As I was preparing to eat my lunch, my coworker asked, "What do you have there?" I replied, "Steak sub from Subway." As this is not my usual sub (we've all worked together for far too long), she said, "Oh - that's different!"

I had to think back. When was the last time I'd eaten this sub? Then I remembered. 4 years, 361 days ago. She was surprised at my memory. I had to tell her I remember this so vividly because it was the Friday after the towers went down. My mom & I were on our way home to Ohio after being stranded in the Bahamas in those ominous days following Sept. 11, 2001.

We had landed on Grand Bahama Island on Sept 10. It was the first time (and the last) the husband & I had spent time apart, but, no big deal - 4 days away with my mom. How much trouble could I possibly get into? Well, aside from the normal stuff. We were late getting in on Monday night due to our flight being delayed so we wandered to a local restaurant, dined on conch fritters & beer, and headed back to the room to rest our heads in preparation for the adventures of the next few days.

Tuesday morning found us up bright & early, shining faces beaming at the tour desk clerk. We asked what tours might be available that day, she looked suspiciously at us & said, "Have you heard about the World Trade Center?" We glanced at each other, confused. The Trade Center thing had happened several years before - what was she talking about? She caught this baffled exchange & pointed in the direction of the bar. We turned to follow her gesture & saw a cluster of people standing around the ornate wooden counter, all gazes fixed on the tv sets above the bartender, who was also focused on the scene taking place on the screen above him as he dried glasses. Funny how you remember these small details, isn't it?

We saw the flaming hole in the tower, blinked disbelievingly, and, like a couple of people in a trance, we walked towards the bar, never once taking our eyes off the TV sets that broadcasted three separate channels, all the same footage. Then, BAM! The next plane hit. People gasped, shook their heads, a couple of the women started crying. I took a seat next to a Brazilian construction worker who was glad to have someone to talk to. "I should've never left my wife & baby daughter! The world is going crazy. I shouldn't be here. I should be home! But the money is too good - and now you see where I'm at." I nodded, still staring at the screen. The rest of his chatting is forgotten, but the faces of all those people isn't. We watched until we could watch no more, then, suitably dumbfounded, all smiles wiped clean from our faces, we wandered out around the pool, taking in the small lizards sunning themselves, a beautiful woman who was unaffected by the world around her & was applying sunscreen, and the ornate landscaping. We decided to make the most of it - after all, what else were we to do?

Everywhere we went, the usually boisterous & somewhat pushy Bahamians were quiet. They still offered hair-braiding, timeshares & so on, but I could tell they weren't going to push the issue. And, to each one that received our glazed stare & polite, "No thank you", they said, "I'm sorry for your country." It was a eerie feeling indeed.

Mom & I did have fun, as much fun as could be had in those strange days afterwards. I finally managed to push my way to a pay phone to call a very worried Scott to tell him we were safe & just waiting it out. He reported that it was very weird back home - there were no planes in the sky, no accustomed jet noise over our small house.

On Thursday we were scheduled to come home. Of course, the planes still weren't flying. I wasn't having any part of it & we decided to get off the island by any means possible. Thursday morning found us petting dolphins, the afternoon found me sitting on the bed in the hotel room making frantic calls to local travel agents. The shabby old cruise ship Discovery was scheduled to depart from Freeport at 3:15 that afternoon to arrive in Ft. Lauderdale. It was our only chance.

We hurriedly slammed all of our belongings into our bags & fled to the hotel desk to check out. At the curb we found a smiling cabbie who, upon me telling him our plan, glanced at his watch, tossed us & our luggage into the car, and said, "Hang on. We can make it." It was 3 o'clock. That man drove like a bat out of hell, but, true to his word, we were there in a matter of minutes, checking in at the pier, sweating & pink. He got a nice tip that day!

Upon boarding the ship, we stowed our couple bags in a locker & started exploring. This was a great adventure despite the circumstances that brought us there. The ship was packed with all manner of travelers, all of the same mind as us. "Just get us back to the U.S." The crew looked very alarmed at the scores of sad-faced Americans making their way onto the crowded ship, and they hustled to get us all accomodated in the dining room. I imagine they'd probably violated every fire code, but when faced with a fire marshal or an angry, hungry horde, they must've decided the authorities were the least of their worries & pushed more & more tables & chairs into the cafeteria. We were slightly concerned about the glutinous fare on the buffet, but ate it anyways. We sat at a table with a young black couple from California who were, no pun intended, in the same boat we were. We still wonder how they're trip home went - they had a lot further to go than we did.

