Bananas, Butter and Shingles... A Few of the Many Reasons Chicks Dig Me

So,
I have now opened a banana from the bottom end 

and held a slice of butter in my mouth until it dissolved.

I can't say that I'll be making a habit of either,

but clearly, it's self-expanding experimentation like this,

coupled with the irresistible machismo 

of inventing one's very own shingle making machine

that makes chicks dig me.

No... really.

I made a shingle making machine.

And it works too.

Here, I'll show you...

We're going to use this stuff to make some shingles...

Oak firewood.

Mostly because this is a trial run, and I don't have anything better cut yet.

So,

we take the firewood and screw it down to these squares of plywood.

They're like louvers.

They flip up...

see?

Each piece of plywood will hold at least three blocks of wood...

shingle blanks... about 18 total.

When the blanks are all on and I'm ready to run the sawmill's blade over them,

(it's a bandsaw type and the blade moves horizontally to the work piece)

the plywood louvers will be in the down position.

Like this...

I push this handle...

and BLING!

The louvers pop up 1/2".

This is important.

This is what makes the shingle fat on one end and thin on the other.

This is part of what helps with the popping up.

See that tapered notch?

It rides on this little piece of wood, inside the box... 

This is inside the box...

The horizontal bar is what you were looking at in the photo above...

what the notch rides on. 

The verticals are just stays... guides.

The cut-outs are for venting sawdust.

This is the 'ladder'...

the deal that moves back and forth.

Here you can see the notch and the 1/2" off-set rail that drives the louvers up,

which creates the taper on the shingle.

So this...

went to this...

then here...

to get dressed...

And ended up this...

Only 4000 more to go.

And that is why chicks dig me.

At least my mom does.

Anyway...

The End 

Exercise Two

'Write a fragment of a story that is made up entirely of imperative commands:'

I was stumped on this one. An old cartoon bit kept going round in my head, so, well, sorry in advance for the the lame joke...

“Do the math, Chowderhead! Really. Tell me how you expect one stinkin’ bean to feed two full growd men for the winter. No, no, no… wait… let me guess… Plant it?

Tell me that’s not what you was thinkin’.

You gotta quit comin’ up with these brilliant ideas—give that brain of yours a rest now and again.

Come here, come here. Take a look outside and just tell me what you see.

Wipe the frost off the window first.

Don’t strain yourself, now. One word’ll do...

Snow!

Land of Goshen! Give this man a prize! Sign him up for Mensa! Put him in charge of dee show!

Now Genius, since you’re on a roll, tell me again… what’s in my hand?  

Wait. Let me give you a little hint…

IT AIN’T NO SNOW PEA!

Now go get us two plates and a knife. I’m starvin’.”       

A Visit to Glenda's

A

Yesterday evening was warm. The moon was full and up before the sun had even set. It was a perfect evening, Gloria said, to walk across the road to the big blue barn where Glenda lives, and visit.

When the moon is going to be full, or mostly full, Glenda’s children and their families come to the big blue barn too. They gather there around dusk. When the sun sets, the men will go out to hunt. The women will stay back at the barn, tending the pups, if there are any, and visiting with Glenda.

Glenda is old now. She may be the oldest Red fox ever. Mostly, I think Glenda has lived this long because Gloria has taken care of her... spoiled her. Glenda has never really had to go out and hunt, or be hunted. If Glenda went out, it was just for exercise or to teach her pups.

Most of Glenda’s family was there when Gloria and I arrived. Twenty or more Reds of all sizes. Only four pups though—a late litter. Gloria convinced the mother to keep them up at the blue barn where she could bring them food and bedding if winter got rough.

We waited for the men to leave and then sat down to chat with Glenda and the young mothers. Gloria has been trying to learn Glenda’s entire real name—Glenda’s Red fox name. I don’t know if it’s possible. I think some of a Red fox’s name is in their blood, not just their memory.

I’ve told you about a Red fox’s name haven’t I?

