Spring comes to Maine later than it does in parts south. Yesterday, I saw my first Butterfly of this new Spring. I was over to Mary's Woods on my first official walk of the Spring with Maggie. She was shivering with exceitement when she realizied we were headed across Sam Page Road instead of to the back of our property for a quick P,P &S. Maggie lives to run in those woods across the road. Dog Heaven for sure.
What struck me was how more in tune I am now to the subtle changes in the yearly cycles Ma Nature puts my part of the planet through. As a kid growing up in so many different locales, I never had a real chance to settle in and notice the small changes that signal what is coming. Or maybe, it just took me years of being settled in one place to see the fine print that had been there all along.
Salmanders were one of my first signs of Spring here. My dad had warned me to watch out in basement early Spring:
"Watch where you step...... The Salamanders are horny. ...... Don't want to kill any, they're good luck you know."
There were other indications warm weather was actually going to return to Acton. The months old snow cover begins to shrink and the snow fleas show up. There are countless indicators I mostly missed, that now let me keep tabs on what previously dependable cycles to expect.
Yesterday, while over to Mary's Woods with Maggie, I was again reassured warm days lay ahead when the pictured butterfly landed on my knee as I sat on a log. It only sat still for a second or two before it was off again in flutter mode and heading where, I have no clue. It chased the Sunlight that flashed through the bare branches of early Spring. It seemed a tad cool for a first butterfly sighting, but well, what do I know?
After Maggie and I finished our walk, I looked up the butterfly. It is a "White Admiral" , a regular every Spring who climbs out of the larva it wintered in.
I was wondering why it seemed so disoriented. I mean, how can one tell a disoriented butterfly from an oriented one who knows where and what it is doing? Well, the normal appearance for these White Admirals in Maine is late May, early June.
Hmm........ Maybe this one hitch-hiked up from Maryland.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ................................
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I thought of a song perfect for this day. The Rascals released it in 1968. I was 14 and though it seemed a chick song, I always liked it ........ And still due. "A Beautiful Morning".
This was one of my early posts when I first created my blog. I had not read it in years; maybe not since the day I first posted it. Having re-read it now, I thought it might be worthy of a re-post with some trinkets and slight editing.
Here is "Random Scraps" from June 9th, 2006 - Including my immediate thoughts and some slight editing after the re-read.
Lunatics rule, the rest of us drool Lunatics run amok. Scattering the quiet and calm in every direction. They stand up and scream for the sake of the noise made. They attack our senses and rattle our souls. Hammering nonsense into directives and rules. They focus on the ridiculous and bend our wills to stupid endeavors. And all the while we are distracted by their manic gyrations, the real threats loom. Growing silently patiently waiting for their turn at the front.
20 years Later - Nothing seems to have changed ; at least not for the better anyway. The new lunatics have taken the reins now, promising us the same promises only in new packaging.
Okie Overdrive Dropping down out of the mountains, I shift into okie overdrive. 70,000 pounds of 18 wheeled momentum gathers steam and I grin as the speedometer creeps up to 90. I hold the wheel loosely, letting the truck find it's own way down the three lane wide super slab. The scenery picks up the pace as it zips by my window. But wait. Oh shit! Some curves ahead. Hugging the inside of the first turn, my hands tighten on the wheel as the truck begins an 18 wheel drift to the outside. A foot of space and a puny guardraill is all that pretends to protect me from a 200 hundred foot bummer of a plunge.
Just as I begin to think it is about time to revisit my past and make peace with my maker, the road curves back and I jam hard into it and ride it out. Easing on the brakes, I pass the bail outs at 80mph still barely in control. One more curve and another drift toward the abyss. Cannot brake now. Cannot engage the tranny, I hang on and hope those new radials live up to their rep. I touch the trailer brake. All I see in my mirrors is smoke and I have to let up. The road straightens some, so I try to find high gear. Grind the gears, double clutch, touch the brake, grind the ...finally the shifter hooks up. Whew!, I ease her down, shift down, and as the engine screams in pain I begin to slow down as the road flattens into the valley floor. Shaking, I pull over to the shoulder and stop. I check my britches. I also check off that stupid trick from my list of fun things to try.
No rose colored glasses here. I almost paid the highest price for being stupid on that night run from Las Vegas to Los Angeles back in 1977.
