In The Land of Won Ton Soup

Reminiscent of The Christmas Story, there is only so much turkey you can eat in a week.  Which brings me to the reason I stopped in a local Chinese take out restaurant to pick up something other than turkey last night.

It would seem that about 1000 other people had the same idea.

When you walk into this very small storefront, you realize you could never really eat in.  There are two small tables on one wall with four chairs at each table, and directly across (about 11 paces with my toe touching my heel on the way over) is a row of chairs where you wait for takeout.  Most customers sit at the tables to wait for take out, leaving the row of chairs for those who might decide to eat in.  No one has ever witnessed anyone eating in.

The food is good.  It's made almost in front of you as you order.  The kitchen is long and narrow and makes a galley kitchen look like a plantation house.  On this night there were about eight people cooking.  One person was elected to be the front counter order taker.

This is not at all like Cheers.  No one knows your name.  But if you call enough, they get to know the last four digits of your phone number.  Because that is what they use to identify who ordered what.

There were apparent problems with orders, people waiting a while, some mix ups, but everyone seemed congenial enough.  I think they were all so happy to have an option other than turkey they would have walked across a muddy creek to pick up their orders.

I never call.  So I am not known by either my name or my number.  I am known by what I order.  "Snow peas and shrimp" or "beef with mushrooms" or "won ton soup" or "shrimp toast." 

Front counter man was a little discombobulated because counter waiters were abundant.  I grabbed a "circle what you want" menu and a pencil and circled "snow peas and shrimp" and "beef with mushrooms."  I'm not very inventive.  After handing that in, I went and sat in the row of chairs 11 paces from the two tables and checked my cell phone for a game to play.  It was going to be thirty minutes.

Every once in a while counter man would call out a number to see if someone had come in for a pick up that didn't report for duty directly to him.  0718! 2402!  You need to keep your head down when he does this or he will immediately look at you and say again "0718?"  And then you have to shake your head "NO" and it's such a waste of energy.

I was playing a good game of angry birds which had an appropriate Chinese motif and just about had the last pig killed when I noticed counter man was standing by me.  This was about 20 numbers later.  "What you order?" he asked me.  Hmmmm....what did I order?  It was so long ago, and I was so concentrating on that last pig.

"Uh...beef..." I stammered.  "Uh (I hate people who say uh) beef with....."  What was it with?  Broccoli? Vegetables? Birds? Pigs?  ".......mushrooms!" I finally screamed out much like a gold miner screams out EUREKA!!!!!!  He waited.  Wasn't that enough?  Did he actually expect me to remember the other thing I ordered?  Last pig was doing muffled grunting on my phone.  "AND..." I said like I discovered plutonium..."shrimp.....shrimp with snow peas."  HEH HEH HEH HEH HEH went the piggy. 

Thankfully the light bulb went off over his head and he said "okay" and ran back behind the counter.  I looked at the couple across from me sitting at the tables waiting for their order and said "I forgot...it's been a while....."

Tempers were flaring in the galley.  More duck sauce was needed in the bin on the counter (requested by a patron) and when counter man went to fill it, he dropped about 20 packets on the floor.  I'm not sure what he was saying, but I'll bet it's stuff I say when I hit my toe at night into the side of the dresser table.

People continued to flow in and out. 2177!  6435!  3232!  SHRIMP AND SNOW PEAS! I looked up.  "Yeah, that be you Missy," he said.  Up I jumped and grabbed my brown bag full of all things that weren't turkey.  I would have crossed a muddy creek for it!

Aaarrrooooo!

A Quiet Place

I am a firm believer in a gentle hand that guides us.  Some call it fate, or your plan.  Some call it coincidence.  I've written about these things before.  Finding yourself in the right spot at the right time, driving down a street you rarely use only to be able to save a dog in peril, heading into a store you never shop in for the first time and meeting someone in it you haven't seen in years. 

This principle has been shown to me once again this past week.  Here is the story.  You decide.

On a particular trying day after a series of almost trying days, I visited my son.  I had thrown my camera in the car in case photo opportunities presented themselves, as I hadn't really shot a single photo in three or four days.  But my mind wasn't really focused on getting any shots of anyone or any thing.

After my visit I headed back home on a back road I've taken countless times.  It's the artery between me and what remains of my family living in this area.  Forty minutes to my Mom's house, thirty minutes to my son's house, thirty minutes to my stepson's house, etc.

