imagine

The past weekend was Memorial Weekend, the national holiday which usually coincides with the end of school and thus begins the summer vacation time, but its origin of intent was to remember and to say thanks to all of those good people who have served in our military, who have perhaps lost lives, limbs, and their sanity in doing so.

I will admit to being one who has largely regarded this weekend primarily as the beginning of summer with all of the trappings of sitting by pool, barbequing and such, drinking a few chilly brews, and have given very little reverence for this day to remember those who have served in the military. It has not been out of disrespect, perhaps it’s more of a disconnected feeling from those who have seen battle or even just spent years of their lives doing their duty, because I personally, and luckily, did not, but I do appreciate those who did.

My husband is a veteran and served three years of his youth during the Viet Nam era, but who fortunately became a photography teacher for the army rather than have to have gone to the battle field and kill or be killed for that very unjust and unpopular war. My father, served in the Korean Conflict during the 50’s, and he did see the horrors of combat personally, was wounded, earned medals of highest honor, and spent many years of my youth awakened by his night mares of Chinese fighters shooting at him in the Korean mountains.

In the words of the rock song from the 70’s!” rings a truth that we humans simply can not figure out how to deal with and/or avoid. “War..huh. What is it good for? Absolutely nothing!” Repeatedly through out mankind’s history wars have sprung up for all sorts of reasons, lives have been lost, boundaries changed, technologies have been pushed, cities destroyed, and bits of civilization and knowledge have been lost forever. To what end? It is a truly baffling mystery. It sure would be a super world if wars were no more and being a veteran was an obsolete occupation and was a thing of the past, a place were folks just got along. Nice fantasy. Imagine…

Any way the weekend was nice and long, and it did allow for some good and much needed relaxation, dinner with friends and family, reading by the pool, and the big green egg got a stiff workout cooking lots of ribs and veggies.

Twenty eight years ago today was the birthday of my geriatric mare, Limerick. Born on Memorial Day, her then owners who were serving in the military at that time, decided to honor the day by naming her G.E Commemorative. It’s a bit of a full mouth of a name and no one questioned why they named her after a light bulb company, so when I bought her as a yearling I called her Limerick to limit the confusion and shorten the writing on the halter plate. She was a Hanoverian through and through, tough, opinionated, very talented, and worked when she wanted to, or not. She could jump the moon and buck just as well, and many a time I found myself without a saddle to land on. But when Limerick was playing nice with me, we won everything we entered. It was either a first place blue, or last. She has spent the last couple of years being a nanny to my weanlings and always did a super job teaching them manners. She always kicked them high, if they needed it, being careful not to damage those potentially expensive legs. Twice I have called the vet to come do the final closing for her when she has been acting or moving like she felt very bad, and both times she has foiled that plan and has met us at the fence with a whinny and a canter, clearly not ready to go just yet. Today she will get many carrots, chopped fine so she can chew them carefully, and a nice grooming. Limerick gave me many good memories, and taught me a great deal, along with a few broken fingers, and a dislocated jaw once, and she is deserving of a peaceful retirement in her little pasture and barn, forever how long she decides to hang on, and at this rate it will be totally her decision.

The Purple Martin colony is noisy and raucous with the growing chicks in the gourds sticking their yellow rimmed mouths out to the frantic parents who continually fly by to stuff them with dragon flies and whatever bug is prey. Today unfortunately, one of the chicks made an error in judgment, or was pushed, and left the nest too early. I saw the brancher sitting on the fence line below the pole where its house was, and a male adult kept flying to it, seeming to encourage some flying. Occasionally the parent would just sit on the wire next to the baby, but for whatever reason, the chick either couldn’t or wouldn’t try to fly and eventually it hopped to the ground and hid in a rose bush. Marely, the Yorkie, smelled it and brought it to me in her mouth and the poor little bird gripped my finger as I took it from her, and it slowly closed its eyes and let go. I know mortality is high for the chicks but I just hate to see one so close to making it adulthood die right there in my hand, so pretty, and very sad. Perhaps it was nature’s way of making sure its remaining siblings had enough to eat, or perhaps it was just bad timing on the chick’s part. Either way Mom nature can sure deal out cruel blows along with all the other good stuff.

The weather has finally turned to summer and perhaps one of the only, if not the best, redeeming feature of enduring the torture of a southern summer, it is a homegrown tomato. There simply is no substitute for one still warm from the sunshine, sliced thin, and juicy. The first of our tomatoes have turned red and I picked three this morning and plan on some ‘mater sandwiches with mayonnaise and salt and pepper for dinner.
It is a pure and yummy goodness like no other. A cold watermelon is almost a good second, and then there are cantaloupes too.

In the past few years our tomato plants have succumbed to a virus or some form of wilting disease but so far, (knock, knock on head) they are looking incredible thanks to a new location and many piles of nicely composted horse manure tilled into the ground before planting them. The plants are tall and vigorous and loaded with large green fruit, waiting for the sun to turn them red, although there is much to be said for a fried green one too, so many choices, but such a good problem to have.