20 Years Later - Those stupid moments on I-15 driving south to Los Angeles often cross my mind. Whenever they do, I will shake my head and wonder who or what might have been looking out for me. ........... Which is why I don't discount the possibility of a higher intelligence having something to do with us and what we are doing to ourselves.
I just hate the faith based networks we set up to pay homage to that possible higher intelligence; which when I think about it, Hah! Higher Intelligence? If they exist at all, they should be called the "Lower" or "Not Much Intelligence Agency", given just how sadly Humanity is turning out. Somehow, we keep movin on in spite of ourselves.
The Blue Jay I wanted to kill that fucking Blue Jay. It pounced on that poor sparrow and began pecking it to death. I rushed to the rescue but pulled up short. My emotional knee jerk reaction turned to resignation at the brutality of the natural world. I chased the Jay away and peered down at that poor young sparrow. One wing obviously mangled and useless, it gazed at me from a bloodied eye socket. The eye now in the Jay's stomach I guessed. Nothing I could do. Let nature run its course. I turned and walked away. Looking back, I watched a crow that must have been hanging around, swoop in and take it. With a small taste of satisfaction, I grinned crookedly and thought, "Well, at least that damn Blue Jay didn't get it."
The rest of the day, the violent end of the sparrow popped into my thoughts. I was not sure why it affected me so. But the lesson of that food chain moment had made a point. A re-run of sorts on how the World really works. Life is never secure nor truly safe. Hazards exist and predators lurk.
20 Years Later - I still on occasion will remember in detail the dying sparrow with the empty eye socket; serves as a constant reminder of just how much of a crap shoot Life is.
Be Sociable and Kind........ But don't be Blind................. Later
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I should do this more often. Listen to the music before I have finished the post. Today, I walked back some years to a time that seems now an idyllic fantasy world I made up. I know we had problems, but now I wonder if those problems were just stepping stones on the ever rougher pathof stepping stones I have tred on to get to the here and now.
Perspective. Writng and specifically writing after taking trips down memory lanes are all about perspective. And what seems to affect perspective the most? The passing of time does.
So, moving on now, I should have done this more often was originally meant to be about listening to music without straining to find a tune that would fit for whatever arbitrary reason I originally had. Just listen to the music and one will strike the right key. ...... I'll know.
I punched up a mix list Youtube had created from the gajillion songs I have played in the last so many years on their platform. I stopped it when this Metallica / Megadeth & the WHO mashup tried to pass by. Here is "Eminence of Holy Wars & Creeping Death". Given the names of the bands involved, I shouldn't have to say it.......Play it as loud as you can stand and then punch it up a notch or two.
I am making a token BoZone appearance today, this last day of August, 2025.
I needed a break. I had no plan for how I would waste this break; no rhyme or reason other than the obvious one that Life sucks for more folks than seems reasonable or called for.
It is as if the various tribes and groups that comprise the planet's population feel the need to make others unlike themselves more miserable than themselves in order to find their warm and fuzzy happy place.
In the scheme of the worldwide distribution of hate, discontent, and misery, my recent self indulgent dose of it is but a miniscule drop in a vast ocean of misery borne by the un-famous, the not so rich, the lesser lowly folks who make up 90 percent of the world's population. I am indeed much more blessed than most, yet I often don't feel that way.
I have come to the conclusion that the only people who are happy are the assholes who are jumping for joy as they liberally spread their hateful ugliness like it was a blessing on the rest of us.
But today I decided to to take a break from the simmering pot of miserable I seemed to enjoy wallowing in. A reasonable man might conclude I was loving Life in the doldrums, sitting on the couch, eating popcorn and cheering on the misery and discontent being shoved down all our throats by morally bereft, vindictive psychopaths full of imaginary righteous indignation, like we are the problem, not them.
I did not mean to share my dip into the pit where Depression resides. No, I was just going to write a let's get acquainted again post about my dog, Maggie. It would have been just another I love my dog post I am sure; safely non confrontational without any self pity.
Seems I blew it.
So let me quietly go away until such time I can return with either joy or fierce criticisms, whichever one blows my dress up at the time.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ...........................................
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My post may have lost track of its point before it began, but at least the musical part of the post can stay on topic. Here is a great song by Charlie Parr. It is called "Dog".
Earlier this month, I spotted this turtle just before I drove over it; thankfully, not with the wheels. I stopped and backed up, being careful to not squish him/her this pass either.