Well, if I haven’t…

It’s kind of hard to explain, but a Red fox’s name is more like a story, a history book… a lineage. Take Glenda’s for instance, (Glenda, by the way, is just what I call her, since I can’t remember three minutes of her real name) Glenda’s fox name is also her mother’s name and her mother’s mother’s name and so on, all the way back to the very first mother of all Red foxes. There are stories too, and extra bits added in for the important foxes, like say, Glenda will probably have something added to her name about being the oldest Red fox ever.

Needless to say, it’s a long name, especially when humans say it. Gloria is doing pretty well at memorizing it, but she’s got a ways to go yet. Glenda gave Gloria another bit to learn last night. And now Gloria will have pups to look in on this winter… plenty of time to visit and learn some more.

Empty House

a

So, I found a place that wanted some of my furniture... the normal stuff. 

This is a good thing.

It will be a better thing if the lady who owns the place can actually sell my furniture.

She seems to think she can.

It's a start.

But here's the problem...

problems...

Now I don't have a kitchen table...

any table at all.

But since most of my meals consist of yogurt in a bowl

I'm dealing.

It's just harder to eat and read at the same time without a table.

I also don't have a bed.

I have a mattress, just no bed....

which I don't mind so much... 

but...

Now my mattress is on the floor...

closer to the ground...

and look at this...

That's right Goldilocks...

Which one of the two bears is supposed to be sleeping on this bed...

not this one?

 

That's one big bedbug.

'First Rake'

A

There are three rakes in the tool shed: Grandfather’s, mine and a new rake for Aaron, my little brother. Aaron is five. It’s his first year raking leaves at Grandfather’s.

     The rakes are hung up on the wall in the back of the shed with the shovels and posthole digger. Aaron’s is a metal rake that Grandfather bought at Murphy’s Hardware, shiny and green. I take it down for him. It has two springs beneath the fan. “For extra snap,” I tell Aaron. “You’ll see.” It’s hard to explain raking. You learn quicker by doing it.

     This is my third year raking at Gramps. I started when I was Aaron’s age. My rake was my father’s when he was a boy. It’s bamboo, like Gramps. The fingers are anyway, long strips of it, bent at the end. Gramps says the handle is Rock Maple though. He has a hollow piece of bamboo with new fingers in it, to replace any that break. But I’ve never seen one break. Bamboo is strong.

     My rake feels lighter than Aaron’s, I notice, when I take it down from the wall; even though its fan is wider. Gramp’s rake is even bigger than mine. It’ll really clear some leaves.

     Out in the yard, Aaron is already experimenting. He’s choking his rake, holding it too close to the fan and digging a hole in the yard of leaves. His new metal rake is noisy. That’s going to take some getting used to.

     “What ya doin’ little man?” Grandfather said, coming out of the house carrying his jacket.

      “Rakin!” Aaron replies.

     “I can see that,” Grandfather said, shrugging his jacket on.

     I hand Gramps his rake.

     “Thank you son,” he says. “What do you say we show this little brother of yours how it’s done?”

     Grandfather has seven Sugar Maples, two Water Maples three Cherries and a Tulip Poplar in his yard. If that's not enough leaves, there's the Oak and Hickory leaves too, that are bigger than a man’s hand and red as blood, blown onto the yard from the stand of timber across the road.

     There's a light breeze coming down from the north. “We’ll rake with the wind," Grandfather says, "let it do some of the work for us.”

     The three of us wade through the brittle leaves up to the north end of the yard.

    
     Grandfather showed Aaron how to use his noisy, clacking metal rake—where to keep his hands. We rake in a line, the bamboo fingers of my rake scratching the earth in whispers, fssst, fssst, fssst. Aaron’s hands always work back down to the head of his rake. “He looks like he’s hoeing a garden,” Grandfather says, and we laugh. I looked that way once too.

     We rake the leaves into enormous piles. Some we’ll burn, some we’ll put on a big tarp, later and drag out to the chicken pen.

     The sun is low in the sky all day this time of year. Our shadows are long, stretching across the yard like it's late in the afternoon.“You tell the time by the temperature in fall. Not by the sun like you do in summer,” Grandfather said. “When you feel a chill coming on, it’s near time to pick up and get ready for supper.”

     It was near enough time to pick up that Grandfather said Aaron and I could play in the leaves until supper, as soon as we put our tools away.