The heat of the day is closing and off I head to feed the herd and take Lim her birthday snacks and some to Frank who also had a birthday this week, one year old now. Happy Birthdays to them both…and  many more....

Bugs and Brides

A new quiet has arrived on the farm. Thankfully, the past few weeks’ incessant humming, whirling, buzzing, and droning of the millions of love starved red eyed locusts, has come to a predicted close and out door farm life is again so much more peaceful and easy without them. Theirs’ was a relentless tone, and now, it’s mostly gone, at least for another thirteen years. The dogs have all been enjoying crunching on these spent adults that have fallen to the ground after their mating game was done, and I am sure that Jack will miss them the most, but he will find something else to eat to keep his figure suitably rotound. He always does.

This past weekend we left the recently quieted farm for a brief journey to Birmingham to see a dear friend give away his only daughter in marriage. I hate weddings in general, and the idea of dressing up and driving two hours there and back were not high on my want to do list. This, however, was a must do attendance for us, and so we resolved to do what was necessary to give support to our good friend in his hour of need.

Thus resolved and reluctantly all tidied up, we drove to our destination site, The Club, an uber swanky club straddling the steep peak of Red Mountain and overlooking the valley to the north which is the town of Birmingham. The Club was built either late 50’s of early 60’s and has a suave and sophisticated look about its architecture and lines as it lays like a relaxed cat upon the narrow top of a fence line, slowing flicking its tail. It is a white, smoothly finished structure with slow sensuous, curving lines and is topped with a low profiled flat roof. Tidy gardens line the path from the parking deck and lead you to the glass front doors. Once inside the view from the glass walled foyer/bar is a expansive scene of the busy urban life below. It has fortunately stood the effects of time, both physically and socially. It is so nice to see that some later architect of decorator was steered clear of “improving” its character and has left this elegant old place alone

The wedding du jour, was to be held out on a broad deck that perched over a very steep slope below us. It was a mid-May wedding but the weather didn’t get the memo. It was chilly to say the very least, a late in the season cold front had come in to lighten the humidity and the temps and the chilly north wind was blowing steady into the faces of the already seated. We found our way to some chairs and we waited for the quartet playing the usual pre-wedding songs to wrap it up.

Finally, after all of the grannies and the moms had been escorted in, and everyone had gotten a chance to see and judge their frocks for this special day, the show began. The anthem chords of the marriage parade were sounded and all eyes were turned to the back of the seating area, and there was the bride and her father.

She was beaming in her joy and he was smiling and squirming in the discomfort of both his tux and his being in the spot light. In they paraded and vows were exchanged and all the hooplala of the typical ritualistic Gentile/Hebrew wedding was done with all the mixed metaphors from both religions, they kissed and the grannies and moms were escorted back from whence they came.

Servers stood by with trays of wine as the thirsty guests unseated themselves and turned to try to find libation. It was a good thing because most of the wedding party and their many guests had not counted on a stiff cold breeze for a May wedding, were freezing and needed antifreeze badly. The coldest I saw was a bridesmaid with a particularly interesting shade of red hair, wearing a moss green, gossamer, strapless gown. She had become a bit of a study of contrast in colors when she walked by. Her skin had become a vivid and cool shade of purple which really set the two secondary colors of the soft moss and the electric orange hair off to a tee.

As far as weddings go, it was okay. The weather was overlooked as the wine settled the nerves, and the food was excellent. The bride’s father was so happy it was over and he even survived the first dance with his married daughter on a brightly colored dance floor to the sounds of a kick butt band playing mo town hits. We ate and we drank, and chatted with those we did find in the crowd that we knew, and then were about to leave when the father said that there was to be a special announcement back out on the deck. So back into the cold night we all went.

Kaboom….kaboom, kaboom etc etc etc. Below us cans of exploding gunpowder were launching streaks of fireworks upward into the sky and the launched fireworks exploded into mind blowing patterns and colors, some very close from our vantage point. The air was thick with the smell and the sonic booms shook out legs. This was no amateur exposition. This was a fantastic show, in a fantastic setting, but the reason for the show was the most fantastic. As a child, one day the future bride told her dad that at her wedding she wanted fire works. Unbeknown to this bride, on this her wedding day, her dad had obliged and had secretly arranged for this dazzling show. It was a great end of the evening for us and we said our adieus and drove back home in the dark.

As I said earlier, I hate weddings. The happiest moment of a wedding, in the traditional style regardless of the culture, is when it’s over and the bills have been paid. Why it has evolved into such a ridiculous event that causes so much stress and involves such a huge investment of time and money, is a total mystery to me.

My own was sufficed in a court house on a Monday in May. I wore blue jeans and flip flops and stood with my legs crossed. Job done, we left to go camping. No thrown rice, no tacky brides maid dresses, no jittery nerves about where so and so will sit, no protocol, no wedding planner, no Godzilla bill for friggin’ flowers, no preacher giving a mini sermon, no stupid white dress signifying my purity, no worrying about the caterer making enough cheese biscuits, no diamond to ooh and ahh over, no year’s worth of planning and a life time of money to pay for it all, the very idea of it all makes me crazy.