I stopped the truck, got out and checked the little guy/gal for damage. I knew it was not a snapper. My question was, was it a Painted Turtle? Didn't matter as I knew it did not belong in the road.
I bent down to get a better look. The turtle buried its head inside its shell. Good idea I thought. Not the best idea to trust a human.
I turned it over for a second and realized I should probably not mess with it. Find a nice spot on the side of the road it had been facing and set it free. That is what I did. I spent the 3 miles driving back to the house feeling proud and full of myself. Once again I helped a needy creature out of a potentially tough situation. Yeah, I was breaking my arm patting myself on the back.
I wanted to know what kind of turtle the little feller/gal was. Google came to my rescue as expected in about 4 milliseconds. Turns out the little turtle was not a Painted Turtle. It was a Spotted Turtle and on the endangered critter list, a list that grows exponentially every year it seems.
Their decline is so bad, they are increasingly only found in small groups scattered up and down the East Coast and inland North New York and Vermont. Apparently Acton, Maine has at least one.
When I read this, I was even more pleased with myself. Somehow I was attaching more importance to this little creature than say, a Painted Turtle, which is not on the endangered list. That there are less of them than the others tends to give them a higher priority on the help them out lists. As I have never considered endangered in any of my animal aid moments, helping this little turtle is no more important to me than the time I saved an angry Snapping Turtle from possibly becoming roadkill. Over the years, I have been very evenhanded in doing what I can to help all critters out. Helping one on the endangered list just reinforced my policy of helping Nature where I can.
In June, 2008 I was coming home from moving my daughter up from North Carolina. I was on my road almost home when I spotted this Pissy Momma Snapping Turtle trying to successfully cross Sam Page Road to the bog so she could bury some eggs in the stinky bog goo. I had learned to respect Snappers when I was a kid in Maryland, where they get much larger than the one I interacted with that day in June, 2008.
I decided to not try to pick her up. I had a two wheeler in the truck from when we moved my daughter, so it became a simple operation.
Momma was not happy. She hissed and bit the steel two wheel dolly a few times. Turned out it worked great. I had her safely across the road in no time. She turned her neck and looked at me, hissed a final time and then and continued on her quest to find the perfect spot to lay some eggs.
Hmm. ...... This post has been constructed through a series of separate efforts, each one carrying a slightly different point I thought I wanted to make.
I hate not completing a post in a single effort. This post is the perfect example. I decided to finish it today without making a point other than pointing out my paltry efforts to help Nature sustain itself. And now I sit here making an attempt at a clean ending. Maybe I should just leave it here. Helping the Natural World is more than enough of a point. I should not worry about explaining myself. Maybe what I should be doing is trying to explain why I don't do more.
Keep it 'tween the Ditches ............................
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*** I started this post the first week of October. Not sure why I have not finished it. Maybe it was that sinking feeling of doom I was dealing with as I watched Trump and his flunkies go into panic mode and threaten, lie, and predict all sorts of madness should they not be elected on November 5th. I'd like to think I am strong enough to not let their insipid, lying rhetoric I have been listening to now for over 9 years finally get to me. We are less than a couple of weeks away from hopefully throwing Trump on the trash heap of history and putting a serious glitch in the Extreme Right's plan to dominate our country.
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It was fun looking for an appropriate tune. I listened to music for a couple of hours and toked up almost a whole joint. Eventually though with the buzz, frustration set in. I almost walked away from this post for a fourth time. I had wasted too much time on it already. Then I remembered a favorite one truck tour I drove for while hauling bands all over the lower 48. It was an Art Garfunkel tour and sadly it was only 3 weeks or so long.
I had never considered Art as a solo act until I hauled him around for a few gigs. I mean really, Paul Simon was the face and driving force of Simon & Garfunkel, right? Well......... Art shined without Paul's help. His shows were excellent...... really excellent.
I was so gonna add Art's take on this Sam Cooke classic. But after I listened to it a couple of times, I realized the Louis Armstrong song by the same name was much more appropriate for this post. No one can do it better than Satch Mo's original take. I found a "Playing for Change" version and will include it along with Art Garfunkel's cover of the classic, Sam Cooke song of the same name.
It is indeed a Wonderful World we live on. Being reminded of it from time to time, well, ........ it's obvious from how we treat the planet, we need more reminding; a lot more reminding.