There is a tiny little cemetery on Mt. Zion Road that looks to have some historic headstones, and though I have always thought about stopping there and taking a walk, I had not yet taken the time to investigate.  On this day, wanting to enjoy the fall-like weather, I parked the car in the church yard, crossed the street and walked the grounds. 

I love cemeteries.  I love reading the history of the headstones, seeing how many family members are together, looking at the oldest stones and seeing how well they've stood the test of time.  I grabbed this photo.

The leaves have already begun to fall from the few cold nights we've experienced.

I stayed about 30 minutes in the quiet of this place and looked at my watch, deciding I needed to get home and make some dinner.

I really did not take that many photos here.  Just wandered and enjoyed the solitude.

More back roads took me past some of my favorite spots on Route 92.  When I was younger, we used to go for lobster dinners at Emma's On The Trail, long since washed away in the flooding of the Susquehanna River.

My favorite aunt and uncle had a house along this route, where I spent many a summer day swimming in the pool or helping with the farm garden, when my uncle was still planting produce.  I was a witness to a major accident on this road at the tender age of 17.  I was the only one driving not in the accident and very afraid to exit my car and walk up to the other cars, most specifically because no one was moving from them at the time.  But I did, and that is a memory I don't like to see.

This is also the road on which the great Kehoe estate is located.  I have loved this house and that property all of my life, and I have looked up and read the history of the great Kehoe family.  Just before the Kehoe estate is another cemetery.  Mountain View.  Even though I was thinking of getting home, I was drawn to stop there as well.  I haven't ever driven up into this cemetery, although I have driven a dirt road next to it when we used to fish off the banks of the Susquehanna River.  There is a good fishing hole down from that road.

So up into Moutain View cemetery I drive, not really knowing where I'm going to go, but letting my car pick the place where I will park.  I grabbed my camera from the back seat once again and saw something flash out of the corner of my eye to my left.  The sun was making odd shadows in the late afternoon as it fell lower in the sky.  But I was pretty sure that the flash I had noticed was now materializing into a balloon, and as I walked toward the spot where I thought I had seen the reflection, sure enough it wasn't just one balloon, but an entire bunch of balloons.  Yellow and blue balloons hooked to a stand that had fallen over, probably in the winds of the past few days.  I was sure I heard music.  Country music to be exact, but I didn't know where it was coming from.

I put my camera down on the ground and picked up the stand, anchoring it securely into the ground.  The balloons danced into the sky.

I looked around me for a headstone, but there was none.  I then began to notice other things.  There were stuffed animals in plastic storage containers.  The music was coming from a radio in a plastic zip lock bag.  There was a license plate staked in the ground from Colorado. A Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and other drinks were lined up.  A perpetual candle was lit in the midst of the items.

I followed the trail to a tree, and below this tree I found a marker.  The tree was adorned with blue lights, that may have been solar, I'm not really sure. There were ornaments on the tree.  Not Christmas ornaments, although there may have been some of those as well, but note cards, remembrances, small items of friendship.  There was also a small plaque of a dog.

"A life that touches the hearts of others goes on forever."

Who was the person that graced our earth and was so loved by so many?  Who were the many that left the trail, the music, the balloons?

I was so humbled by what I saw here.  I walked around it a number of times.  I photographed it.  I photographed it somewhat reluctantly, not sure what I would do with the photos, or if I could retell this story because I didn't really know much more than what I was seeing, and I was seeing so much.

I did find a nickname.  Just a nickname.  Not much to go on.

I then walked the rest of the cemetery, including the older historic areas.  There are some very old gravestones there.  I found some very nice photo opportunities near the old trees that shaded the gravestones.

I then headed home.  It wasn't until later in the evening that I decided I might type the nickname into a search engine.

I typed the nickname and the word "obituary."  I found a story almost immediately.

John was a young man when he left us.  Only 22.  He died in a freak motorcycle accident.  He left behind all of these loving friends and family who cared enough to make sure he had music, balloons, stuffed animals, and a plaque of his dog, Noel.  They cared enough to plant him a special tree, with blue lights and ornamental messages.

I'm sure John is smiling somewhere.  Maybe he is with his dog, maybe he is waiting for her.

I read one more thing in that search engine story.  I read how John had died two years ago in the very same week that I was visiting his grave.  I will probably go back to visit it many times.  I may not have known him, but I like him.

 

(To make any of the images larger, simply click on them.)

Angry Swans and Other Oddities...

I had no idea swans were so protected in England. 

Odd way to start a blog, I know.