     I showed Aaron how to hang his rake back. Then we picked the biggest pile of leaves and I showed him how to fall backward into it, then how to dive into it. We stuffed our jackets full of leaves to make muscles and tunneled through the pile like moles. We wrestled and bumped our heads. Aaron almost cried. I wouldn’t have blamed him. It hurt awful. Then we lay on our backs in the big pile and watched the only cloud in the sky, our warm breath, white puffs. I could feel the chill setting in, on my cheeks, my nose.

     “It’s almost supper time,” I told Aaron.

     “I know,” he said, “I know.”

Calisthenics

A
So I got a new book: The 3 A.M. Epiphany. It's basically a bunch of writing exercises, and I'm going to do them all and post them like a good boy. If you read them, I'll hug you. If you critique'... double it. Mind you this is just sit down and get from beginning to end writing, no nit-picking, editing or major re-writes along the way. If you're feeling froggy and want to do the exercises along with... Come on!

Anyway...

Exercise One: Write a first person story using the first person pronouns only two times, 600 words or less.      

I forget that there are still stretches of dirt road this long around here. It doesn’t seem possible any more. Elias’ place is an easy two miles off of the asphalt though. He’s Mennonite, real primitive: beards and buggies, no electricity or indoor plumbing, seven kids. Mennonites pretty much own Allen County, Kentucky right over the Tennessee line—my back yard.

     Elias runs the saw mill up there. Does a fair amount of business too, between the Community and outsiders. Long Creek runs through his property. Elias has got it dammed and a twenty acre lake backed up above his mill—the power supply. He’s got the sluice, the wheel, the whole nine yard, like you stepped back in time a hundred years. It’s worth the drive just to watch him operate: all those crazy levers, the belts howling and blade screaming—just an insane amount of power from something that flows through your fingers.

     There are usually some kids out in the lake, fishing or cruising around in the little hand powered paddle boat. It’s always quiet, but not this quiet. There’s no one around back either. The mill wheel is clicking just enough to keep it from getting water logged on bottom.

     It’s ten degrees cooler down in the mill. Elias has been cutting Cedar; the damp air is heady with it.

     “Anybody home? Elias? Joshua?”

     Joshua is his oldest, quiet—well quieter; they’re all pretty quiet around strangers—good kid, strong as an ox.

     Nobody’s around.

     The house sits back away from the mill, hidden but for a bit of gray roof and brick chimney. It’s a walk, but nothing like the drive in.

     There are clothes on the line: two blue-grey dresses, white bonnets and a small pair of black trousers. No dog. A half-dozen plump, gold Orpingtons are scratching up near the porch. The buggy is in the barn. There’s only one Belgium in the lot though, so maybe they’re out with the wagon, doing some light work that doesn’t need both of the big horses.

     Around back of the barn there’s about three acres of slow rise before the property climbs its way into a squat hill. The hill has long since been cleared of timber and replanted with fruit trees and grape vines. Elias’ wife makes jams and jellies to sell. The vines are black and bare, soon to be cut back for winter.

     Top of the hill is an enormous white oak, its branches low and long—a property marker most likely—and it looks like most of the community is gathered under it.

     A funeral? Where are all the buggies?

     The wagon and Belgium is up on the hill too, backed under one of the Oak's thick branches. Three men are standing in the back of it, Joshua and Elias, but the other man’s face is harder to make out, like he’s wearing a bonnet, but why? Joshua and Elias seem to be holding the man—helping him down out of the tree.

It’s strange what the mind doesn’t want to accept—what it ignores—when it thinks it can’t possibly be seeing what it is seeing. Things like rope and two mile stretches of dirt road that take you back in time. It's their damn business. Whatever was going on. I don't want any part of it, and pull out on to the asphalt and head toward the State line... home.  

Back-Yard Impressionism

A

First, I would like to recommend opening a banana with Kung-Fu. Seriously. It will change your day… if not your life.

Second... well, there is no second.

What I did today was more PR, conveniently inside of the Frist Center, downtown Nashville, where they just so happen to be having an Impressionist... ism... Exhibit. Yep, Monet, Manet, Courbet, Renoir, Degas, Cézanne… right here in Hicktown.