But, to each their own, and this recent bride seemed to have a good time at her almost flawless wedding, despite the chilly breezes. Her dad can breathe again and go back to fishing in his little pond and life goes on,too, here on our farm. May is nearly done, my daughter turned twenty six this week, and soon there will be another anniversary for Mark and me. The horses are glossy in the paddocks, Jack has managed to not make any news in a while, the Purple Martins are busy feeding baby bird mouths, and the corn is knee high in the garden. Good news this week was that Joline, my geriatric broodmare, was confirmed pregnant, so I will be keeping fingers crossed that she can carry it to term successfully. I guess weddings, love starved bugs, and pregnant mares are really on the same big page in life. It 's all about keeping it all going.  Another day, and another page turns.

April's Encore

April did not close quietly. It had appeared as if it might, and then, the frontal line of a century hit the area and state. In terms of perfect storms this one was exquisite in its perfection, and in its destructive powers. The colliding masses of air that met were the total opposites in their temperature and humidity, and their confrontational line left a swath of devastation from high winds, tornadoes, and hail that will long be remembered for its fury and horror, and its resulting loss of property and life.

The day was damp and muggy, and felt like a sauna with the winds from the south pulling the moisture from the warm Gulf of Mexico, priming the atmosphere for the arrival of the still quite cold and dry air mass from the north. The weather channel folks were very excited and the meteorologists were busy on the television, enthusiastically showing maps and giving warnings about the potential power of the storm that was to arrive here, later in the afternoon. They showed graphics and maps and repeatedly told of what to do to prepare for its arrival. Their urgency was dramatic and a bit of a cause for some mild concern, but it’s kind of like the boy who cried “wolf” too many times and nobody believed him. That is, until the wolf did finally eat someone. We had just a bit of skepticism at the need for all their excitement.

We have storms here all the time, nearly weekly, especially in spring when the air is still in flux of changing from winter to summer. Occasionally we do have fierce thunderstorms, with these fronts, and sometimes, a tornado, sometimes with damage, but usually, not. And so we listened to these weather guys do their thing, and prepared for the usual despite their enthusiastic warnings of “Blah, blah, blah!”, and went about our merry way finishing the afternoon chores.

When I returned from afternoon feeding at the barn, I walked into the house and looked to the tv and saw where the effects of the storm were now being visible from sky cams across the state, and it was evident that this was no usual frontal line and this was not the ordinary spring storm. Already, they said, this storm had killed and destroyed many in its path in neighboring states. Cameras were suddenly switched to show a massive tornado which was in view courtesy of a remote sky cam, descending upon the town where Mark and I had been in college, Tuscaloosa, Alabama. We watched in amazement as a giant, rapidly moving funnel swept over recognizable landmarks and obliterated them without a sound, blowing debris far and wide. It was a surreal event to watch, and then to realize that we were watching death happen, and destruction so massive as to not comprehend. It was a strange and helpless feeling to watch an event like this in real time, and be helpless to act. Just after this unprecedented, huge, tornado passed just south of the tall walls of Denny Stadium, that camera went dead.

Reports and photos later on began to reveal the extent of the horror after the tornado left the town and laid aim at another to the east. The storm front also spawned many other tornados, but none as massive or as long on the ground as Tuscaloosa’s, but huge amounts of damage and loss of life had occurred all over the area. The tornado that hit in Tuscaloosa had been a mile wide and covered almost seven miles of concentrated town, raking entire neighborhoods, buildings, cars, and people away. Text books, checks, and debris from this town were carried by the huge winds as far away as Birmingham, which also felt the brunt of this collision of air masses. The number of lives lost or missing was near three hundred or something, I have heard, and the injuries were uncountable.

Friends of ours called us from Tuscaloosa after the front had moved on that night, to tell us they had been missed and were ok, but they expressed the unbelievable destruction they witnessed with shock and dismay in their voices. The area we had spent so much time in, and the apartments where Mark had lived when we met, were simply gone, bull dozed by the sucking winds that pulled up, or leveled, everything in its path, everything.

We were fortunate that fate would spare our immediate location and home, and we were graced with only a bit of wind, and that was gratefully, all. The cooler and drier conditions the retreating storm left behind were welcome and the next day these conditions were pleasant for the poor souls who did live through the storm to pick up the few remaining pieces of their newly shattered lives, and an entire state, and country, was numb with the extent of the incomprehensible loss.

As cleanup is begun, life continues, and the healing of the scars will take time, but mend the wounds. Life on this planet is a strange and fragile existence and is one with no guarantees of tomorrow, and had best be enjoyed, savored, and appreciated. A motto to heed is certainly, to “Be here now”.

On a totally different wave length from the sobering effects of the passing storm, the next day, outside in the woods, there was a loud and very strange noise coming from all over the place. It was a constant whirling, relentless whistling sound that brought to mind the sci-fi alien landing in a movie sound. This was a very different sound from the typical cicadas, crickets, frogs and such that are busy vocalizing away this time of year and as I rode my horses near the trees they paused and cast inquisitive ears towards the strange sound. It is now a loud and constant droning which lasts from dawn to dusk.

