Do na da go hv i, U na li i

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It's been a sad week for some of my blog friends. Mushy lost his high school friend, Danny, this week after a long battle with cancer. Moose lost his sweet mother just this morning. My sympathies, my dear friends ... I mean that sincerely.

It was only last night that I found our own sad news; a friend had left us as well. I have not replied to that e-mail yet but I will when I can find the needed words but first I must talk to her here.

She was given the name Vonda, a name which her mother told her was Tsalagi (Cherokee) for 'Child of the Morning'. And she was as bright and sparkling as a new sun rising with fresh, limitless possibilities. She befriended me when I signed up to do graphic art for the Main Street effort in an otherwise spiritless and cold village.

"Vonda, they laid you to that final rest today in a place so very far away from here. I was not by your side in the flesh but I was there anyway. The tears no longer easily fall from my eyes but they still rain within my heart, unseen but as ever sorrowful. I will miss you.

You were there to help before I could ever be shamed to ask in desperation. You gave your heart, time and most treasured belongings to anyone you met. And you were forever hurt in a half dozen decades by takers and users but never let it stop you from giving. I wish I had your relentless faith in mankind, I really do. But I somehow fear that you were finally used up like the precious commodity that you were, that your big heart could no longer bear you aloft in this world.

You befriended me despite my many eccentricities. You adopted us as family. You never hid me from your famous, fancier and richer friends - your love had no earthly boundaries.

I can count the number of people I have met, admired and learned to trust on less digits than my fingers and toes. You took a place on one counting digit and it will likely remain reserved for you. Farewell, friend (Do na da go hv i, U na li i) ... I will miss you deeply until we meet again."
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I stared out the window today, a lot. And I saw an eagle circling, unusual since they had not been by in quite a while. I grabbed the camera with the zoom lens and threw open the window. Just as I was able to focus in on this visitor, it disappeared from view. I lowered the camera and scanned the skies intently for any trace of it. It was simply gone. Perhaps moved on to some freer, more effortless realm of flight as my Vonda did.
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Ads with Subtractions

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I'll admit it, my muse has left me for the moment. And not in a kindly parting either. She smacked me in the face, packed her stuff and slammed the screen door behind her. Okay, so maybe we don't have the screen door installed yet but you get the idea. I think it was all over Mark coming home VERY sick on Wednesday and showing no improvement since, despite already being on antibiotics! Out here in the middle of nowhere, especially when you have no health insurance, such things can be a worry. Tomorrow, the herbs and medicinals will be dragged out again to be brewed up in hearty measures of teas and soups.

In the meantime, I was at a loss to post what I had in mind so I rummaged through my files for inspiration and came up with these. It's all about advertising and these particularly annoying or confounding ads popped up in New Mexico. Do you ever come across ads which simply hit you the wrong way? And do you ever wonder if they did that on purpose?
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This one REALLY grates on me. Maybe it's the message that this woman equates the ultimate proof of love with what material fluff a man can buy her. Whatever it is, I just want to catch Ms. Bad-smell-under-her-Nose bending over and plant a good and pointy-toed boot in her fanny SOOOO badly. Is it just me here? Too bad the image scan lost some of that irritating, nearly snarling snottiness though.
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. Mark was naturally the one to first point out this very disconcerting mixed message above. Here is a very purpose-built device which could make a fellow squirm on a good day and right there in the middle of the ad is a photo of a very appealing young lady. We just didn't 'get it' so we consulted with our professional cattleman, Slim. "Woooo (wince), well, I sure see where you're coming from on that one (wince), no doubt about it. Well, all's I can figure here is that the company owner has that pretty young daughter there and decided to get the message out real subtle-like, you know, while still taking a write-off as advertising." Hey, he's our expert in cowboy affairs and it sure beat any of our possible explanations.
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Joys of Big Boys and Their Toys

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I'm just pacing and killing time until Mark returns to the canyon. It was to be one day of driving West and a day of driving back but he got sick last night while traveling, very sick; hasn't kept a thing down in his stomach for the last 24 hours. Was it a matter of catching the stomach flu or running into one of those killer sliced tomatoes ... who knows. But he is not a healthy or happy camper and he's now under strict orders from the Fuhrer of Worry to either stop at another motel for the night or, if he insists, head into the canyon without our usual supply stops. Pace, pace, pace ... no phone update yet.