Gloria went with, since I didn’t want to go alone and I didn’t think that I could pull off the seeing-eye-dog thing again. Not at an art exhibit.

Did you know that you can stand in front of a Monet all day, and it will never sink in that that is a real Monet, or whichever? God, and the picture frames. I know, I am so starved for art. Anyway...

Despite all the famous names, this was my favorite… Jules Bastien-Lepage, Hay Making

There are times when you see things so beautiful, you think, I am done, I need nothing more from life. It was that beautiful. I wanted to cry. I did cry. I came so close to touching it… touching her. Gloria told me not to.

The painting is enormous, the size of a wall. You walk in the room and she is just sitting there in that field. The clarity is stunning. She is so tired and worn thin, dazed, with the world and life all a blur around her, the realization that this is how the rest of my life is going to be just dawning on her. Twelve inches from her face and I swear I could hear her breathing.

Anyway… You know how if you don’t really know a lot about a certain form of art… a movement or a trend… it all kind of blends together…say for instance how one generation says another’s music all sounds the same. And it does. That’s because all of the artists of that age, that moment, have figured out what is ‘right’ and they are all trying to create their version, their interpretation of the same ‘right’. Distinctions are minimal and miniscule and tough to notice if you’re not pretty hung up on that particular scene. There’s nothing wrong with it. It was just kind of funny to walk into a room with five different heavy-hitter artist’s work, and have to make an effort to sort out who is who… and I know who is who.

Oh gawd, and one hick gal was about eight inches from a Monet—nothing famous, one though, from the time in his career when you really needed to step back from the work to see things in 'focus', unless you were appreciating the brush strokes—but I don't think she was and she says, “Gawd, now that’s just ugly.” She was amazed by what three steps back did for the work. I didn’t give her a flyer.

Then I thought we would never find the truck, because I put down bread crumbs and there are pigeons by the truckload in Nasville. Nothing works like it used to back in the old days.

Welcome, Inadequacies, Adequacies and Reviews

A
I'd like to take a moment class, to welcome the Soviet Chairman. I know that most of you are already acquainted, but it brings me great pleasure to know that yet another Lit/English major will be cringing at my poor grammar and flailing stories. Anyway, big Howdy! ya'll, for the Soviet Chairman.

   

I can feel an inadequate-writer phase coming on, which will probably result in an inadequate-Steve phase. Hence, French toast for breakfast again. French toast can cure anything, I’m certain.

So, I did a little door to door yesterday in the rain. Business to business, more like. The new flyers look great. Aggie’s Printing needs plugged, for the little good it will do.

I must say that I suck… and yet am somehow magnificent at PR. Thanks to my noodle’s glitch; it doesn’t dawn on me to extend hand (handshaking… ick) and name along with flyer and business card... no matter how many times I approach a front desk.

On the other hand - thanks to my noodle’s glitch - I am easily awestruck by people’s confidence and assertiveness; mesmerized by their business and creative skills. It shows. And folks do love having sunshine blown up their skirts. The wide-eye shy kid always gets a piece of candy… and a tour of the shop.

Anyway… I finally finished reading Great Expectations last week. I like Miss Havisham and her house… very creepy-cool. Pip is a sniveler, and the ending sucked.

And that’s why I don’t review books.

Speaking of which, my P.G. Wodehouse anthology arrived. Sam Clemens has always been my epitome humorists. Or was he a satirist? Anyway, we’ll see how Mr. Wodehouse fairs against the American master. Don’t worry, there won’t be a review.

Oh! And Howl’s Moving Castle! Aside from the whole Speed Racer thing, pretty cool.

"Another Cancer, Another Love Story"

A

They were in love. The kind of love that only grows from having roots that share the same soil... that are intertwined from birth. As near one as two could ever be. 

It was evening when he noticed the pink ribbon she wore.

“When did you…?”

“This morning,” she said. She was calm. Her voice as stilling as it had ever been. As if there was nothing to worry about.

“Why didn’t you…?”

She reached out to him.

“They weren’t certain. I knew you would worry… so I… I’m sorry. I wanted them to be certain first.”