While I was sipping coffee the other morning, a hawk landed on the telephone lines in front of my house. It was a sizable bird which made me think it might have been a Cooper's Hawk, a very common bird of prey hereabouts. I tried to take a picture of it with my smart phone. As I was fumbling with the phone to position it for the snap shot, the hawk cocked its head sideways and looked straight down into the bushes lining Sam Page Road.
The hawk did not move. It kept staring straight down into the bushes.
If I had turned away or blinked I might have missed it. The hawk dropped into the bushes and all Hell broke loose. Branches moved every which way. A bird I decided was a Catbird, appeared from across the road and disappeared into the bush. More chaos and even more frantic branch movement.
The Catbird reappeared and flew one way. The Cooper's hawk reappeared and flew another. The hawk had something dark with feathers in its beak. I assumed it was the Catbird's mate, as it seemed too large to be a chick.
Ten - fifteen seconds of chaos and suddenly Sam Page Road returned to the tranquility of a perfect summer morning in Maine. I went back to sipping my coffee.
As I finished my coffee, I realized something odd about the violent encounter in my dooryard. Over the years, I have seen more than a few birds of prey flying with their prey. I once saw a Red Tailed hawk with a wriggling snake in its talons fly not ten feet over me when I was on a bike ride in Arundel. I have never seen a hawk, eagle, Fish hawk (Osprey) or falcon carry any prey in their mouth. I thought it was odd. When I sat down to write about it, I looked it up and although rare, they sometimes do carry prey, especially smaller prey in their beaks.
This planet we live on is still a wondrous and mysterious place. And though we are doing our best to pave, build, and terraform it into a dead planet, Nature continues to do what it does unabated with the creatures and plants that are still struggling to survive.
Keep it 'tween the ditches .................................
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I only considered one song. It's a Pop tune from my teen years in the mid nineteen sixties. I was more into Blues and Bluegrass back then. This song was one of the few Pop tunes I really liked. How could anyone not get a spirit lift listening to this on a beautiful morning? Here are The Rascals with their 1968 hit, "Beautiful Morning".
My Uncle Herb and Aunt Helen migrated north to Maine from Moorestown, New Jersey around 1957 or '58. They were not really of retirement age. Both of them had good jobs. Uncle Herb was a Postman. Aunt Helen was head dietician at a fancy girl's school outside of Philly. Why they left the quiet shaded neighborhood in Moorestown was never revealed to me, but over the years I put some pieces together to come up with something I think was close to the truth.
Uncle Herb never recuperated from the PTSD he picked up as an island hopping Marine in WW ll. Neither my aunt nor Uncle Herb would talk about his time in the Pacific. Neither would my parents discuss it; at least not much. Over the years I did get my aunt to open up some, my parents to open up some.
My father explained it this way:
A naive young man goes into the Marines; is trained to kill; then he kills for several years and the man who comes home will never be the same man who went in. Some men recover, others don't. It's the way of war. Regardless, none of them come home unchanged. Uncle Herb never fully recovered.
Moving to Maine may have been an attempt to help him cope with Life again. Whatever the reasons were, I will always be grateful they did move to Maine. I might not have settled here to raise a family if they hadn't.
My visits to Maine as a child embedded a deep love for this part of the country. I was captivated by all the Nature that surrounded me. My hikes with my uncle still stand out as some of the most memorable moments of my young life. My interest in birds started then.
The bird above was the first animal I could identify that my dad could not. I first saw one on a Christmas visit to Maine at age ten I guess. A few years later, one landed on the feeder at our home in Oxon Hill, Maryland. My dad did not recognize it and just as he reached for the dog eared copy of "Birds of America", I blurted out, "Tufted Titmouse", and then proceeded to dance in celebration because I knew something Dad didn't. I later impressed Aunt Helen when I was tending her feeder some 25 years later, mentioning there were two Tufted Titimice on a branch patiently waiting for me to finish refillingl the feeder.
Bottom line, whenever I see a Tufted Titmouse, my past comes back to pleasantly haunt me.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ............................
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I did not hesitate. I did not lose myself trying to pick a song for today's post. Only one tune would do. Here is 1977's Weather Report number, "Birdland". An excellent tune.
BA and I recently spent four weeks fostering a momma pit bull and her litter for an animal shelter in the region. Her litter of five potatoes with legs would be her spitting image if not for the randomness of the spots.