I am posting this non-journal item in the interim to take my mind off of his well-being and whereabouts.
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Update (10:30PM): Our boy finally made it home and fell immediately into bed. The roughness of the dirt road had compelled him to stop several times to heave from an already barren stomach and he looked disturbingly ashen as he listlessly trudged over from the truck. Before dropping off to sleep, he expressed his great thankfulness to finally be home. Me, too!!! We'll see what tomorrow brings for him.

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I love watching any truly skilled craftsman at work whether it be a stone mason, a jeweler, a glass blower, it doesn't matter. But show me a heavy equipment operator with finesse and I could sit there spellbound for an entire day. Buddy John has sent me links to videos such as one showing how a skid steer operator loaded himself onto a tall flat bed without ramps that left me breathless but his latest series of photos tops even that performance. You will need to click on the image to see the details but it's only 250K and absolutely worth the download.

This is a back hoe operator in action. You're not going to believe what he does with his machine to get a job done. And here I am all thrilled if I manage to walk down the Rat's rickety stairs without falling on my butt. This fellow is a true master of his trade! And with more than just abs of steel.
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Comfort Thoughts

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The last several days have been physically unpleasant so I was almost glad to see that nearly everyone had wandered away from the blog to do Memorial Day Weekend things. But I am equally glad to see you wandering back now, it lifts my sodden spirit and body considerably. I finally had enough last night of languishing atop bedding which I had drenched repeatedly since last week . I got up, lit the kerosene lamp and sat quietly in front of the Rat's large living room windows, letting the breeze wick away some excessive fever heat. My lymph nodes (or were they nymph lodes? I was too drained to figure which) were aching away painfully. According to the pain mimicking broken ribs when I cough (which thankfully isn't often), I suspect I might have a touch of pneumonia settling in. I was going to do up an herbal chicken soup but I knew that the eye-watering aroma of heavy amounts of garlic would have Mark gagging, screeching like a girly and heading for the door so maybe later today! The soup really does work well though; garlic, onion, turmeric and whatever else jumps to the fore medicinally as I scrounge through the cupboard.

And when I feel this down, comfort thoughts are as important to me as comfort foods. Comfort thoughts have helped sustain me through many bleak times at the Rat so far. I was reminded of this today when a friend wrote about the joy of creating with his hands. I needed that reminder. Creating with my hands was one of the activities by which I defined myself and my greatest joys. Restoration more so; reviving things which have been unappreciated, neglected, tossed aside and left to rot away, little bits of history possibly insignificant but a loss nonetheless if they disappear forever.

So, in my aching misery, I thought back to consider an odd cart which is now underneath the 45' moving trailer, just barely out of any driving rains but still subject to the direct ravages of the sun and dusty winds. Like my dear friend, the Katlady, I have a great appreciation for things built to last; like things made out of oak and cast iron, not molded plastic destined to clog landfills in two short years after the sun destroys them. I am sure this common passion forged our friendship even deeper beyond our mutual love of motorcycles. And she taught me the fine art of abandoning all dignity in high heels to salvage a roadside or dumpster piece with, you know ... potential!

Mark is generally a placid, logical and analytical creature. These are excellent traits in a partner for a scavenger who can actually follow through with a renaissance. But it took a while for those traits to develop a calm faith in what the junk cat had just dragged home; quite a while actually.
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.Case in point is the cart shown above. I got those junk hound goose-bumps when I found it. Cast iron and vestiges of solid oak ... chills down the spine. Although I had help in loading it into my truck, I was able to unload it (ain't gravity a wonderful thing?) just minutes before Mark was due home. I garaged the truck quickly and posed nonchalantly upon my new treasure and waited for seemingly ever until I could hear his footsteps coming up the long drive. And then steeled myself.