Red eyed cicadas are the source of this sound, the internet research enlightened us, a particualr batch of bugs that hatch only every thirteen years. Theirs is a life cycle that lasts as adults only for a few weeks, emerging from the soil as grubs that have fed on roots and such for thirteen years, and they then shed their skins to become winged adults. The males rub these orange rimmed wings together, making this crazy whirling sound, each trying to attract a red eyed female. Mating accomplished, she then lays her eggs either on these hard wood trees or in them, to lay in wait for yet another thirteen years, the cycle completed. An article written thirteen years ago predicted their return in late April, and that will remain present until a few weeks into May, and the author was spot on so far.

They are a colorful and good sized bug, and I nearly stepped on a very tired male this morning as a came from the barn. I went to go get something to put it in so I could photograph the thing later, but when I came back to it with a cup, the might dog, Jack, was standing where the poor bug had been, and the weary bug was now yet another victim of Jack’s culinary indiscretion. He looked quite innocently at me as he crunched the last of my would be model.

Our youngest daughter was born in 1985, on a year of their emergence, and she is soon to be twenty six, on this year of their second return since her birth. The next time they fill the air with their droning amorous calling, she will be thirty nine, and I can’t count high enough to know how old I will be, if granted, I am here. Funny, when one looks at events with personal markers like these, it does give one a frame of reference that gives thought. I will remember this reoccurring occasion of these bugs for the cross timing with her birthday. I will also regrettably, remember it in association with the timing of the deadly April tornados.

A little link on the bugs..

http://www.wyff4.com/r/27626426/detail.html

April's Closing

After the sublime rest of our two day vacation at the beach, we returned once again to farm world and to all the critters and plants that live here with us. It was nice to see Jack seemingly nonplused about his bout with the horse tranquilizer in our absence, happily barking at our arrival. Marley, Heidi, and Memphis gave equal wags of tails as the others in the welcoming reception committee. Back home is good, but back home means back to work, and in spring on a farm, there is no end to the stuff that needs tending to, should be tended to, and doesn’t necessarily include that which one might actually want, to get done. It can be simply overwhelming, to the point of doing absolutely none of it, which is the exact approach we took the weekend before last.

There was yet another in the continuing series of  full moons to be rising on Sunday. It had been waxing on Saturday and we noticed the fish were being very active along the shoreline in the little pond behind the barn. The scent of fish on the bed was heavy when down wind of their underwater nests. We tossed some lures out and quickly caught several nice fish, both bream and bass, and one bass that was so large and fast it snapped Mark’s line, jumped, and spit the lure back at him. Spring fishing is an opportunity to not miss when at its peak and so that was our plan for Sunday, a catch and fry day. We made some calls for recruits to come help with our mission, our daughter and son in law, two of their friends, and a new friend who had never fished but who was very interested in the challenge to learn. I assessed the inventory of oil and cornmeal, and having sufficient quantities of both, the plan for a fish dinner was on, if, the fish cooperated as was expected of them.

This new friend of ours was someone we met recently at an art reception, and who is an internationally known violinist, female, who is currently in our town on a fellowship with our symphony orchestra. Lianna is from Russian, and she speaks with an interesting accent having learned her English in France and carries the lilt of that influence into her words and which makes for very charming conversation. She is recently engaged to the cello playing French fellow who I spoke of in a past blog, who liked our homemade wine, a lot. She is a lovely girl, dark haired and with sultry eyes, she is lithe, graceful, and is a sensitive soul. She played the violin one night in our gallery while Mark did a photo shoot of her and the walls echoed with the strength of her notes and the resonance of her skill. Lianna is beautiful and charming, etc, and has traveled the globe playing before critiquing audiences, but had never fished in her life. So out to the farm she came to try something new.

I had to spend some of the Sunday in town dealing with family matters with my parents so I missed her lesson but was told when I got back out to the farm the news was good. She had learned how to fish, and most importantly, to catch fish. Not afraid to get her hands dirty, Lianna had easily taken to baiting a hook with a live cricket, and tossing the line and bobber out to the waiting fish and then pulling them in. Not only did she catch her first fish, she caught her first bass, which in fishing fresh water is the gold standard of the fish most prized as game fish. Regrettably she had to leave to go rehearse her violin playing for several hours and was not able to stay for the dinner to come but was smiling and quite pleased with her new found activity and hoped to do it again soon.

There are few things as gratifying as catching very aggressive and strong large mouth bass on light tackle, and on this Palm Sunday, with a full moon rising, the fishing was at its best. We said good byes to Lianna and I climbed into the boat and we began the more serious quest for catching dinner. The fish obliged and we did, and then some, and threw the extras and the too big ones back.

I do not clean fish and left that job to the fellows while I went to the kitchen to prepare the mix for the batter and get the other things ready for dinner A marvelous time fishing, and then eating was had by the weary fisher people, sadly minus Lianna, and that week was done and made room for another.