On board the ship, the crew was trying to make it business as usual. "Keep them entertained." A handsome dark-skinned magician did all he could to make his audience of disheveled, grieving passengers smile, and sometimes it worked, but for the most part it looked like a refugee camp. Red-eyed women curled under their jackets, heads pillowed on their men's shoulders. The men didn't look much better - baggy-eyed, staring straight ahead, but staunch for their women. I often wish I would've taken more photos of this strange, depressing sight in the most incongruous of places, but at the time it seemed in bad taste.

At 11 or so we arrived into the port at Fort Lauderdale. The Coast Guard held us up for 3 or 4 hours until they had thoroughly inspected everything about the ship, apparently. Mom was dragging, tired, unhappy. I did the best I could to keep her entertained while somehow managing to keep a limb on every piece of our luggage, making comments on people passing, telling funny anecdotes, just saying stupid, profane things - anything to keep her awake & pushing onward & good-humored. At 3 we disembarked. Getting off that ship & onto solid U.S. ground was a fantastic feeling. I might've even done the stereotypical thing of kissing the filthy ground.

From there, we didn't know what we were going to do, but we were prepared to do it & we knew it involved a car. Scott & his dad had offered to make the long drive down to retrieve us, but no point in that - we'd have to wait for them & that was out of the question.

There were still a couple of cars available as advertised in the windows of the shuttles circling the lot, so we boarded one & stood in line at the rental agency for another long, agonizing hour. At 4:30 in the morning, we had our car - a hulking maroon Chrysler. Now. I'm not a Chrysler sort of gal, but I was more than happy to see that big capable car on the lot. We loaded the bags in the trunk & I took the wheel.

We pulled out of the lot & opened up the big car on I-95 up the coast to Jacksonville. Hurricane weather was the forecast for the day, tornadoes had been spotted in such & such town. As we heard these words from the radio, I looked at the signs whizzing past our windows at 75 miles per hour & it just so happened that the such & such town was right to the east of us. Mom craned her head out the window, looking for tornadoes & urged me to drive! Drive!

Here's where I must break to tell the Sandal Story. On the day of swimming with the dolphins, Mom saw fit to wear her little leather sandals into the water after seeing me wearing my Tevas. The sandals festered on her feet for the next 18 or so hours. We were on our way, flying up the coast, sealed in our new-car smelling vault, when suddenly I caught a whiff. I didn't know what it was at first - was it rotten ass? Did something die in the back seat? Mom caught my wrinkled nose & tentative sniffs & started giggling. I didn't realize my dainty, prim mother was capable of generating such a stench, but, she most certainly is. I exited at the first rest area - "You gotta take those off." Giddy from lack of sleep, we were both hooting with laughter as Mom tried to wash her feet in the rest area sink & then attempted to dry them under the hand drying machines. We tottered back to the car & the shoes went into the trunk.

Okay. A day later because I had to cut it short last night at closing time.

We managed to avoid the nasty weather, the big car hurtling steadily along the highway, my hands relaxed on the wheel, water spraying out from under the tires. We were nearly alone on the highway during those early hours, but as the morning grew brighter, we were joined by more & more vehicles, on their way to work, to school, to whereever. We made it to Jacksonville. I had called my office before we hit the city & had the boss arrange for a one-way car rental from a Jacksonville rental agency. I was very sad to see the Chrysler go - its comfort & supreme roadworthiness would be missed on the long drive through the south.

In Jacksonville we made it to the airport & then to the National rental counter. We were handed the keys to a small, tan Olds Alero. I was amused to see that the car had come from Cincinnati, exactly where we planned to drop it off. Apparently some other displaced folks were heading in the opposite direction we were. We transferred our bags & those stinking sandals to the trunk of the new ride & we were off again.

Route 10 had us cut west, passing by the Osceola National Forest before meeting up with I-75, one of those arteries of America that would carry us all the way to Cincinnati, and then, almost, home. We passed thru Valdosta, past roadside stands boasting fresh peaches & fresh peanuts. Somewhere between here & Atlanta is where we stopped at the convenience center offering the Subway as well as dried gator heads, rubber snakes, snowglobes, cigarettes & nearly anything else a traveler might not need.