Momma was a sweetheart. She was also deaf. There was a steep learning curve for us on how to communicate with her. She understood the sign language for sit and stay. Occasionally a miscommunication of arm flaying and hand gestures combined with her serious stubborn streak could be an issue. For the most part she and I got along wonderfully.
My wife and I have had experience fostering momma cats and their litters. That was over twenty years ago. I assumed it would be a similar experience, only the animals were bigger. ........... Right ........... That was my first wrong assumption of more than a few to come.
My first hint that fostering a dog and puppies was going to be different was when the nice folks at the shelter loaded 70 pounds of dry puppy chow, almost 5 cases of canned wet puppy food, and some transitional food for when switching the little bastids from weaning to solid food. Last but not least, they threw in a scale so we could keep track of the weights of the potatoes as they changed from deaf and blind fur covered individual metabolisms into an evil, but cute multi-headed monster with twenty legs and five assholes who dedicated every waking moment to driving me and BA bonkers.
Our first clue we were not ready for this was when we tried to introduce our dog, Maggie, to Momma pit bull. I am so grateful I had braced myself and the leash holding Momma. She attempted to tear my arm off trying to attack Magggie. No blood was spilled, just some frayed nerves. That incident was all on me and BA. We did not consider the protective impulse of a female dog who was actively nursing a brood. Sadly, it spoiled any future effort to bring them together.
What amazed me was the diet the shelter had set up for me to follow. Momma was to have three meals a day. In just shy of 4 weeks, she ate almost 35 pounds of dry food and 28 cans of wet food. The shit piles she dropped after each meal had to be record breakers. But she was a nursing mom and eating for six. The shelter assured us she needed that much nutrition.
I found the experience to be both endearing and extremely stressful. Momma was a good mother. She cleaned up their messes and their little bodies for the first three weeks. But when they became mobile and their eyesight was beginning to come into focus, she hesitated to nurse them like she used to. She spent longer periods outside the nursing room, choosing instead to lounge on a bed and snooze to her heart's content.
That was when we began to feed the little wigglers a gruel of canned puppy chow mixed with some water. Had we not been so integral to the comedy that followed, we might have enjoyed it more. But I have to say, a litter of puppies weighing approximately 5 pounds each is a situation of chaos that is not remedied, just survived.
I returned Momma and her pups to the shelter. A vet tech took charge of the puppies and another handled Momma. I helped unload all the extra food, gear and carriers. On one trip inside to the area where Momma and her pups were to be set up, I stopped to have final look at the gang. All of them were hanging out at the gate looking at me.
It has been awhile since I have felt that amount of guilt over doing the right thing.
Later ...................................
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For the musical choice today, I let Google guide me. I punched in "Metal Music about Puppies" .......
And the first choice is the winner! Here is some Dog Metal and the real crowd pleaser, "The Bubbas / Who poo-poo'd in my house".
It's short and sweet with a heavy bass beat. Up to wow might be a tad brutal.
I was punching out the beginning of a hopefully wry and funny post about Donald Trump, his licensed products, and how stupid his minions are for buying into his scams. Then my wife came into the office. She was all done up in her ready to go to work attire. She had her CPA satchels and bags hanging off both shoulders. And best of all, she had that serious "you asshole" look on her face.
"Just to let you know; another one of your eight legged friends is in the bathroom. He only lived because I saw him between the shower curtains while I was showering. When I was ready too hunt him down, he was gone. Get him out or he dies the next time I see him."
"Uh, if I am correct, most spiders we see are female." I grinned.
All I got was a terse, " That's as it should be. Might be a good idea for humans also ..... Get it out, I have to go. See you later." She turned and left the office.
Hey, a man has to find his fun where he can.
There are two areas of the house that my darling wife will not tolerate spiders; the kitchen and the bathroom. I would say she is not exactly afraid of them. She just hates them. And she will pull out all the stops to kill one. I, on the other hand, love the little bastards. Over the years I have cherished their existence in any home I have lived in. I did and still do what I can to protect them from the evil humans who would do them harm.
As I was on the hunt to find this animal who had had the audacity to break the morning calm and bathroom routine of my darling significant other, I wondered if Spiders could hear. I remembered someone telling me they couldn't. They did not have ears. I vowed to embark on a ten second trip through google-land once I had the offending spider in custody.