A fairly monumental moment was had by one member of the barn yard in the past week or so. Frank, the Tank, my former young stallion, well not technically active as such but beginning to try, has become lightened of his load and is now, a gelding. In the history of man kind dealing with its shepherding of animals, and really its choirs too, I can’t imagine the idea suddenly popping into someone’s brain that if one were to cut the prized jewels off of a male animal, it suddenly becomes something one can use for anything besides the sharing of those jewels and their cargo, and no longer is it a rearing, biting, Mr. Stud, who thinks everything is his to, own and take his pleasure with. In the case of the choir boys, it lets them sing at high ranges for many years, their voices not succumbing to the evil forces of those hormones released by those prepubescent jewels. What random thought led anyone to think, ah, “male, cut do dads, then behavior better.”? Deductive reasoning of any sort has to have come with some experience to make judgment enough to elicit change of action. Perhaps an accidental cutting, without death, showed a delightful change in personality and behavior that led others to see a correlation to the lightening of the load of the testosterone producing glands.

Anyway it is a weird way of expressing and controlling animal husbandry, which is a strange name to call it too. Be that as it may, the act of gelding, or neutering a male horse, is critical if one wants a horse that is not prefixed on replication, to all and any ends, including but not limited to having a large horse standing on its hind legs over your head, ready for action. Geldings are not perfect, but they tend to be infinitely more consistent in behavior, and ignore those former urges to feel like, “They Rule,” and rather tend to become great partners, friends, and even, confidents who are comfortable wearing the new blanket with the gold trim their owner got for them at Christmas.

Frank has now, thankfully, joined the fraternity, or sorority, of males relieved of the baggage of the motivation for the perpetuation of the gene pool. Frank has made a definitive change from being a young brat to becoming a very sweet kid once again, and that has made my life safer, and Kitty, his pasture mate and nanny, very happy. Is the process a judgment call of nature? Sure. Do I feel guilt at the disfigurement it entails, the temporary pain, and permanent hormonal change? Absolutely, I do. This is farm world tho, where the animals are often big, fast and dangerous at times, and so my goal is to limit my risks. Having a young stallion is very low on my priority list. Having a superior and mentally focused, riding horse without the potential danger of the effects of its raging hormones is very high, and in gelding, this variable is largely eliminated. Frank is free now from the stresses of these hormones and already shows a more mellow character. This I like, a lot.

Years ago, when my mother’s father died, the estate was sold off, but my mother brought me one thing from his farm. He had been a cattle farmer most of his life on five hundred lush acres of Mississippi delta land, and had run a large herd of well bred Angus cows. The one thing that mom brought me from his life, from the possessions that he no longer needed, was a surgical stainless steel set of the tools one uses to perform an emasculation. I thought that was a rather strange legacy to leave a granddaughter but it was a very nice set of tools, the when and where I might actually use them was up for grabs however. For some strange reason I recently haven’t been able to find this box that holds such a sacred set of instruments and I have reason to suspect Mark of hiding the thing, but have no proof of such. I will keep looking, just in case.

And so, another week, another month, all going by so quickly it numbs the brain. So what of our actions, our experiences, our thoughts and our deeds that happens as we bumble our way through this life? If there were no photos and no written form of what makes our memories, those ephemoral events would be lost.  It is in their chronicling here that sets mine into a form that might be remembered and shared, and so I write as they happen, and I wait, for the next installment which will surely come when least expected and unpredicted.

Beer and Beaches

Day two was a Sunday and we had a problem. In this state, the Bible Belt rules say that you have to wait until after church to buy libation at any independently operated establishment for the sale any fermented liquids designed to make sure your vacation is comfortable and enjoyable. One can absolutely rule out the option of buying the necessities at a state run store. They are closed in observation of the sacred day and will not open under any circumstances. Being observant creatures we happened to notice a nice wine shop tucked in between a Radio Shack and a video rental shop. Once well supplied, off we went to the Fort.

Fort Morgan was begun being built after the War of 1812 when the USA figured out that it needed to boost the coastal defenses and defend the waterways that were the main methods of transporting people and goods to interior states. This fort sits on a prominent point on the eastern shore of the mouth of the Mobile Bay which is fed by the Alabama River. Initial construction was completed in 1833 largely remained idle until the Civil War broke out in ’61. There was a heated battle there in’64 at which time it fell to the Union army. It was active during the Spanish-American War and during the First World War, and was continually being added to and damages fixed from cannon fire and bullets. One can still see pock marks from the exchange of lead balls that hit the bricks, and mortar repair where cannons hit walls and tore them up. It is a testimony to the fine bricklaying and the engineering of its design that the structure withstood the various barrages and remains standing, an elegant and impressive old soldier still on attention.

When I was young, my parents took us to this fort once for our spring break. They sat my brothers and me on one of the large cannons that are on display in the front of the place to take a picture. At the last second before my dad took a photo of us I threw my hands up into the air and smiled, a big goofy missing two front teeth clowning act. Boy did I catch grief for that. I never really figured exactly why a very serious photo would have suited my folks better, but apparently it really mattered to them for some reason. The cannon is still there, and of course I had to climb on, this trip, for old times sake but left off the clown act. We wandered around the fort for a while, and then decided it was time to hit the sand and sit by some waves for a while.