On into the hustle of Atlanta. The traffic was unbelievable. I zoomed the little car in & out, causing Mom to clench her seat in terror sometimes, but driving is one of the few things I do that I do well. As we went under overpasses, we could see people standing on top, waving banners of patriotism & support. We waved back, honked a few times. We felt like we were part of something, but we didn't know what.

As evening set in & the sky began darkening, Mom put her foot down. "We HAVE to sleep. You can't keep going on like this." I really thought I could, but the thought of a bed with cool sheets & a hot shower swayed my stubborn mind & I aquiesced. We made it into Sweetwater, Tennessee & found some roadside motel with a Denny's attached to it. The sandals were set outside to air, we grabbed only what we needed to clean ourselves & change, showered, and were out before our heads hit the pillow.

The next morning we were both up bright & early. Packed the car up, grabbed breakfast at Denny's, started rolling again. I was buzzed, alive. I knew home and husband was less than a day's drive and I was chomping at the bit to get there. Mom expressed some alarm at my speed, but gave up trying to slow me down and hunkered in for the ride.

At 1 o'clock, we arrived at the Cincinnati airport. I was absolutely overjoyed to see the Mom's familiar minivan but also sad to see the Alero go. The little car had swiftly and surely carried us north. I patted its hood & promised to be nicer to domestic cars in the future.

In the van, the barest taint of sandal odor could be detected in the front. I didn't care, I was less than 2 hours from home & we could've been carrying a load of rotten meat for all I cared. Mom was much less willing to speed than I was, but, she was now the pilot and all I could do was quiver and twitch from excitement.

Exactly 48 hours after we fled our room in the Bahamas, I was standing in my driveway with my sweet, delighted husband waving bye to Mom as she went to her own, probably not as happy, homecoming. Less than a half hour later, I was curled on the sofa with Scott's arms wrapped around me, murmuring about the past few days. It never ceases to amaze me how a trip like that suddenly becomes unreal, like it didn't happen, when you reach the safe clutch of your home. Maybe it's not like that for everyone, but for me, the whole journey became a strange memory nearly the moment I stepped through the door.

My own 9/11 experience was no where near as tragic as other's, but we learned something on that trip. We learned we could do whatever it takes, put up with whatever we had to, to do what we needed to do. Both Mom & I changed when we boarded that ship & looked around at all those forlorn faces, faces that might've lost friends and family, when we sat in the holding area waiting to disembark and witnessed the growing ugliness of desperate, grieving people, when we flew under those overpasses full of flag-waving patriots. All of those things, and more, had an effect on how we approach life and stressful situations. Not to say I don't fling the occasional pot of meat every once in a while, but, when it comes down to it, panic is put aside & the stern mental navigator takes over.

And back to the partial inspiration of this whole thing, the Subway steak sandwich. After eating some of it, I realized just why it had been nearly five years since I'd eaten one.

It's not a good sandwich.

And you know what else? Mom still has those damned malodorous sandals, percolating in the corner of her closet. She just won't get rid of them! She said they're a reminder of the whole experience. Fair enough. I think I'll settle for what I carry in my heart & head.

Ahhhh, the weekend. I love the weekend. I hate Monday. This weekend was a rather mixed up sort of thing. Saturday Scott had to work, as usual, but we had made plans for me to meet him after work so we could bolt into Columbus to do some herb shopping (no no, COOKING herbs!) at Penzey's & then grab a bite at Cheeseburger in Paradise. I met him, we raced the Goat along the curving route of 161 (I love driving that road) and on into Dublin. We grabbed the herbs & asked the ladies working at Penzey's if they knew how to get to Polaris, which is where the Cheeseburger is. They gave us directions, we listened but didn't absorb, and ended up calling the restaurant anyways to verify what we thought we heard. 15 minutes later we were seated at a small table behind the wall by the kitchen. I should've whined, but I'm not much of a whiner, so we sat at our awkward table & watched the waitstaff do, well, nothing. The only person that seemed to be doing anything was a Mexican busboy bussing his little heart out. We thought that maybe they put all the unattractive people & families behind the wall so as not to scare away the pretty people that frequent the Polaris area (they have a "fashion mall" there for fuck's sake - can you imagine the horror?). Ended up, we were largely disappointed with the experience - I'm not sure what we were expecting - Key West in a restaurant? Parties? Palm trees & a beach? but it ended up being more like any other chain restaurant with a slight Caribbean edge. The burger was good, and huge, the beer was cold & tall, so all was not lost. I was amused to find out that the house beer, Island Ale, which is what we enjoyed, is actually brewed by Leinenkugel's in Wisconsin. I think they're in Wisconsin anyway.