“But I…”

“I know… I know you would have. And thank you, thank you.” She reached for his face. “I love you so very much. But there’s just nothing you can do. Not this time.”

“Nothing? They’re certain?”

“Nothing.”

He looked away… down, and she glanced there too, at the earth, solid and alive, under and around their feet. Then back up, at this tower that had been so bent by this silly, silly burden… her burden. She wanted to draw him to her, inside of her, where he could feel that she was not afraid, where he would understand that soon she would be more a part of him than ever.

“How long?” he asked.

“Tomorrow. The next day. Maybe.”

She felt the cool of his tears, like rain, and she knew that it was foolish, but she wished for one more gentle shower that they could dance in… before.

They woke to the sound of men and machines.

“Over there,” a voice said, “I’ve got her marked.”

“This one?” another voice asked.

“Yep. We’ll have to put a cable around her, pull her away from the house.”

“Get that cable over here!” someone shouted.

A chainsaw barked to life.

The morning was crisp and he wanted to draw her nearer, to feel more of her warmth, her life.

“I’m not going to let this happen to you,” he said.

“There’s nothing you can do,” she replied. “Don’t you see? I’ll be inside of you soon.”

“But… I’ll never see you again.”

“See me? Don’t be a silly boy. You will be me… and I will be you. Isn’t that better?”

“Yes… I suppose… but still…”

“Hush,” she said.

They listened to the careless men, tramping through the leaves and branches.

The chainsaw revved.

“No!” he shouted. His voice was so strong and loud that the ground shook and everything and everyone for miles around heard it and felt it. Everyone and everything but the men. Men are deaf. 

They cut into her base and pulled her with the cables and drew her away from the house that she had cooled with her shade for years and years.

“It’s all right,” she told her love as the blades cut deeper. Her voice was a soft breeze. “It’s all right. Let it be…”

And she began to fall.

He wouldn’t listen… couldn’t listen. He reached as far as a tree could possibly reach and caught her in his topmost branches.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t. Let me fall.”

“I can’t.”

The men, who had scattered, began to gather back around his base.

“Well I never,” one of the men said.

“Let me go,” she begged her love.

“I can’t… I can’t,” he said.

“They’ll…”

Below, the men were looking up, rubbing chins and scratching heads, as men often will.

“What do you want to do?” one of the men asked.

“Drop it,” another man replied.

The chainsaw barked back to life.

And he did not... could not... let her go. 

... a word of explanation... if needed... trees to be felled are often marked with pink paint or ribbon.

Timber Framing, House Cleaning and the Muse

A

So, I’m a little embarrassed—now that I’ve gone on youtube and seen some real timber framer’s handiwork—saying that my sawmill shed is timber framed. Sure, I used timbers, but… No. Not even.

Anyway, I ordered a book. The next building will be the real deal. I figure by the time I get to the barn (which, if you can keep a secret, will probably be my new house and studio) I’ll be up to snuff… a bonifide professional.

But it’s raining today, so I get to clean house.

Cleaning house always seems like a waste of a whole day of life. Until you’re through of course. Then the house you could hardly stand to stay in one single minute longer, you just want to snuggle up inside of and marvel at all of your wondrous, clean stuff for the rest of forever and ever.

My eye is on the prize.

This too, was one of those weeks that it sucked to be a hermit. That is, it sucked to not have a real girlfriend. I go through phases. Like everyone I suppose.

I know.

But sometimes you just want to be a boy, (I do anyway) building a fort in the woods near the creek you’ve dammed with stones, and have the girl from two farms over—who you didn’t know lived only two farms over, but you will soon, because she is right there in front of you in a sun dress and an enormous straw hat and funny boots, and she didn’t snap a single twig or crunch a single leaf getting there—appear and say, ‘Cool. Can I help?’

Sometimes…

But that’s silly.

So I had to swap back to my old Printer.

A

There are two Printers in Gallatin: one big, one little, one right behind the other… as in, sharing an alley.

     The big one is nice, but it smells like cigarettes. The big one is my old Printer, the place that Bret had my pretty, color flyers printed up black and white.

     Well, when I decided to get the flyers re-printed in color, I inadvertently called the Little Printer.  No problem, I thought, I'm aquainted with underdogs, they're on the line, I’ll give them a shot.