It was a very short hunt. Spiders look like they should be blessed with intelligence, what with all the eyes, the awesome set of mandibles and other scary rigging. Sadly, they are all show and no go. Slaves to instinct and tradition, they are single minded to a fault. If a spider decides that existing between two shower curtains is cool, that is where you will most likely find them next time you look. And this particular type of brown spider I have learned loves living in and around sinks. A bath tub is just a big sink. Our little criminal must have thought she had hit the jackpot.
I spent more time finding a glass and stiff piece of paper than the time it took to trap my little friend. I took a moment for a mug shot in case she fails in her effort to learn to live in the wild and reappears in the future. I also spoke to her about how stupid it was to test my wife. You don't win when engaging my life partner in battle. I even showed the little bastard my scars. (Okay, Okay, that was bullshit, but the spider couldn't tell. She didn't know a scar from a pimple ferchrisakes) She did seem impressed. I think I saw her blink.
Once Ms. spider was safely behind glass, I took her down to the garage and released her into the Wild. It is a jungle down there. And there is a sink to cozy up to. But she better be careful. That sink has been occupied by one of her kind forever.
Back in my office, tuckered and tired from that exhausting safari to rid my home of a dangerous predator, I was feeling heroic when I googled;
"Do spiders have ears?"
It turns out spiders do not have ears. But they can hear just fine. The listen by feeling sound vibrations through the infinite number of hairs that cover their bodies. Pretty clever set up I think.
So yes, spiders can hear you scream. But don't be a nancy. Talk to them nice. They might just not eat you that night.
Keep it tween the ditches ..................................................
BTW - I emailed my wife a confirmation pic of the spider under arrest. A man has take his fun where he finds it.
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I need a tune that represents spiders. This should be interesting. .......
Actually finding a good tune was not too much of an issue. There are too many tunes with "spiders" in their title. I had to check quite a few until I found Rainne and her song, "Spiders". The video is kind of cool too.
We finally saw our first real snow of Winter 2021/2022. Up to this point, all I had measured by eye was a total accumulation of less than two inches. This 7-8 inch dump overnight is as close to a real storm as we are likely to get before the end of the year.
Enough said. I won't get up on my climate change high horse and beat the Humanity is killing itself drum.
Which brings me to caterpillars.
I ran into this cute little feller on the Smithsonian Channel this morning on some show about all the weird and wonderful stuff found throughout the natural world that most of us would never know existed if not for the efforts of folks carrying magnifying glasses and butterfly nets.
This future Aussie moth, the Uraba Lugens, has a very unique defense mechanism not included at birth. It actually creates that so very cool head dress as a defense against its arch enemy, the stink bug.
As it grows, the uraba lugens has to discard one skin for a newer more roomier one. Not one to leave its trash kicking around for others to trip over, this catepillar eats its old skin but saves the head to become another ornament on top of the last head. And so it goes. Eventually as its end time nears, it looks like the dashing dude chilling a few lines up. The stink bug, who everyone knows is not the brightest bug to fly to the flame, becomes confused and befuddled when confronted with this five headed monstrosity. It loses its cool and blindly tries to stab its proboscis into one head after another attempting to suck out the little Uraba's vital juices.
Looking good is far more important to these sharply festooned critters. It's a matter of survival.
All this bug watching and conversation again makes me wonder if I did miss my calling back in the day when I decided to not pursue a science oriented career. I can remember declaring I was going to be a marine biologist. And sharks were going to be my focus. ..........................
I will never know that "what if". All I can do is embrace what was, what is and what will be.
Later Gator ..........................................
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PS - Music this Sunday is an appropriate tune written by Tom Waits and this is by Beth Hart.
I will close with a collage of a few locals who spend their summer here growing fat and beautiful.
Right after I fed Maggie this morning we went out back so she could do her morning dog thing. Poop, pee and fart around smelling stuff. It was finally a typical day for this time of the year. The wind was up and the temperature was in the upper teens to low twenties.
Maggie bolted out of the back door and began her routine. The wind blasted me in the face and I realized it was not tee shirt weather anymore.
"About time", I thought.
The morning ritual was moving along with Maggie uncharacteristically keeping to her business and not finding some distraction to prolong our time outside. It was damn cold. The wind was blowing up my ass and I only had one thin short sleeved layer on. I was grateful she seemed to be on the same page as I was. Take care of business and get back into the house.