I found this out directly after googling and reading countless articles on angry swans.  Apparently some swans do have anger management problems.  Swan to human encounters can be pretty dangerous.  Because they attack relentlessly on the water if they are threatened or feel their territory is threatened, they have actually been deemed the cause of quite a number of cases of drowning.  One swan, in particular, had to be moved to a new location because it capsized canoes and kayaks with its 7-foot wingspan.

I knew none of this before my encounter this evening with THE ANGRY SWAN.  In a way I am glad.  Sometimes reading sensationalized material can make things way more scarey than they really are.  So I went into the encounter with no prejudice.

I'm a bird lover from way back.  I had a parakeet when I was very young.  I don't remember its name.  It said one word.  I don't remember the word it said.  It also whistled.  I do remember what that sounded like. 

After the parakeet I graduated to a rooster that belonged to my grandparents.  They had a lot of chickens.  The rooster was a Rhode Island Red (I was older so I remember more).  It had an innocuous name like Roo or Buddy.  But it wasn't harmless.  It was kind of angry.  All the time.  Because my grandparents owned these birds as a food source, one day the rooster was gone.  I think he was the protein source for a batch of chicken soup.  I was angry.  But then again, I thought about it and decided that the fate of angry things in my family wasn't a good one.

It's funny how history repeats itself, because we are the owners of a Rhode Island Red rooster named Eugene.  He is never angry.  He loves us, and turns his head sideways as if he is listening every time we say his name.  He has learned we are a food source and we are good providers.

I marvel at gray herons, I watch for egrets, I see the red-tailed hawks buzz our property, I see owls fly in front of my car up the long drive access road at night, and (no, I am not making this up) I even had an encounter with what seemed to be a TAMED grouse that used to wait for me by the mailbox.  I love birds.

So for many weeks I've been thinking about driving over to a local farm and taking some photos of the swans that float lazily on their pond.  This farm has a small roadside stand that sells produce.  I stop there a lot, but never seem to have my camera.  I needed some ingredients for a stir fry and decided to hop over to the farm to grab the goods, finally remembering that I wanted to take this photo of the swans, and throwing my camera into the car.

Some of the flowers growing near the farm stand.

I've gone to this farm a lot.  It's an honor system farm.  You pick what you want, leave your money in the box.  Everyone is very good about it.  You can also cut fresh flowers, or lettuce, or rhubarb, or herbs.  The pond is just down from the stand, near a great barn, so after buying what I needed and putting it in my car, I headed down with my camera toward the water.

I have never noticed the sign on the fence gate that reads "Do Not Enter. Stay Out. Angry Swan."  Luckily, you don't have to enter to get to the water.  I do believe in signs that might warn of impending doom.  I figure people put them there for a reason.  Knowledge is power.

So I walked along the outside of the fence noticing that the lovely white swans were NOT in the water, but on land tonight.  Not daunted by this, I decided that the photos of the swans on land would still be photos of the swans (the key ingredient), so all was not lost.  To get a good photo of them, however, I would have to get close enough to the fence, placing my camera right against it, in order to not have the fence appear in my picture.

I must have looked suspicious from the get go.  I mean, first - I'm an unknown human entity.  Second - I am carrying a large black object that makes a beeping noise when I turn it on.  Third - I am clueless about angry swans.

The largest swan, now has a bead on me and has puffed himself up to twice his size and is making some guttural noise that almost sounds like huffing.  But, he is not hissing (which I have read is something angry swans do as a warning). 

I do remember being chased once by a very angry, hissing goose.  At the time I was faster than the goose, but I'm older now and I don't think I would be faster than a swan.  I'm thinking that the swan can probably fly over the fence if it wanted to.

This sunflower was a great diversion and took my focus off the swan.

Do you not look an angry swan in the eye when it is getting angry?  I have no skills here.  So, I did what seemed reasonable and what my cat, Harry, would do.  I pretended not to be interested at all in the swan.  I stood within five feet of him with a fence between us and turned my camera on the flowers that were growing so lovely to my left.  Focus, lens motor whir, beep, press, snap.  Focus, lens motor whir, beep, press, snap.  I became really interested in the flowers.  I knelt down to get a better angle on flowers low to the ground.  Focus, lens motor whir, beep, press, snap.  Then I remembered the swan and looked over.  He wasn't so fluffy anymore, and he was looking at me sideways, somewhat like Eugene does when I say his name.  He was entranced by the sounds of my camera.  And my camera isn't that loud.  So swans must have some really good hearing abilities.