    The lady at the little Printer was helpful enough. She asked if I needed them right away. No. Three or four days would be fine, I told her, and left the work in her capable hands.

     Eight days later I call her to see what is going on.

     “I was just about to e-mail the proof," she says.

     So I wait.

     Nothing.

     I get the e-mailed proof the next day with an excuse attached.

     But I’m all about cutting some slack. Proof looks pretty good. Letters are a little too bold: lower case is indistinct. Can she reduce them? I ask. “Sure, no problem. I’ll do it and e-mail the proof back.”

     Nothing.

     I’m still good with the slack cutting.

     I call the next day. I get a man...a potentially Muslim kind of foreigner kind of man.

   

     “Is La La there?” I ask.

     “No.”

     “Well, she was supposed to send me the final proof on some work that I…”

     “Yes. We need a deposit first.”

     “She was just going to tweak the lettering a bit and send me a proof. Then I was going to come down…”

     “Yes, I know. We need a deposit before we give you a proof. This is how it is all over in the printing business. Deposit, then the proof.”

     But I hadn’t been told this, and I already had one proof. And this is where the potentially Muslim foreigner part comes into play. I’m thinking, maybe this guy doesn’t understand what I’m saying, my English, since I tend to be a bit abstract and all.

     So I say, “La La said she was going to adjust the lettering and e-mail it back to me. She didn’t say anything about a deposit.”

     “I don’t care what La La said, I am the boss here! I am the owner! You need to deposit before you get proof.”

     I am done cutting slack.

     “Hold on a second,” I say, “I’m counting back from ten.”

     “... three, two, one...”

     “We can cancel if you would like,” the boss-owner says.

     “I think we should.”

     “No problem.”

     Click.

     Wow. Now I know why they're the underdogs.

     Then I start to get cranky. I… they… have wasted a week that I could have used to advertise. I look like a fool for giving the underdog a shot. I’m a romantic, gullible idiot. And I still don’t have any flyers!

     I storm off to Gallatin. I have to get my artwork back from Mr. Congeniality, take it around the corner to my old Printer and eat crow.

     Coming down the mountain I’m trying to unharsh my mellow and rehearsing various dialogues with Mr. Sunshine when this occurs to me…

     “Good morning, you must be the boss and owner.”

     “Yes. How can I help you?”

     “I came to get my artwork… we spoke an hour ago on the phone.”

     “Yes. La La, did this guy have any artwork.”

     La La is hidden in the back. She hands out a folder. The boss removes the proof from the folder and hands it to me.

     “How much do I owe you for that?” I ask, pointing to the proof.

     “I’m not going to give you the proof,” Boss says.

     “I don’t want it. But how much do I owe you for making it?”

     “I will not sell it to you!”

     Language issue again? I don’t know, but La La comes out, maybe to translate.

     “I don’t want the proof,” (little did he know I had one in the truck that I had printed off from La La’s late e-mail). “But she,” I glanced at La La, “spent some time making it. What do I owe you for that time?”

     I don’t think they were counting backward from ten, but there was that much silence, while they both digested what I was suggesting.

     La La started to make some kind of apology. She didn’t understand what the problem was, what the company policies were or what the Boss and I had talked about on the phone that morning. She had been so busy and la, la, la…

     Finally the Boss cuts her off and says, “I appreciate your offer. That is very… kind. But no printing, no charge. If you like the proof and want to leave a deposit, we can…”

     Well, there was no chance in hell I wanted that guy’s… that shop’s… bad mojo on my flyers. This was an exercise in killing with kindness.

     One at a time.

     Oh, and my old Printer said they’d work something up for me… no deposit required.

Little Icky, Big Icky

A

So, normally I don't complain about genetically engineered fruit. 

I probably don't even know when I'm eating it.

But the peaches at Walmart are too big.

I can't take a bite out of them without getting peach up my nose. 

And this, my friends, is too much of a good thing.

And then I came around the corner of the house,

La, La, La

on my way to the mailbox with a Netflix movie...

( 'An Education'...

I wouldn't recommend it)

Only to find this tasty little morsel...

