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I see them over there. Two young turkey scouts looking for the hole in the fence. Finding not one hole big enough for a turkey, they flap over. Do turkey fly? IMHO, turkey only fly enough to save themselves or kill themselves, whichever it is remains debatable. But after witnessing the aeronautics of one Wisconsin turkey, I then knew if it had not found the right wind current for uplift, there would have been one huge ball of bird crashing off my windshield.
The two scouts run to the wishing well feeder, one giving a horn-like puckpuck call. Yes, he told the head Tom on the other side of the fence, yes, the suckers left out more food. Today is their third visit since they discovered the wildbird smorgasboard. They don’t understand. Their feast is the eared corn under the pines way down behind the gazebo. I had not once envisioned them in my garden. Long-legged, knobby-kneed turkey standing in my birdfeeders. Or on the pool cover. Or wondered until today, how many turkey does it take to cave in a pool cover?
But where to put it. I knew it was coming. Dump my narrow, clear water glass on the carpet? Gross and too small. The wastebasket is actually wicker with large separations, so no. My purse? Open the window screen and vomit outside? But I had already managed to slide the window down so the neighbors could not hear me… they were playing basketball and I am a very private person…. read more a short short dilemna from the women’s fiction author of A BREATH FLOATS BY.
I was always surprising my mother. I was born during a blizzard, right in our kitchen and when she was alone. First surprise. Cord around my neck, second. With self-inflicted concussions, broken arms, food poisoning, getting lost, finding wild mice and being bitten, trying to save bats, and on and on… by the time I was eight, I imagine it was surprise number eight hundred and forty-two when I made Mother’s Day breakfast for her. And gave her six hundred surprises in one sitting. Mother’s Day morning, I woke early, went out a few hours after sunrise to gather flowers for the table…..
In my defense, Hubby cannot hear. Ten years ago we were in the grocery, in produce. I asked him to bring the corn. I am walking away and see him looking on the floor. I ask, “What did you lose?” and he says, “You told me to get the worm and bring it along.” To which I ask, “Why would I ask you to bring the worm?! There isn’t even a worm.” “Well, I was looking.” This is one example of five hundred thousand. Marriage humor is not all that amusing though.
I had the most vivid dream…. I was kidnapped from the mill, taken on a barge and sold as a Japanese sex toy. The guy who bought me took me on a ship headed somewhere but when he found out I was toothless he turned around and took me back to Japan and got his money back. They let me go in Japan. I didn’t know anyone, I was lost in a huge city. I finally found someone who spoke English and asked where the police station was but he said to not go there because they would take me to immigration prison. I wished I had my cell phone. Then I woke up. I was never so glad as to be in that nasty smelly steel mill in my life.” Yes, I have Hubby’s permission to blog this story in particular. He doesn’t care if I tell that he got his armpit fur caught in the electric mixer (another story, coming soon). But I can fill in some Indiana steel worker unemployment, safety, pension and abandoned steel mill sensibilities……
I remember my first case of adult poison ivy. Thirty years ago. I thought it was a grape vine. Yes, Hubby and I were pulling these huge amazon vines out of trees on the land we just purchased by the Wolf River. The neighbor stopped by and said, “You know, that looks like poison ivy, I’m pretty sure it is, but I don’t know, maybe I should check again for myself because around here you really have to know what the stuff looks like.” Now that I am over fifty, I realize that was the nicest way to not say we were blooming idiots. And today I still don’t seem to know any better, except how to get rid of it.
Divorce fiction with a spiritual bent? Yes, divorce spiritually speaking, can be a peaceful, mature, life-enhancing growth experience for both partners. Many of the books represented here are inclined to a more mature divorce of the marriage while the female character finds a path that brings her closer to her center in life.
The dessert menu reads that it is sweetened with natural juices. Two sentences later, “Sweetened with aspartame.” Eyeroll…. I make the mistake of saying it aloud. “That is not naturally sweetened and suggesting an ice cream sundae to Hubby. Our waitress makes a definite point to tell me it is naturally sweetened… Waitress, dear, please don’t argue with me. After such a physically and emotionally exhausting day, you are so tired and crabby. I’m just crabby.
This hawk is so forward. It just sits over the birdfeeding table in the winter skeleton of the highbush cranberry tree and waits until an unsuspecting wild bird comes to feed….. But I have to ask? Isn’t there an alarm watchguard? Besides me?…. What bird would come? Really. Don’t they tell one another there is a hawk in the tree. Isn’t there a warrior watch like on Tinkerbell? Besides me? Because that is what I feel like, running out there and yelling, throwing old carrots left for the deer, waving towels at the hawk. Me, warning the birds…. Does the bird that is nabbed and ‘et’ each day actually have a falling out with the other birds, therefore they will not tell him? … So it’s just me then, I’m the guard….
To my defense, once upon a time I always scooped them up to take them outside and make a nice plot of leaves and stones for them to live under far from the house, just like I do for the mice. To my defense, I used to take my hanging lamps apart to get the fake ladybugs out before they fried their little feet on the bulbs. And when they fry they stink too. And now here she is on the windowsill, still staring at me, dead or dying. While I am trying to work. The story that gives my hubby the warm fuzzies. Not really.
Like we told you, they take getting used to. You have to point your nose at what you want to read. . . . Ah yes, point your nose at it! What that means to me is point your nose at the BOOK! Point your nose at the cereal box. Point your nose at the up-close computer monitor. Not the three words you want to read.
Forgive me if I am a bit cranky, but that is what the exotics pets said to me. The elder, smart-arsed cat said I am essentially a turnip. Rule number one with exotic pets, very old dogs and grandfather-like cats is to never break routine no matter how cold you are or unglamorous you look…. Do I hear the cat upchucking? Are the skunks in his food already? Oh man, lots of windows. Snowplow guy can see me. I cover my abundant bikini-clad arse with the not-large-enough blue dog bowl. Wade through skunks to get in the door. Shuffle through the kitchen with a pant leg dragging. No puke. No no, wait for it…