My salutation and broad grin drew his attention to my new and vulgar settee. Before he could compose himself, he flashed the old 'look'. But this time he imagined that it was truly justified as he surveyed my proud pile of rust, red paint and rotted wood. "Sigh ... mind telling me what you brought this home for?" "Absolutely! I've ALWAYS wanted one of these!" "I see ... but ... why?" "Well, because I've always loved Victorian railroad era stuff and this just ... " "But it's totally shot, Lin, a pile of junk that someone was thrilled that you dragged away. And that they made a few bucks in the process." "Sigh ... oh, you of little faith as usual. Here, grab one end and lift - it cost me less pound to pound than bags of ready-mix cement!" His turned, sighed again and then shrugged in martyr-like fashion and walked towards the house.
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Okay, fine then; you can see from the detail above that maybe it wouldn't have stunning curb appeal to most. If it had, I wouldn't have been able to afford it either. So much oak had rotted away around the carriage bolts over the front casters, one push handle was completely missing, the other hopelessly bunged up, the cast iron wheels were so badly rusted and seized and, in some places, looked as though they had been run through cement and left to dry that way. Are you starting to get the idea? This was a magnificent challenge of the first order, especially now that Mark had cast down that biting gauntlet of doubt.

I made a pilgrimage up to my wood man and he was able to supply me with straight grain white oak planed down to precise widths, enough to make two new push handles and replace two sides of the cart. Not cheap mind you since we're not talking big box store crappy pine or even their pricey red oak here. It was a healthy three digits before I got out of there with the oak and a short mahogany plank for a spinet desk restoration. This is why I was so protective of my restorations supplies. I remember one occasion where I heard the shattering of my salvaged antique glass in MY shop and went to investigate. Mark and a visitor emerged pleased and proudly holding a two foot long piece of my custom cut and planed 2" straight-grained white oak. "Took a while to find but this piece will be perfect to drive the RV up onto to level it out!" They beamed, at least until they saw my ashen reaction. "Uhm, that is a $60 chunk of wood you're holding there so I would prefer it if you could find something else, okay?"

Now the sanctuary of even that dark, damp shop is gone. The long-collected supplies had to be jettisoned at the last moment thanks to the sloth of professional movers in packing our semi-trailer and that deepest joy of my creative life vanished with it.

So here is my hard-earned advice to you if you plan on relocating to the boonies: know the passions which are dearest to you, make sure that they make the move and are accessible in relatively short order. If the vent of that passion is denied you, you may wither much sooner on the vine when other challenges come to the forefront. Such passions might be books and reading, knitting, fly-tying, your attempt at the world's largest ball of tin foil - it doesn't matter, don't let it slip away when you are about to tackle a radical change of lifestyle. Comfort thoughts are very helpful but can only last so long.
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Here was the finished product. Cutting mortise joints into that long side plank of 2" oak to fit tested my absolute strength with each pass. With no sandblasting available, I had to chip, chisel and file the corrosion off each cast iron wheel. The front casters were horribly worn and resting at lax angles but I was able to find the perfect piece of metal tubing to act as a new, snug bushing after being packed with grease. While fussing over the cast wheels, I came across a foundry name and did some research on it. It was active during the Civil War and survived almost into the new century. At that point, I stood back and became very pleased with my bit of preservation. Don't ever think that you can't save a small piece of history here and there. I've see so many wonderful things accomplished by first-timers simply willing to try.
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Me-me-me-me

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Okay, okay, fine then ... I will indulge in one of these meme things despite my usual stance, as expressed in the blog preface. But ONLY due to the unlikely planetary alignments which cascaded into place: A) Scully 'tagged' me and I happen to have a soft spot for her. B) Carteach did a titillating and inspiring job of responding to her challenge already. C) They both confessed that it was an effort requiring few deep mental gyrations D) AND the most important aspect of this rare alignment; I belatedly stumbled upon a post from Buck in which he had been tagged and respectfully acknowledged that I was not an option in passing on such a slimy booger. Guilt will get you EVERYWHERE with me; my mother could have told you that without a pause or a quick blink. Just don't think that I have declared open-season now, okay? I AM still a hermit and curmudgeon after all - you must not forget that this is why I am out here writing this journal in the first place.