Yikes!
Don't think for a moment that I didn't almost wet my jammies.

That's a deer carcass for you City Mice...
What's left of it anyway.

I'll let you guess who I won't be kissing on the lips for the next week or so. 

Once in a Lifetime... Maybe

A
Of all the things we humans will never get to do in our lifetimes, I think that going into outer space and seeing a chicken lay an egg… in person… are the two least likely to happen.

I can  now cross the latter off of that list.

So, this morning I go out to feed the chickens and gather the eggs that I didn’t gather last night. (Bad Farmer. Bad, bad Farmer).

There’s a hen sitting in the number one nesting box. I figure she’s thinking that since I didn’t collect the eggs last night, they’re hers to sit on. Think again Chicky.

I reach to get the eggs. She pecks me. Whatever. We spar a bit and finally I get her to stand up. She’s straddling three eggs. They’re gross. All muddy or poopy, I don’t know which, but I don’t want her sitting on them. And while I’m trying to find a clean spot to pick them up by, Fonk! A friggin’ egg flies out of no where and hits my hand.

At first I thought the egg was one of last night’s that had rolled up behind the hen when she stood, then rolled back down while she was harassing me for taking the poopy eggs. I guess my brain did not want to accept that I had just witnessed an egg shoot out of a chickens butt, let alone that I almost caught it. And I do mean shoot out. That hen was throwing some crazy heat.

And really, whose brain would want to accept this. The odds of this happening have got to be stupendous—at least as stupendous as getting to ride on the Space Shuttle. But there it was: a shiny wet, new brown egg. Fresh out of the oven.

I love possibilities.

Think: Spring Chicken

A

That’s my thought for today. I have twenty some odd logs to saw up and I will need all the spring chicken that I can muster.

Also, I think I’ve conclude (just this morning) that I’m no longer interested in the Truth; only the Possibilities. I mean, isn’t there only supposed to be one Truth? Bore. Ing. Possibilities however, are endless. I’m all about that. In fact, possibly could possibly be my new favorite word.

Anyway, I would highly recommend an oilless deep fryer for your Thanksgiving turkey. And I would also highly recommend that you let Sherry make your stuffing. Yum!

How Great is it...

...to sleep in until 6:30 and find out it is only 5:30?

So yesterday, I wrote and wrote.

Then I worked on my shingle machine while I waited for Denny to get Garth Brooks tickets.

Then he and I went to Chuck and Sherry’s and cut down a tree that was going to squash their house someday.

We pulled it and pushed it and cut a notch in it and it didn’t fall on the house at all.

But the tree’s boyfriend caught it...

 like a Love story.

So we cut him down too.

And both of them fell right on the brush pile...

Like the end of a sad sad Love story.
But I didn't cry
because Lumberjacks don't do that kind of thing...
around other Lumberjacks anyway. 

And today...

(if I’m lucky),

(which I most always am)

I’ll get to have oilless deep fried turkey.

Which might be a Love story for someone.

The End.

oh... and I caught a baby bat.

I'm not sure but...

I think I have adogatickleosis. It's making it very difficult to get the Gypsy wagon ready.

Thanks to Axelle Red... and Stephanie

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Doggers and I are going to become Gypsy Kings and wear leather breeches and hoop earrings.

 

We’re going to build a wagon with shingles and a smoke stack and a honeybee, and hook it to a mule named Marcus Aurelius and travel from one end of the farm to the other...then back.

 

We’re going to camp out under full moons, new moons, blue moons and harvest moons.

 

We’re going to build bonfires and play mandolins with curly headstocks, and sing and dance like dust devils.

 

We’re going to make two Gypsy Queens out of smoke and starshine, and the four of us will see more of the World than has ever been seen.

 

We’re going to eat nothing but yogurt and raisins and peaches all year, and honey from bees in a tree.

 

We’ll laugh and we’ll stomp and we’ll never come home because home is right where we’ll be.

But not Delmar.

Delmar licked the butter.

Coincidence?

a

I think not.

Let It Be

a

Today, I will carry my mountain down with me in my pocket.

I will be seen… not heard.

And eventually they will forget about me…

Like they have the trees.