I also noticed at the start of the swan-fluffing, that a number of ducks came down to the water's edge and were hiding under the overhanging brush.  I think they had come to see what happens to the likes of a human who might not be able to read a warning sign and take heed.  My guess is they make duck bets.



You can see the orange feet of the ducks hiding behind that bush.  They are
trying to act nonchalant, but they are sure I'm going to get creamed by the

   angry swan.

So I stood up again and walked the remaining way down the fence line closer to the water, where I snapped some photos of the lanky cygnets floating around.  They are teenager types.  Pretty soon, unfluffed swan has followed me down and is standing there starting to fluff again.  He is winding his neck back into a tight loop.  I've watched videos on this since my encounter and realize the neck scrunch is in preparation for a possible striking out.  Like a coiled snake.

Some crazy stuff runs through my mind on a daily basis, but I have no idea why the song Red River Valley suddenly popped into my head.  I started to hum it.  Loudly.  Almost fluffed-up-again swan has probably never had an encounter like this himself.  Humming, whirring, beeping, snapping woman was just too much for his senses.  He stood down.  You could see all his feathers retract, neck loosen up.  Music does indeed soothe the savage beast....and, apparently, the angry swan.  I walked back up the bank, still on my side of the fence, and right up to the little crest near the fence to snap photos of the other white swans relaxing there.  He didn't follow me this time.  Just cleaned his wings with his beak.  After that he pretty much ignored me.  Mission accomplished.  Swan photos captured.

I did not, in fact, take any photos of the swan while he was angry.  First, the fence was in the way.  If I could have gotten close enough to put my lens against the fence, I'm sure I would have payed the price of an even angrier swan.

I have no doubt he is an angry bird and very territorial.  Swans may be beautiful, but don't let that suck you into a feeling of security.  Be smart, obey all warning signs, and when in doubt hum Red River Valley.

Aaaarrrrrroooooo!!!

 (For the resulting photos of the swans, visit i got the shot on Facebook, or check out the website http://www.igottheshotphotography.com)

With a Chick Chick Here and a Chick Chick There...

Ee I ee I....OH!

We've had chickens for about three years now.  How we got into them is documented somewhere in this blog, as is the great chicken dusting saga. 

In all those years and all the additions, we've never gotten into purchasing baby chicks.  Instead, I would purchase chickens of laying age from a farm about 40 minutes away that raises and sells layer hens.

We've had some transition in our chickens.  Through general chicken population loss, or that clever fox that somehow managed to attack three in broad daylight, we basically have TWO of the many chickens we started out with.  Greta and O'Brien are our two laying hens that remain.  We lost our lovely Delaware rooster Screech, as the winter came to an end, to an illness.  Despite doctoring and mentor advice, he did not make it through.  Greta and O'Brien were lost without him and for days would not even come out of the inner coop area.  Screech had been with us a bit over two years, and he was extremely friendly and did a fine job as a rooster.

When I made the announcement on Facebook that we lost Screech, a friend wrote me that she had a rooster for me, and that's how we acquired Eugene.  He is a beautiful Rhode Island Red rooster that was only 7 months old when we took him in.  He has quickly found his place leading his harem of two and is the best hawk spotter I have ever seen.

Left to right:  Greta, O'Brien, and Eugene

We live among the red-tailed hawks who patrol our skies.  Some have buzzed us so low our dogs can leap into the air and just about grab one.  We also have raccoons, skunks, possum, and other chicken predators in our woods.  That probably explains why we built the Fort Knox of chicken dwellings last summer.  We like our chickens to free range, but now we only let them out when we are going to be working on the farm for great lengths of time and/or our horses are turned out.  The horses seem to keep predators away and chickens tend to stick to the horses fields and immediate barn/coop areas.

Every chicken loss was a great one here.  I was the one to find the fox attack.  After an extensive CSI crime scene investigation, internet research, and talking to other chicken owners, "FOX" was clearly the culprit.  We do also have coyotes, but they live off many rabbits and squirrels in our area, and rarely come close enough to our farm.  After a bit over two years with no attacks on our chickens, we felt that all was well in our poultry coop design and we were impervious.  Armies have probably fallen because of this kind of thinking.

The chickens even survived my mother staring at them longingly and telling me which ones would "make good soup."  (My mother's family raised chickens and ducks and during the depression the foul they raised were their primary food source.)  I keep telling her we don't eat anything we name.

The chicken "bunker."  If anything gets into this, they deserve to.
 