Soo ... the idea is to answer these questions with only a photo or other graphic, NO words allowed. Here goes then (but I reserve the right to complete and childish asininity):

1. What is your current relationship status?
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2. What is your current mood?
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3. What is your favorite band/singer?
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4. What is your favorite movie?
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5. What kind of pets do you have?
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6. Where do you live?
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7. Where do you work?
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8. Who do you look like?
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9. What do you drive?
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10. What did you do on Saturday?
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11. What did you do on Sunday?.
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12. What is your favourite network TV Show?
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N/A
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13. Describe Yourself.

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14. What is your favorite candy?

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Sooo ... do I dare pass this one on to the other folks regularly supporting my social life with their comments (and haven't already been tagged)? How about Buck, Mushy, Fat Hairy, Cat, Bruno, David, Ginger, Da Moose, Goddess, Alex, putz? It's okay, you can be a curmudgeon just like me. And who did I miss that might actually be game for any of this foolishness? Just let me know!
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Fajita Night!

.Apologies; this is not part 3 of the Home Cummins tale. This thaw has made the processing of that elk an absolute priority now even though Mark cannot pick up the mail order new freezer until the roads improve. We will have to pack everything in the snow at the shady base of the mesa until then. We will have to empty out truck totes to pack it in so that our domestic carnivores or Slim's dogs don't help themselves. At the prospect, I have lost all concentration necessary to finish off the Cummins stories. I know me; it would read like a grocery list if I even attempted it right now. Again, apologies.

So above is what it looks like around here lately just before Mark turns on the generator for the night. Pretty outside but you haven't been able to read anything in the Rat for the last half hour. The idea is to make up for the few daytime hours we have been running lately - every bit helps.
.But it was fajita (fah-hee-tah) night! I had thawed beef strips and let them lounge around for several hours in the fajita seasoning marinade and squeezings from a lime I found hiding in the crisper. Long slices of fresh red and green peppers and onions tossed into the pan towards the end of frying and we were set. This is one of Slim's favorite dinners, too, although the roads kept him 'up top' this time.
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Dished out on to a tortilla and mine with a few dollops of sour cream and it's a wrap! Easy to make, easy to eat and a great change of pace from the usual.
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I WILL be back when the elk is taken care of, it just may take a few days.
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Just Plain Funny

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I'm working on cleaning out my e-mail in-box and these gems are too good not to share with you. Maybe this will make up for forgetting to include humor bits in the last several posts.
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For anyone who's ever owned a cat ...

"Instructions for application of oral medicine to domestic feline ... or 'How to give a pill to a cat.'"
(sent in by Connie G in England)

1. Pick up cat and cradle it in the crook of your left arm as if holding a baby. Position right forefinger and thumb on either side of cat's mouth and gently apply pressure to cheeks while holding pill in right hand. As cat opens mouth, pop pill into mouth. Allow cat to close mouth and swallow.

2. Retrieve pill from floor and cat from behind sofa. Cradle cat in left arm and repeat process.

3. Retrieve cat from bedroom, and throw soggy pill away.

4. Take new pill from foil wrap, cradle cat in left arm, holding rear paws tightly with left hand. Force jaws open and push pill to back of mouth with right forefinger. Hold mouth shut for a count of 10.

5. Retrieve pill from goldfish bowl and cat from top of wardrobe. Call spouse from garden.

6. Kneel on floor with cat wedged firmly between knees, holding front and rear paws. Ignore low growls emitted by cat. Get spouse to hold cat's head firmly with one hand while forcing wooden ruler into mouth. Drop pill down ruler and rub cat's throat vigorously.

7. Retrieve cat from curtain rail, get another pill from foil wrap. Make note to buy new ruler and repair curtains. Carefully sweep shattered figurines from hearth and set to one side for gluing later.

8. Wrap cat in large towel and get spouse to lie on cat with its head just visible from below spouse's armpit. Put pill in end of drinking straw, - force cat's mouth open with pencil and blow down drinking straw.

9. Check label to make sure pill not harmful to humans, drink glass of water to take taste away. Apply Elastoplast to spouse's forearm and remove blood from carpet with cold water and soap.