The water on the bay side of the fort’s beach was fairly calm and a stained color, but we walked around the point to where the blue-green waves of the Gulf meets with this southward flowing river. The surface of the water where this confluence occurred showed intense currents boiling as they collided, and did not look like a very safe place to swim under any situation. We spread some towels on the white sand, put on some sunscreen, popped open a few beers, and enjoyed the view and the melting feeling of warm sunshine with a nice salty breeze in our faces.

There were cute little gray birds that darted back and forth trying to stay out of the waves, scooping into the sand as the wave retreated looking for something to eat. Terns and black headed gulls screamed as they flew by us. Then we noticed that there was a calm spot behind the confluence of waters that a large number of birds were repeatedly diving into with quite a flurry of excitement. The surface of the water showed there to be a large school of little fish, which would flush to avoid the predators. Then the show got more interesting.

The birds were just the first to tap into this hemmed up food source. Then came the other predators from the under the water. Larger fish flashed silver sides as they struck at the school, most likely Spanish Mackerels, perhaps King Mackerels, and Blue Fish too. The frenzy was on and the water was splashing and was whipped into froth. Porpoises got into the scene next, large groups moved into the fray, moving along side by side, working in team to massacre what fish were left. The worst of this dining experience was not 50 yards away, but several of the porpoises came by us, very close up, and were varying colors and sizes. Occasionally a porpoise would flap its tail on the water before diving, perhaps to startle the bait.

Our beers went down easy as we watched this show and we kicked ourselves for not having taken any gear to fish with. Well, we thought about it and decided that it probably would have taken too much energy and interfered with our relaxing plan anyway, and opened another beer.

Beer and beaches, together, are one of my earliest memories. My folks loved the white sands and big waves of the Gulf and took us there quite a bit to a house that someone lent them once a year. The routine was for Dad to pop over to a bar somewhere close by and bring a milk jug full of draft beer back for them to drink while we all played on the beach for the day. The draft beer had a rich froth on the top of their cups and so did the incoming waves. They would let me have a sip of the yellow brew and it puzzled me deeply why one tasted infinitely better than the other. Sea water simply doesn’t do the same thing for me, but visually they are inseparable in their connection in my brain.

Finally the beer ran out, the fishy frenzy had subsided, and we had certainly gotten more sun than we needed, even with the sp lotion, so we went to find the bird groups that were supposed to be trapping the migratory birds that fly into this first bit of land after crossing the Gulf from Central America this time of year. We found one group next to a small group of trees just taking their mist nets down and packing them away. They said they had seen very few for this day and were all a bit puzzled at the lack of numbers and wondered if perhaps the fog had messed the birds up.

Many moons ago, in college, Mark and I had come down to help with the netting, banding, etc with our friend and biology professor, Dr Tom. I was new to all the diverse types of birds there were at that time and the experience was amazing. To hold a tiny Painted Bunting in your hand, for the first time you have ever seen one, is a treat. The colors on it and the rest of the poor exhausted travelers were stunning. The banding gives valuable information to scientists as to populations and multi-continent migratory routes of these birds, and people from all over come to watch the process and see up close these little winged jewels.

Day light of two was toast, dinner on the water’s edge again, and back to the hotel for shuteye before the long drive back to home, horses, dogs, parents, and reality. It was good to get away, if only for two days, and a still alive, wide awake Jack met us at the carport with enthusiastic yelps. Home again, home again.

in continuum...

in the continuum….of the saga of Jack the potamus…


“I made a mistake and gave Jack the wrong shot.” I was listening very carefully now to what my caretaker/friend was telling me on the other end of the cell phone as we stood under the canopy of these gnarly oaks feeling the cool mist of the fog rolling off the ocean behind us. She asked me what might have been in the other needles that had been in the refrigerator down at the barn where I had left his insulin for her to have given him. I though a real big “Oh, crap,” because I had thought when I left the insulin in there that surely there would be no confusion as to which to use. There were the tiny insulin syringes I had left, and then there were three large other ones with writing one them for the horses’ use. Apparently I was quite wrong in my assumption, and Murphy’s Law proved to be correct, an error had indeed been made, again, but now my thoughts were racing to which of these three possibilities that were also in the fridg might be in play, and none of the three were good.

For those who have not followed Jack and his culinary capers and mishaps over that past year, Jack is an Australian terrorist, weighing in at varying weights but generally well over breed standard of somewhere around 14 lbs. He is somewhere closer to 23 lbs. and eats anything and every thing edible or not and has spent way too much time in the intensive care of my good vet, and this of course has led to the extreme level of expenditure of funds spent on his near demises. Jack has hypothyroid issues and takes his synthetic thyroid pill everyday, is a recovering pancreatitis victim from having devoured a half gallon of cooking grease, and the list continues but, he is also a diabetic and requires two shots of insulin daily. It is a holy wonder the dog is alive from these past and present problems but this one, I thought, might finally do him in if the dose of whatever it was that he had been given in error was too much for him to handle. It would be a peaceful end, no doubt, but after all that previous vet care and expense I was hoping he might hang around just a bit more if possible.