So in all this time we have not gotten into baby chicks.  We take the eggs from our brooder.  Even though Greta has a tendency to become broody at least twice a year, we manage to get her over that by either physically removing her from the nest or bribing her with treats.  It's amazing what a bag of roasted sunflower seeds will do when shaken vigorously.  Greta never misses that snack.

This year I was at our local feed store buying fly spray when I heard the peeping noises coming from the "chick" room.  Then, I did what I shouldn't have done.  I went in.  There were loads of chicks available, also ducklings.  And in that moment of cuteness and "how-hard-can-this-be-ness" I caved and bought six baby chicks.  Four Americanas and two Barred Rock Bantams.

When I got home I broke the news to my husband who is well versed in having animals thrown at him quite unexpectedly.  We totally cleaned the enclosed coop area and put the one week old chicks inside.  Unfortunately, this was during a period of time when we were going through unseasonable spring weather and our nights were dropping down to 42 degrees.  Even with our heat lamp, the internal coop temp was only coming up to 70 degrees.  Chicks need 80 degrees and above.  On that first night we decided to ready a large Rubbermaid trunk and bring them into our downstairs half bath, which is very warm as an interior room in our house.  It also made it easier on me for the vast amount of cleaning that needs to occur with baby chicks, since they insist on pooping in their feeder, in their waterer, and all over their bedding about 90x per chick per day.  This also gave me a chance to handle them at least once per day so they got used to me, and got used to the idea of my hand offering treats.


The chicks in their internal coop on the first day home.

I also got to observe baby chick behavior, which can be very humorous.

Within one week they were starting to grow and more feathers were coming in.  They began to learn about treats, which I gave them in limited quantities, especially meal worms, which they love.  It's so much fun to watch them grab a meal worm and run so that none of the other chicks will get it.

Within two weeks they were flying everywhere within their Rubbermaid trunk (and sometimes NOT within their Rubbermaid trunk), and often I would find one or two of them sitting on the edge of it.  We made them a perch within the trunk which they used instead of the edge.  Still, once in a while, I'd hear a volley of peeping like someone was being massacred, and go in to find one had flown completely out of the trunk and could not figure out how to fly back in.

This past week we moved them permanently to the inner coop with their heat lamp and reclaimed our bathroom.  It was starting to look like a frat house party site, so I'm glad to be able to have it back to normal.  The chicks have so many more feathers, are so much bigger and have so much more room to fly.  There is a great perch inside the coop, which we lowered for them until they are bigger, and their heat lamp keeps the temps at about 75 degrees at all times.  They seem quite happy, and have now begun to play chicken games with each other.  Queen of the perch seems to be a favorite.  I laughed the other day as the smallest of the bunch made herself as big as chickenly possible when you are "chicken little" and ran full throttle flapping her wings at her buddies to be sure they understood just how menacing she can be.

Our other three larger birds are living temporarily in the original coop we had within our barn (a converted hay room--we have two hay rooms, so it was easy to reconvert this one back to a chicken abode).  Once the chicks are large enough we will start segregating them from the larger birds so that they can see each other but not interact.  Eventually all things will work out.  We are keeping our fingers crossed that all birds stay with us for a long time.  I'll keep you posted, and hope to get updated photos soon.

Aaaarrrrrooooooo!




1984 and All That...

I'm sure that, unless you've been on a deserted island thanks to Gilligan, you probably have seen all the news reports about our government's access to our phone records.  For years I have had an aversion to phones, probably since watching movies like "When A Stranger Calls" and other B-rated cinema classics.  So, I'm going to admit right here and now that I'm not too worried about this.  Heck, I'm probably the most boringest (<--clearly made up word) person on the face of the planet when it comes to calling/being called/conversations/texting and all phone usage.  Too bad they aren't looking at my Angry Birds app usage.  If they ever find a connection between Angry Birds usage and the most-wanted, I will absolutely be pretty high on that ticket.

This did get me thinking, however, about the things that strangers know about us that we never seem to complain about.

My local Starbucks sees me just about every day.  I order the same thing.  In fact, I am so predictable, they often just start making my drink when I walk in the door.

It can throw them for a loop when I order, oh, let's say, a green tea lemonade sweetened, instead of my grande wholemilk hazelnut latte.  (To set the record straight here, my husband really screwed up my Starbucks "Cheers" thing I had going on, when he started being COMPLICATED in his order and getting his latte with "no foam, extra hot."  Now, for some reason, the barristas think I want mine that way too and I've become way too wordy ordering a grande wholemilk hazelnut no-I'm-not-the-one-who-likes-it-no-foam-extra-hot latte.)  So here, clearly, is a piece of information that many people know about me from this one organization.  (Pssssttttt.....this is what SHE orders!)