10. Retrieve cat from neighbour's shed. Get another pill. Place cat in cupboard and close door onto neck to leave head showing. Force mouth open with dessertspoon. Flick pill down throat with elastic band.

11. Fetch screwdriver from garage and put door back on hinges. Apply cold compress to cheek and check records for date of last tetanus shot. Throw bloodied, ripped T-shirt away and fetch new one from bedroom.

12. Ring fire brigade to retrieve cat from tree across the road. Apologise to neighbour who crashed into fence while swerving to avoid cat. Take last pill from foil wrap.

13. Tie cat's front paws to rear paws with garden twine and bind tightly to leg of dining table. Find heavy-duty pruning gloves from shed. Force cat's mouth open with small spanner. Push pill into mouth followed by large piece of fillet steak. Hold head vertically and pour a pint of water down throat to wash pill down.

14. Get spouse to drive you to emergency room, sit quietly while doctor stitches fingers and forearm and removes pill remnants from right eye. Stop by furniture shop on way home to order new table.

15. Arrange for RSPCA to collect cat and call local pet shop to see if they have any hamsters.
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Glimpses of the human side of Britain's royal family:
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Overwhelmed by her decorations, no doubt

(sent in by Eric U in B.C.)

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Below confirms my theory that flatulence is the great equalizer of the classes. Click to enlarge this one and study the expressions carefully. Did Prince Phillip cut a grand boomer? Severe lip-biting did not restore decorum well. Note QE2's expression in the last clip when she 'gets the drift'.
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I would have been that kid in the back row
(sent in by Ken)

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Our St. Valentine's Wishes

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To make up for yesterday's brutal tour of plumbing joys, I will let the photos do most of the talking today.
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An old copper heart in the wild

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A cookie cutter, its shadowy admirer

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Just goes to show that you can find yourself atop a rusty old burn barrel and still find serenity

Happy St. Valentine's wishes and love from all of us out here at the ranch to all our wonderful blog friends and readers!
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Missing Michael, part 2

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Thanks for hanging in with me on this so far. Although I can feel my blood pressure building, I don't have quite the same emotional strain on me now as I did in writing the first part. This is very encouraging on the catharsis front, very encouraging.

Please read the first part below this post if you have not done so already.
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When Michael's tone changed so abruptly, it snapped me back closer to reality and I asked "Not that I am not thrilled with this surprise call but since we just talked on the weekend, why are you calling so soon again?" He said "I just had to tell you that I love you, that's all. I have to go now." Being annoyingly pragmatic at times, I took it at face value, returned the sentiment deeply and we signed off.

The phone didn't ring again until the afternoon of the next day. The voice at the other end identified the caller as Michael's aunt. I was delighted that the rest of his family had also wanted to connect with me ... until she cut to the chase to save us both any further torments and delusions. "I'm sorry, Lin, Michael is gone." I tried to think despite a good portion of the roof of the universe having just collapsed upon my being but it didn't work. "But .... noooo, but he ... nooo .... but he talked to me just ... nooooooo! He just talked to me last night, did he commit suicide? What? What was it?" "No, they said he died of a massive heart attack in his sleep." I could not fathom this news or make any sense of it. None! He was only 36! Nothing in the universe made sense at that moment. His voice returned through this fog to reiterate "You mean you hadn't heard of the family curse of the youngest son dying first?" His father, the youngest son and first to die, had obviously passed this on to him. My cerebral synapses would not fire. The pounding in my heart became not only physically painful but deafening as the sound of surging, racing blood filled my ears, cloaking his aunt's remaining words under a sodden muslin gauze of unreality. Somewhere in the murmuring onslaught of painful words, I sensed a silence and I vaguely recall myself saying on auto-pilot "I am so sorry. I will be back in touch soon."