The dinner crowd started rolling in & we decided to get the hell out of the city as quick as possible - the Polaris area was actually built up around a popular concert venue, and we were taking no chances that Big & Rich/Toby Keith/Phish or anyone else were going to hold us up on our ride home. Being a bit more relaxed on the drive back, I cruised at a smooth 70 behind a red Mini Cooper with Scott snoozing in the seat behind me. We pulled into the dealership, he hopped in his truck & we were on our way home. And, after getting home, we hung out for a bit, played darts, watched TV, whatever, I passed out at 9:30. yes! Lame!

Sunday was a weird thing. All last week & part of the week before I'd been dealing with Dude & his people for the local Blues Fest. Dude had extended an invite, "If you & your husband want to come & hang out in the hospitality tent & meet everyone, give this guy a call & he'll set you up with all the proper credentials." I mentioned it to Scott, we were terrified at the prospect of such a large gathering, but how could we pass it up? I had called "this guy" on Thursday, never heard back from him, emailed Dude's publicist in a moment of panic on Friday, and never heard anything back. Dude himself didn't come in on Friday, so I couldn't say anything to him about it. After all, I do realize we were probably low priority on the list to these busy entertainers, but hell, we wanted to go! Yesterday we toyed with the idea of just driving down here & seeing what we could get into, but chalked it up as a bad scene - surely the village would be full of Dude-admirers & press, something we didn't want to get involved in.

Around 4 o'clock or so, when the musicians should've been preparing to go onstage, I get a breathless & flustered call from my very excited mother, who said she came down to the town to sell off her massage table. No, it wasn't busy AND she'd been walking down the street when she noticed some very nattily dressed black folks in front of her. She sped up to catch up with them, heard them talking about their flights in, and then realized that Dude was with them. I asked her, "Was there a very tiny, exotic-looking woman with them?" "Yes!" Mom declared, "And she was very light-skinned!" "That would be Erykah Badu, the lead singer of the whole band that I had to have shipped in." She had no idea who Badu is, but she was tremendously excited nonetheless. I know she jotted it down so she could relay all the exciting news to her man. Scott had caught the gist of the phone conversation, and, sickened & disgusted, went out on the back porch to mope & grin psychotically to himself. To me, it wasn't a huge deal - I know who Badu is, but I'm not a huge fan, I see Dude all the time so that wasn't an issue, but I really wanted Scott to get the opportunity to meet him, not to mention hanging out in the hospitality tent & rubbing elbows with all the blues musicians. And, here's my mom, freaking out over just having walked behind them. She did say she accidentally bumped into one of them (she has a tendency to wander & not pay attention, something that's nearly got her run over more than once) & the gent turned around, put his arm around her, and apologized profusely & prettily. I think she was smitten.

So, at that point, not much use in heading down here (we live "there", I work "here" which is where the Fest is/was). We just stayed home, threw darts, marinated some meats for dinner this week, and that was that. Low key. Could've been so much more!

And now, I'm here today, people are making me crazy as usual, I have cramps, and all I can think of is 6 o'clock & that sweet rush of freedom.

A poem

Stace, knowing how I am, sent this to me thinking it suited me. It came out of one of Jimmy Buffett's books, but is by another author - Don Blanding.

The Double Life

How very simple life would be
If only there were two of me
A Restless Me to drift and roam
A Quiet Me to stay at home.
A Searching One to find his fill
Of varied skies and newfound thrill
While sane and homely things are done
By the domestic Other One.
And that's just where the trouble lies;
There is a Restless Me that cries
For chancy risks and changing scene,
For arctic blue and tropic green,
For deserts with their mystic spell,
For lusty fun and raising Hell
But shackled to that Restless Me
My Other Self rebelliously
Resists the frantic urge to move.
It seeks the old familiar groove
That habits make. It finds content
With hearth and home dear prisonment,
With candlelight and well loved books
And treasured loot in dusty nooks,
With puttering and garden things
And dreaming while a cricket sings
And all the while the Restless One
Insists on more exciting fun
It wants to go with every tide,
No matter where… just for the ride.
Like yowling cats the two selves brawl
Until I have no peace at all.
One eye turns to the forward track,
The other eye looks sadly back,
I'm getting wall-eyed from the strain,
(It's tough to have an idle brain)
But One says "Stay" and One says "Go"
And One says "Yes," and One says "no,"
And One Self wants a home and wife
And One Self craves the drifter's life.
The Restless Fellow always wins
I wish my folks had made me twins.