After a few more questions back and forth over the phone, I told my friend to call the vet and try to read the labeling on the used syringe to see what the heck she had given him, and then see what to do. She did say he was acting very sleepy, slumbering actually. We hung up and I waited for a reply. The news was a real stumper on the mood that we had mellowed into but there was simply nothing we could do but wait and see, so on we wondered through the foggy woods. It is an absolutely crazy world we live in that one can be at such a peaceful place in a physical and mental state and still be vulnerable to the dreaded ring of the cell phone. Does the falling tree not make any noise when it hits the forest floor if no one is there to hear it? Does bad news not really happen if you don’t answer the phone?

She called back about an hour later, and told me that the syringe had been a load of Acepromazine, a MAJOR tranquilizer, for horses. The load had been in the fridg for a just in case need, the dosage designed to knock a 1200 + lb horse to its wobbly knees, and definitely not to a somewhat, overweight, but still, very, little dog. The dosage was a major overload, but Jack wasn’t worried. Jack was in a basic coma, sleeping soundly, and was totally oblivious to his predicament. She had taken him to the vet where the vet had given Jack some form of shot to hopefully counteract the narcotic and was told to watch the poor puppy carefully, that he would sleep soundly for a day, then have a hell of a hangover but be fine afterwards, most likely. She drove the sleeping beast home with her for the night and gave him a bed on her screened porch. He really didn’t care.

We continued our journey on towards the Fort but, once there, found a sign that said it was closed after hours. Thwarted on that mission, we noticed a pier next to the dock for the ferry that shuttles cars to Daulphin Island that was facing the Mobile Bay and westward and so we sat on it and watched an orange sun slowly settle into the shrouds of fog out on the water. Mark took lovely photos and I marveled at the change in the view of the bay since I had last been there some nearly 20 years ago. Everywhere there were lights on ominous shadowy platforms of the pumps and drills of the oil wells that pump crude black oil from deep under the sands. It was a stunning sight, especially in the aftermath of last summer’s fiasco with the deep wells in Louisiana and the mess it made of the entire Gulf region. Statistics say the room for error increases exponentially with the increase in number of the rigs, each one before me a possible equal or worse disaster waiting to happen. It was stunning and sobering to see. The sun gone, we moved on to find some grub and libation.

I don’t know what made me do it but the seafood platter, fried, seemed the best choice and so we sat on the pier in a pleasantly cool night air, contentedly munching away at globular morsels of fat and flour with a nugget of some form of former sea animal in there somewhere that had been cooked in some equally unidentified form of serious fat. The lights of the oil rigs twinkled before us with a mocking innocence and mingled with the further away lights of the shore on the other side of the bay. Once damage was done to our gastronomical systems, my pancreas in overdrive, we headed for our base camp, Hotel Nondescript, and called it a day. My thoughts were with sleepy Jack, and I hoped to sleep almost as well as he was presently doing, well, almost as well.

Sleep well we did. We awoke to yet another rare foggy day, and gulls screamed as they flew past our balcony as we walked to the elevator to start our day. I needed a pair of shorts to wear since it was fairly muggy, an so we dropped into my idea of hell, the ultimate tourist store extravaganza, a store called Alvin’s Island, a place where every person who wants to look like they surf, wants a tattoo, or a piercing or two or three, and needs a reminder of exactly what town they got these relics from and want to wear a garment to keep them fresh on the idea of where they came from, can get all this, and more.

We had visited this store in a past lifetime when our kids were small and this was kind of a relatively benign place at that time. Now as I wandered past vast racks of incredibly trashy items of clothing, all emblazoned with something about having “done it” at Gulf Shores, I was trying desperately to block out the lyrics of a female singer that was blaring over the pa of the establishment, singing about having sex in the air with whips and chains to the beat of synthetic drums knocking my ear drums silly. I didn’t get it, but on I trudged thru the store and finally, at the very back of the store, I found the 75% off rack and a pair of very plain black shorts. Perfect. And then, my phone rang, again. This time the news was good. Jack was awake and ready for more.

Shorts purchased, mission accomplished, Jack was amazingly still alive, we set off to the Fort for day two of the mini-vacation.

Also to be continued,…no dangling cliffhanger this time…rather chilled out instead… just drifting

SSSSSSS

It is late March. Typical to this month of the year it has been one of extremes in weather, at times cold and blustery, and others balmy and bathed in healing sunshine. In between these have been violent rain storms with hail, lightening, and tornado watches, all brought on by the colliding frontal systems that almost weekly push their way thru the state.

The rain and increasing warmth of the daily temps has also brought the world back to life and green again after the winter gray. Trees are beginning to be covered with a bright chartreuse flocking of tiny leaves and flowers and every surface, outside and in, is covered with a sickly pale green powder of the thick sticky pollen from the hordes of the trees around the house. Flowering shrubs are also reawakened and are beginning their spectacular show that southern gardens are famous for. The exploding reemergence of the continuing cycle of life in the world can be felt, heard, and experienced with all the senses.