I don't remember hanging up the phone, I have no idea what transpired between then and an unexpected knocking on the back door. I suppose my sense of duty overrode my inclination to ignore the summons and I found my way across the house now dimming with the twilight. A bald head and goateed face peered inquisitively into the dimness beyond the door glass. Trying to hide the mess of tears and swelling that my face had become, I pulled open the door for Harmonica Joe. While he would have normally said "Hey, I was just passing through so I stopped by" he was quick to assess the problem "My God, Lin, WHAT has happened?" "Joe, they took Michael from me!" With that, I could no longer hold back my sorrows and Joe was quick to throw a very needed, comforting embrace around my shoulders. Mark was on a rare business trip away and no doubt some angel had sent Joe to answer the distress call. The evening remains a blur but he faithfully stayed on into the late night until I was talked out and he was nodding off from fatigue. After I settled him into the guest bedroom, I stayed up for several more hours listening to the music fade in and out of my embroiled consciousness, until I could no longer resist the exhaustion and physical fatigue myself.

As my ever best friend, Mark assumed the necessary arrangements upon his arrival home and it wasn't long before we were flying into Denver and then heading north by rental car.

We arrived at the service the next day and settled into seats at the front row quietly and largely unannounced. The small church was packed right to the back aisles. It was all I could do to concentrate on not making an utter sobbing spectacle of myself. Mark's strength and his gentle but firm grasp on my hand helped maintain my composure.

Despite my misery, my analytical brain soon determined that we were two of a total of maybe ten straight people in the entire church. The minister, a rather robust and manly woman, proceeded with the service. Michael's aunt was seated two away from us, his older brother was closer but silent and guarded by his wife who had sat between us at a diagonal with her back rather rudely acting as a barrier between us. At one point, I slipped a memorial card that I had designed between her elbow and lap. Upon seeing my desperate effort to connect and console, she shoved the card off onto the floor with her elbow in disdain with nary so much as a turn to acknowledge our presence. A 9mm round to the forehead would have been much more kind, much less painful. I then realized why Michael and I had found each other and been so ecstatic. His aunt would later tell me that she had never seen him so happy and content as when his father's family found him again.

I could feel the tension of suppressed sorrow mounting in the room as the service proceeded. The lights dimmed until barely little but a podium could be seen at the far right as a hefty woman of great flair flounced confidently up the aisle and stood behind that podium. The rabbit hole widened considerably when I realized that the eulogist was a transvestite. Michael was probably hovering in the wings and chuckling with mischievous delight. But God bless that gal, uhm, fella. His very first words brought laughter and broke the stinging hold of grief. As he went on, we were all able to laugh and cry equally hard without censure and there was plenty of both to embrace. In the end, he told of how he had been contemplating suicide when Michael, who was bar tending that night, starting to talk with him, pointing out his remarkable talents and pushing him to pursue them and feel good about them. He noted that because of Michael's timely intervention that very night, he went on to find his act booked long term in Las Vegas instead of his life coming to an ugly and needless end alone. There were suppressed sobs as he offered an open mic to others who Michael had affected profoundly.

The next hour was the most intensely emotional time that either Mark or I had ever experienced. One by one, his friends and admirers came to the podium. The stories were all the same; Michael had come along at their most lonely and desperate time and given them sincere friendship, love and the reasons and will to go on. While Mark had been somewhat ambivalent given the short time he was able to spend with him, we left the church after the release of the white doves and he said "I am glad that we came here. I feel very privileged to have known him for even that brief time." That was my Michael, my beloved angelic boy.
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I had once wondered if someone could slowly die of a broken heart. Hopefully writing this story will provide the catharsis needed to slow that unintended journey now.
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Missing Michael

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This is not one of my usual stiff upper lip posts so you might choose well to sign off now. I am in a melancholy and deeply reflective mood to be precise.

A pall of untraceable sorrow has been hanging over me for the last few days. It wasn't until late yesterday evening that I realized its source when my cousin drifted visibly into my thoughts. After I did the painful memory calculations, I realized that he had left me exactly six years ago. So this post's for you, Michael, where ever you are.