The other day I drove up to Pet Supplies plus to purchase some dog supplies.  Dog food (canned and dry), cat food, doggy treats, etc.  We just added six baby chicks to our household and they are living the high life in our downstairs 1/2 bath.  It's reminiscent of a tailgate event in there, short of the keg parties.  I decided to buy them some meal worms, since I read that I could start introducing them to certain treats soon.  I get up to the check out counter and the young lady is ringing me through.  I am one of those card-carrying members they see every week like clockwork.  Suddenly she picks up the jar of meal worms, crinkles her nose, looks at me and asks "so who are these for?  You don't usually buy these."  (Pssssssttttt......she bought MEAL WORMS!!!! What is she building in her basement?)  I explained the chick treat and all was right with the world.  No investigative reporters met me outside. (I found a great link about raising your own mealworms, which I may try so as not to raise suspicions any further about my mealworm activity.)

Every day on line I'm being traced and tracked and 117 cookies are deleted every night when my scanning system goes into overdrive on my computer.  Spybot warns me every third google search that some ungodly activity is going on behind the scenes. And Amazon?  Forgeddaboutit. 

They know when you've had kids, how many, what their ages are now and when to send them a birthday card.

My hairdresser used to record my color next to my name in a little book when I got my hair colored.

The supermarket keeps track of ALL my purchases and every time I return to the check out with a new order, an appropriate coupon appears with my receipt reminding me that I liked General Mills cereals the last time I shopped.

If we went back through all the things that are accumulated on just me every single day we'd have a profile to make NCIS records envious.  So maybe tomorrow, when I go to Starbucks I'll order a tall half-skinny half-1 percent extra hot split quad shot (two shots decaf, two shots regular) latte with whip.  That ought to throw them for a loop!

Aaaarrrrroooooo!!!!!

Google Loop Anyone?

Okay, so it's been a while since I blogged on this particular blog.  But that doesn't mean I haven't been busy.  I've been keeping up Danny's Facebook page, doing lots of photography work, packing away the hours looking at Pinterest pins and wishing I had the time to build a guest house, make lights out of cardboard lanterns, and lived on the Isle of Crete.

It isn't like I haven't thought about blogging.  I have.  Late at night after editing my next load of photographs (which I've also spent some time getting pretty proficient at doing), or watching a new video from my photography class, I've thought about getting back to "At the End of My Leash."  Many times I've been AT the END of my leash.  I wanted to tell you all about them.

So why haven't I?  Google.

You know as you get older, if you don't mark absolutely everything down on a piece of paper, you forget it.  Especially passwords.  Or how you originally got into certain accounts. (Sigh...)

I have a little, spiral bound notebook I got from a printer who was trying to sell me stuff.  I keep it in my desk drawer and now I mark every single, solitary account note that I can into that little book.  If a thief got into our house and located this little book, it would give him or her the access to an entire world of blogging, email, facebook, pinterest, websites, photography ecommerce, etc.  How EXCITING!

I keep waiting for the movie starring Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie about just this subject!  Cracking the Pinterest codes.  Why no one has done a social media mission impossible type movie is beyond me.

So, today, I decided that I would return to my blog.  Then I realized why I hadn't.  Because every time I try to return to my blog it asks me to "LOG IN."  And apparently, in a more non-lucid moment, I decided to create an entirely new email account that would apply ONLY to my blog.  Then of course, I forgot what that email account was.  And not only did I forget the email account, but I forgot the password to the email account I forgot (this is, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the most lost thing you can do as a human).

I created this albatross of an account when I wasn't writing things down in little, spiral-bound notebooks.

On and off, all day, between doing real noteworthy things, like going to buy the rest of my garden plants, cleaning stalls, etc. I tried wracking my brain and the account log in screen to figure out what in the heck I could have named this particular account.  Most unsuccessfully I kept seeing this:
.....there is no account by that name
.....there is no account by that name
.....there is no account by that name
.....there is no account by that name (you stupid idiotic mere human that you are)
.....there is no account by that name (ha ha ha ha ha....we machines win and you lose)

Okay, so my mind was making up the rest, but this quickly became the WAR OF THE TECHNO WORLDS: MAN VERSUS MACHINE: MACHINE VERSUS GOOGLE!!!!!