March brings many things to life and mind and surprisingly there is much alliteration to them; spring (the official start there of), showers, spring break, shedding, sneezes, and snakes. So many folks I know complain about their horribly incapacitating allergies to this plethora of pollen, and walk around with Kleenex, swollen noses, and puffy, runny eyes. The horses are now dropping massive amounts of long fuzz as I groom them daily and I find piles on the ground where they roll trying to scratch the winter coat off. I am fortunate to not be allergic to either, the pollen, nor to the endless amounts of horse hair that finds its way into my nose, eyes, mouth, and which covers my clothes inside and out. As to the snakes, this time of year as their reawakening time, is not my favorite aspect of the season. You can feel when its snake weather. There is just a certain temperature and humidity that feels snaky. That is when they begin to show up in all sorts of places.

Last weekend, Sunday afternoon was spent in the ritual “clean the boat up” session. This traditionally is a group effort, which involves pulling the fishing boat up onto the trailer and up to the house to take all of the rusting fishing lures, empty beer bottles, piles of leaves and acorns, and anything left over from last summer and fall’s excursions out. The boat then gets a good scrubbing and rearranging of all the stuff and everyone feels good and ready for the next adventure. This process was finally finished and as my daughter and I walked to the back door to put away the cleaning stuff, I stepped on the first step and heard her behind me say “SNAKE”. This is a five letter word which always does get my attention and I turned to see what she was referring to. There on the carport, less than two feet away from where I had just stepped, was a fat, coiled up, young copperhead snake, its tongue flickering and tasting.

There is always the “holy shit” moment after finding one of these slithering serpents so close to one’s feet. My heart goes into overdrive in an instant and my mouth starts spitting obscenities that I never knew I knew, and for some strange reason I feel like standing higher on my toes, as if that would save me from a bite from the snake. Copperheads scare the stuffings out of me because their tendencies to be waiting in places like at our back door steps, or under the lawnmower just before I was going to hop on to cut the grass, or even the big sucker that I sat next too on a big granite rock by a quiet trout stream one day. The little ones also have the tendency to look incredibly like a pile of poop made by a small dog, which we have a few of and so have their monuments scattered here and there, and while I do keep eyes sharp to avoid them I don’t always look at them carefully enough to rule out a snake instead of mere poop.

This particular snake met with his demise before he could sink his tiny fangs into any of our feet or into any of the very curious dogs that were milling about, and we all cooled our nerves with a chilly brew. Our daughter and our son in law then needed to head to town for the evening and weren’t thirty seconds down the drive before I heard gun shots. Pow, Pow, Pow,….Pow! My cell phone showed a text “ANOTHER SNAKE” and Mark and I headed out to investigate this second serpent on this sunny Sunday.

This one turned out to be a much larger cotton mouth or moccasin, who had happened to be considering crossing the drive right when they were driving out. This one also met with its demise, but we were all left a bit jumpy about if there were more to be seen for the day. Fortunately we did not. It is a normal and expected part of spring that snakes move around after their dormancy of winter and we understood going into this farm that we would encounter them. They were here long before we built this house and I suspect that they will be here after we are gone. I would just rather understand their being here fills an ecological nitch, but would also rather to not have to come face to fang with them.

I have seen two more since that Sunday, one, an incredibly long black racer that I nearly tripped over in my barn aisle way. Not being a poisonous one I didn’t freak but told the thing to get out of my barn with a “shoo”. This snake was not very impressed with my threat but finally slowly retreated to the door to the barn and went his on way. Then yesterday, when I opened the doors to the trailer I store my hay in, there on the bale in front of me was a kind of interesting colored one, who dropped out of the trailer and slid silently under the trailer. I had to look him up in the field guide to find he was a Speckled King Snake, and while I am not a fan of any serpent I was happy to see this one because the mice who also live in that trailer kill time by chewing on hay ropes and breaking bales open. So I hope this fellow stays and enjoys many of the evil rodents, but just not when I around, a symbiotic relationship of sorts with a slithering serpent.

And so March comes to a close in a few days. Spring in entrenched. Our Purple Martin colony is full and noisily vibrant. The horses are beginning to look like polished marble with their newly emerging coats, and the infamous Jack has eaten nothing to report and stays thankfully away from the vet’s clinic. I have waged war on the overgrown garden, again, and will be planting the summer vegetables soon with wishful hopes for a bountiful crop. I did find a clue yesterday about the mystery of the missing peach crop from last summer…we had stacked a bunch of landscape fabric on the ground in the corner of the garden last year and it had not been moved since we put it there. Well, I did move it yesterday and lo, I found hundreds of peach pits underneath it there. It looked as if a critter had made it a mission to stash the ripe peaches under this cloth, maybe to save for a rainy day? Who knows? I mean, what kind of animal steals peaches and hides them? I will definitely be watching the peach tree more carefully this year and make sure the hot wire keeps the browsing deer out of the garden, if possible. Ah, the simple life on the farm. Not. Still, it is good.