The prospects of the 2000 family reunion had me engrossed for six months in a family history book to mark the occasion. I researched fanatically and added to what little the family had provided until I had found interesting highlights dating back nearly one thousand years. I would couple this with the bios of the last four or five generations and publish the results in a memento for everyone who attended. In the process, I found a branch which had been curiously absent from my memory and set out to find them via the internet. With the help of my sister's snail-mail follow-up, we located a lost cousin. He was overjoyed at the prospect of a reunion and booked flights as soon as he knew the details. This was my Michael, soon to become my most precious family.

I survived the reunion well enough but spent most of it dodging the dagger-filled glares from at least two family members and the icy countenance from their minions. My only regret is that this lessened my ability to spend any comfortable time with Michael. I made an indelible mental note at that point that I would never go to the expense and effort to rejoin family ever again. Mum had departed two years prior, what incentive was left? I don't go out of my way to smash my fingers with a hammer either.

Michael and I kept in nearly weekly contact thereafter. During the following six months, I realized that I had finally found kin who I adored and felt it returned a hundred fold. It was a new and priceless experience. He was a positive soul without a negative bone is his body. Given his background, I will forever marvel at his loving and forgiving attitudes.

His father had worked for an intelligence agency and was constantly away in far places. Said father went missing completely for a time during the Iran hostage crisis. By the time he did show up at the door, unannounced and with only the clothes on his back and a foreign passport, the stress and strain had become more than Michael's mother could bear and she died not long after. The father then 'retired', later becoming quite talkative about his various exploits and died soon afterwards. The two boys were farmed out briefly within our side of the family before being left to the care of their mother's only surviving family, a much younger sister. But Michael seemed to bear no trace of resentment; it was simply within his remarkable nature, you see. I rejoiced at being openly, truly loved by a blood-related family member. He had a way of making you feel like you were the most special person on the face of the planet and you knew you could turn your back to him and not feel that inevitable jab of a dagger. It was a giddy and sublime euphoria which I suspect people take drugs to achieve.

He called me unexpectedly one night in the middle of the week. I was thrilled to hear his voice so soon again after our weekend call and we talked as usual like those who wish to frantically make up for lost time. I told him of our new plans to head to New Mexico, closer to his Colorado home. He excitedly exclaimed "Maybe I could move down there, maybe we can form our own family of two! What do you think about that?" I replied pragmatically "And wouldn't you get bored in the middle of my desert?" His deep and soothing voice took on a certain playfulness, "Nah, you and I can fight dragons or something. Hey, you aren't the only oddball in the family, you know. I don't mean to brag but I was named for Saint Michael, you know." I could feel his cherubic face beaming at the other end of the phone line and I joined him in his great amusement.

He taunted and pressed me to come visit him soon; "It's a snap, you just fly to Denver and it's a skip and jump from there, c'mon ... please?" "Michael, I love you dearly but I dislike flying immensely and I am certainly NOT flying through Denver, thank you very much." His suddenly serious tone and following words have haunted me to this day "I think you will be dealing with Denver sooner than you care to, whether you like it or not." For the usual and ever frustrating reasons, I did not question that odd remark at the time.

to be continued
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Wild Humor Photos

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Since the last post was about our hunting guests and their trophies, I will add a few humorous wildlife-related photos which have shown up by e-mail in the last year. In a day or two, I hope to be over the deep chill bug which an outlander brought in to the canyon.

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."Should we ban fox hunting?"
(sent in by Fat Hairy)

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"Why trampolines can be dangerous"
This photo ought to inspire some buck fever.
(sent in by Alphonse Da Moose)

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"How to spot a hunter with a DWI"
(supplied by Mark)
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"Why bull elk LOVE their long antlers"
(sent in by John in Phoenix ... I think?)

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Christmas Leftovers!

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Since I have no one to send home with foil-covered plates full of turkey, cookies and candy, this is my next best outlet. I am sending you home with some amusing site links. I had a few more but I think I deleted them in my rush to pare down the inbox e-mails from over 200 to under 50.

This one is from our favorite physicist. Click on each figure to add or subtract from the delightful cacophony:
Click on the reindeer

Here's one from our Rick the Welder, it's a great way to work off some mild aggression in a fun and rewarding way.
Snow ball fight

Oh, and you might want to nominate a neighbor on this site:
Tacky Christmas Yard Displays
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