Google gave me some options.  They basically can be summed up into this loop:
"Hi silly human!  You are here because you've forgotten who you are.  We are going to torture you for a while and then if you are smart enough, and you can get around this continuous loop of non-help we are about to provide you, we will allow you access back into whatever you are seeking.  But you have to be smart.  We only let smart people out of the loop.  And it's pretty endless.  Have a nice day!   MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!"

So, I was given a few ways to find my way back.  First it asked me for the name of the account I could not remember.  Uh huh.  Scratch that one.

Then it asked me to answer some questions.
"When did you create this account?" Month, Day, Year
WTF?  If I can't remember the password, how am I supposed to remember when I created the account?
"Oh, if you can't remember exactly, go ahead and guess." (I am serious.)
Guess number one entered.
"What's the last password you remember?"
I don't.  I don't remember.  I freakin' don't remember my name some days. 
Guess number two entered.
Four more just as invalid questions later I finally check SUBMIT and get this:
"SORRY, YOUR INFORMATION IS INCORRECT."  Really?  All those guesses you told me to make are incorrect?  Go on!

It's about this point I am wondering who designed any of this.  Do you think there is a two way screen somewhere and they are watching through my computer eye and seeing me pull every strand of hair out?  I needed a haircut anyway.

But, finally, I began to think like the machines behind this loop.  I began to think that maybe, somewhere, at some point, I was sent something that would give me a clue and I would be able to finally say:  IT WAS COLONEL MUSTARD IN THE DEN WITH THE KNIFE!!!!!

And I was right.  I found a clue.  I found an old email from 2011, when apparently I created the account, and it had the exact email address in it that I needed.  Then it was only to find out the password.  That in itself is another whole blog post.  But suffice it to say:

And the account information is in the spiral binder in my desk drawer, so chances are you are going to see more blog posts.

Aaaarrrrrrooooooo!!!!!!!!!  (Humans win....)

Oh What A Beautiful Morning...

Sometimes we have expectations for a day.  There might be a plan in place, a schedule, a sort of outline in our mind of what we expect to accomplish in that day, but the unexpected always seems to sneak in.  The unexpected can be happy or sad, frustrating or benign, simple or complex.

Yesterday started out with a sketch in my head of what needed to be done.  First their was the usual:  coffee in the morning while checking email, head to my mother's house to prune her hedges and plant her plant boxes, fuzziness in between to do what I felt needed to be done, and finally meet a friend and trail ride our horses late in the day.

It was a beautiful, sunlit day.  The air was so dry, the sky so blue. It was the kind of day that almost makes you want to sing. I loaded up all the gardening tools, electric clippers and other items I would need for the job in my Mom's yard and headed out.  First stop, coffee at Starbucks, followed by a quick purchase at the plant place.  I selected some lovely annuals to put in the planters at my mother's.

The yard work and planting took me a few hours.  I then drove to my Dad's grave site to plant some plants there, weed and beautify the area.  I had just enough time to get home, let the dogs out for some play time, give the horses more hay, eat something, get changed, and meet my friend for that trail ride.

That's when hell in a handbasket came to visit.

My lovely android phone has been in a time warp lately.  Text messages seem to get stuck in cyberspace, then, purely on whim, arrive in my phone, sometimes many hours, sometimes a day later.  I heard the familiar ping of the text messages as I was finishing up at the cemetery, so I checked it.  It was almost a day old text letting me know about my horse which is boarded.  He seemed to have acquired some type of bug bite which was swollen under his neck, and his back right leg was red.  The boarding facility is very good about getting in touch with you immediately.  I wish my phone was as good.

Quickly, I recalculated the day.  I could run down to the boarding facility and check this horse before I did all the other stuff.  The trail ride was going to occur at a different facility, where my other horse is at the moment getting some training and solving some problems which have manifested.  He is there for two weeks.

I think our roads need to be added to the worst commutes
in America list.

Interstates in my area right now are a disaster.  You have to avoid them as much as possible if you don't want to be standing for hours watching grass grow on the berm.  Time lapse photography is faster.  So I selected back roads and headed toward home and the barn to check horse #1.  This route took me very near my house.

On the road from my house to the barn, I realized a cat had been hit by a car and was laying near the berm, a bit onto the road.  It was an orange tabby.  I felt bad.  I always feel bad for cats that have been hit.  There are alot of farms in our area who allow cats to breed.  The cats are ultimately feral, intact (unspayed or neutered) and all over the roads.  I deliberately drive very slowly along these roads because many times these cats will run just in front of my car.