But no. Suddenly Maggie stiffened into her hunting dog stance. Her nose spiked up in the air and her nostrils flexed in and out as she took in as much of the scent as possible. Any thought of pooping was put on hold until she had investigated this incursion into her territory. She took off full tilt boogie into the pucker brush out back that formed the border between my property and the new neighbor's huge field. She loved nothing better than running at full speed anywhere. I caught glimpses of her as she dashed through the leafless brush and out onto the neighbor's field.
A second later an explosion of turkeys took flight to escape this well known threat to their composure. A rafter of summer fattened turkeys taking flight is an impressive sight. For her part, Maggie stopped, sat, and watched the turkeys fly away. She was satisfied. She had done what she came to do. Chased those turkeys off her property.
Now it was onto her next favorite thing. Eating the turkey poop left behind. Its always best when eaten fresh. Or so she informed me when I attempted to command her to stop.
She promised she would return to her regal ways once we were back in the house.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ......................................................
I had intended on a vehemently critical diatribe regarding our President and his total failure as President...... Instead, while perusing images buried deep in the gulliwots of my 'puter, I ran across Bob. Seeing Bob made me crack a smile and diverted my bad impression of Life at this moment to a trip down the lanes where memories reside.
Problem with memories is I never know what lane I will end up on. Keg party or pity party. Never know going in. Cheers or tears, memories keep me connected to the here and now by reminding me of where I came from and who I ran into along the way.
And Bob sits in the forefront today. Remembering his yowl he called a meow made my smile turn on the tears for a second or so. Our often indifferent co-existence broken when he needed us. He knew where home was and he checked in often. But much of his life he spent out in the pucker eating what he killed.
His head butts were not gentle. His idea of petting was more of a beat down. No, Bob was no Nancy Cat. And he sure let me know when he had had enough.
Bob was a bad ass. Bob took no shit. He was indeed a warrior. If you were included in his circle, you had a friend for life. But don't piss him off.
To this day I miss him terribly.
Keep it 'tween the ditches ..................................
I was reading the Google news feed on my phone this morning and a story about the 30-50 pro assault gun meme popped up. Apparently a fellow from the South who owns some property asked how was he supposed to shoot 30 -50 feral hogs that run into his yard in 3 to 5 minutes without an assault weapon. He was inferring the danger to his children. The article from "Slate" went on to agree he had a point.
Now this is where I do the predictable thing and talk about how his argument is stupid, great, or something in between. No, I won't do that. It is the background of this story handed to us as factually based I have a problem with.
Once the purpose of the article was solidly in place, a brief history of feral hogs unfolded, giving us their past and their present and the doom and gloom if their populations are not put in check.
One claim in particular caused me to check its accuracy. "Now, 48 states have reported
the animals’ presence..........."
I had not heard of any feral hog sightings in Maine, and having actually followed the rise of the feral hog problem in previous years, I understood the problem to be one mostly located in the Sun Belt and not up in the frozen outback states nestled next to Canada.
I jumped all over it and googled faster than you could say "Google It". The first article that popped up was from a local paper, "The Portland Press Herald". They claimed Maine has no feral hog issue as there are no feral hogs that have encroached into Maine. According to the article feral hogs only inhabit 39 states.
Fast forward now to my second Google. An article in the "Central Maine Sentinel" told the story of a Russian boar killed in Somerset County in the yard of a very surprised farmer. Officials were sure it was not born in Maine and it did not travel this far from another state. It was most likely one that had escaped a state licensed game preserve.
So what is my conclusion in all this? The people who write and deliver the news need to be especially careful now days to frame their stories in a way that does not give the wrong impressions. In other words, report the facts that are not up for interpretation. And if the facts are up for interpretation, say that.
Fake news is fake news even when it is unintentional.
Later ..............................................
Ran into this little guy on the trail across Sam Page in Mary's woods this morning. He or she hopped into my leg as Maggie ran by us hurrying to whatever smell came next to the stupid canine. So, I had my Kodak moment for the day without looking for one. I like it when the image of the day just appears without any thought or planning on my part.
According to The Frog Lady, This little guy or gal is an American Toad, the only species of toad we have here in Maine. I had one that lived in my basement and garage for over a decade. He got so big, he could only manage a couple of inches when he hopped. Eventually he could not make it up the three steps to the garage and I found him all shriveled up at the end of a winter. Miss that little guy.
It would seem I only have a talent for snapping pictures of critters or plants too slow or stupid to beat feet when I am near. I really like plants, they sit still for the most part.
So, its the slow, numb, and dumb I am able to chronicle. And and that's just fine.
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