I don't write on this blog as often as I should. I think it's mainly because I don't have net access at home, so when I do write, it's from work. And, finding my muse at work is no mean feat, I realize. So, perhaps when I'm online at home, I will have more things to say, more inspiration, along with a beer or three to lubricate the mind.

But, for now, a few things.

The first is that I'm deeply saddened by the death of Steve Irwin, the Croc Hunter. I don't have many, but he was one of my personal heroes, for his unabashed love of all things creepy crawly, his courage & fearlessness even when dealing with a spastic & extremely angry cobra, his sense of humor, and, from what I can tell, just being a good person all the way around. There are few like him in this world, and his death denotes the loss of a good soul & an animal activist, someone who was able to turn a whole new audience on to the wild things & perhaps someone who could inspire love for snakes & bugs & crocs in a younger generation. I'm glad he went doing something he loved, and I wish the best for his wife & two kiddies. He will be missed, by crikey.

The next is something that I just find amusing. Friday afternoon found me sitting at work, Dude across from me at my desk, hashing out flight prospects for some folks he wants to fly in. An hour and a half later, I found myself sitting behind a horse-drawn buggy of Mennonite men at the stoplight in my town. That's what I call variety! I was surprised to see the Mennonites - I know they're out there because I pass them walking down the country roads or see their school bus or see them out & about in their buggies (and even once a young man on a unicycle at the Lake - a very odd sight indeed), but their appearance in town was unusual. I followed them at a distance so as not to pressure them or freak out their horse, and they pulled off at the local gas station which was filled to the gills with locals getting supplies for the football game that night. All of whom stopped to stare. I was definitely curious about what they could ever need at the Citgo station, but Scott solved the mystery when he got home as the men were still at the station when he passed thru. They had to use the phone. Had I known that, I would've offered them the use of my cell phone! *grin* I wonder how far they came from... and how long it took them? I find these lifestyles fascinating....

And, our weekend. It was an uneventful one, spent mainly fishing & hanging out with a bottle of Cuervo & throwing darts. We caught a few bass out at Pete's, one of mine flashing out of the water like a miniature marlin, something that always gets my adrenaline pumping. With just that burst of liquid silver, that fish made my whole day complete. Of course, we threw them all back. Pete was more than glad to see us both nights - he takes special pleasure in harrassing us thoroughly in a most good-natured way, and he loves it when we give it right back to him. He also enjoys giving us hints & even gave me a small gift of plastic catalpa worms. I know, I know. Rubber worms aren't the usual present to make a woman's heart twinge with fondness, but coming from him, it was sweet. Of course, I threw mine into the brushpile & lost my whole rig, but not before catching two of those bass.

Other than that, lawn work, taming my rosebush which I would SWEAR has a secret agenda of taking over the world, starting with the neighbors' yard by creeping over the fence & menacing them with its thorny tentacles, and house cleaning. And having to sanitize litter boxes not the usual once but TWICE when I forgot to clean them on Saturday night, a task I usually do twice a day. Scott was sure the air would be laced with savage profanity upon my discovery of these fouled boxes, but, it was my fault & I felt bad that the picky little asses had to use soiled boxes all night. So, I re-scrubbed them without a word - I might've even been JOLLY during it, and just was thankful to whatever powers that be that the cats didn't opt to express themselves, quite literally, on the floor rather than the nasty boxes.

This morning I was greeted with the usual nausea at the thought of going back to work, but fortunately it didn't resolve itself by vomiting, which is something that happens as of late. The first time, I mentioned it here, I thought, "Oh shit. Unexpected throwing up, feeling better afterwards. I'm pregnant. Fuck." Since then I've realized this is my reaction to Mondays. A case of the Mondays, so to speak. Ugh. It must be either anxiety or an ulcer. Still - when the thought of going into work makes one puke, it's about time for a change, don't you think? I'll be getting on that some day..... after I figure out what I want to do. It's a bitch having a 10-6 job, off weekends, in a cool-ass town with tasty lunch options nearby, liking your desk & co-workers but hating your actual job & disliking most of the people that come with it. No no, that's not fair. I don't really like people at all, but I can deal well with most of them. It's just the ones that drive me up a goddamn tree that make me want to be a roadkill collector. At least then I'd have a reason for the puking!