I continued on to the barn, finding, alas, that even this back road was encumbered by a road crew, down to one lane and trying to rectify a telephone pole which, beyond anyone's imagination as to how, was split in half, hanging precariously between the wires and the street and the roof of someone's home.  I am still wondering about that.

Once at the barn, I went out to the field to examine horse #1.  The bite was a good sized one, from what I do not know, but the leg was not really all that red anymore.  I had used a medication on what seemed to be a bit of leg fungus (common to horses) on the cannon bone and either the medication caused the red reaction, or I needed to apply sunblock to the skin on this leg after removing the fungal material.  Horse #1 was as happy as a clam with no ill effects, so I headed back home.

I don't know why, but I decided to go back home the way I just came, even though it meant going through road crew hell and past the hit kitty again (something I don't usually like to see for a second time).  As I approached where the hit cat was located, something made me stop my vehicle in the road.  I decided to move the cat's body to the bushes and off the road, so it wouldn't be run over again.  I had a pair of heavy duty gloves in the car from gardening, so I went to grab them.  I started walking toward the cat, and that's when the cat lifted its head.

Do you see what I mean about a day?

My heart was in my throat.  This was truly a dilemma.  The cat was obviously injured very badly.  I'm no vet, but my estimation was that life #9 was used up here. It was also feral and was now using whatever energy it had left to hiss at me and try to get away.  Unfortunately, it could not move its back end.  What to do?

I had a towel in my car.  I got it.  I laid the towel over the cat's head and very carefully picked it up.  I then put it on the mat on the floor of my car in the back seat area.  I had to drive home to let my dogs out and give the horses hay.  I wasn't very far from home.  Time was now dwindling down.  I hadn't eaten anything all day, and I needed to get changed.  Somehow, I now had to try to figure out what to do about the cat.  I could not have left it there.  I knew it couldn't be saved.

After pulling in my driveway, I acted like I was on a game show of mad dash.  I literally RAN to let the dogs out, RAN to the back fields to give the horses hay, RAN into the house, RAN upstairs and changed clothes, RAN downstairs and grabbed a highly scrumptious meal--mango peach applesauce and a mueslix bar--grabbed a drink for the road, left the dogs outside (my husband had phoned that he would be home in 10 minutes, so they would be fine for now), and went to my car.

The first thing I did was peer in the window at the towel where I had left the cat.  To my utter shock, the cat was not on the towel.  Now I had a feral, very hurt cat in my car.....SOMEWHERE!  I slowly opened the door (think horror movie waiting-for-the-thing-to-jump-out mode).  I spotted a striped orange tail on the other side of the back seat area, sticking out from under the seat.  Okay.  Fine.  At least I knew the cat was still in the back.

I jumped in the car, grabbed my cell and started driving.  My vet's office is on speed dial.  I called them first.  This was later in the afternoon.  My vet was not in, the technicians were not there, and there was no one who could euthanize a cat.  There is an emergency clinic.  But I wasn't sure I wanted to go there.  I decided I would take the cat to the Humane Society.  I knew that they usually had a euthanasia technician on site, and perhaps they would help me.

I need to remind you that this entire time I was very stressed over the situation.  I was working on pure adrenaline to keep me from not breaking down, stopping my car and sobbing in the middle of the road.

I arrived at the Humane Society location and found two people sitting behind the desk.  I described the situation.  Luckily, there was help.  Two women accompanied me out to the car.  They devised a strategy to carefully open the door and extract the cat.  I offered my gloves but they had their own.

Slowly opening the car door, the technician didn't see any movement.  Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, the kitty had died.  She removed him and placed him on a towel lovingly and examined him.  Confirmed he was intact, and very badly injured.  He would not have survived.  It did not make me feel any better.

They thanked me for caring enough to stop and pick the cat up.

Sometimes I hate who I am.  I hate the fact that I am compelled to stop on the road and move dead animals.  I wonder about the kind of person who could hit a cat and not stop.  How long had that kitty been on the road suffering, scared?  I was extremely upset at that point.  I no longer needed the adrenaline.  This was the worst "down" of the day.  That feeling of utter helplessness, where you know you can't touch something and bring it back to life.

I'm still sad today.  I will probably be sad for the rest of the weekend when I think about this, or for that matter, whenever I think about this.  Because I know I'm going to see more of this on the road.  And I know I'm going to have to stop.....again.

I did make the time to meet my friend.  I didn't end up trail riding, just riding in the ring, but somehow just being around my horse helped alot to dispel some of the sadness I was feeling at the end of what started out to be a beautiful day.

Aaaarrrrooooo