Attempted Murder, Hit and Run

It's 2:15 AM, August 31st, as I start writing this. I'm home, alone, behind locked doors, with the dog. She was a great hit with the cops, by the way. Steve flies in early this afternoon, and has been apprised of many of the details. On our way back from the airport, rather than stopping first at the grocery store, we're going to the local range to purchase a pistol and some ammo. He's got a concealed carry permit. This time, rather than trying to tolerate his owning a gun but letting him know I'm pleased when he changes his mind, it's my idea for him to get one. 

Rich is in the hospital ER, exact condition unknown. Lots of scrapes - his back is a royal mess - possible broken rib(s), and a knee he can barely walk on. I'll pick him up when he calls. Physically, I'm fine. I wasn't involved, just picking up the pieces. Literally.

But now that you know the highlights, I'm going back to the beginning, at least of my awareness of the growing problem. I wrote this earlier, just after getting home from Minnesota, and sent a copy to my daughter, just in case Adam escalated. I didn't want to worry Steve since there was nothing he could do but fret long distance.

*     *     *     *

If you go back to May 6th and my post on vandalism to the house, this was my first indication of the problem. Recent news and events have given rise to the information that it started long before that. And yes, it is personal. There is now a who. And a why, crazy as it is. We’re evaluating the what, as in what we’re going to do about it, meaning when we’re bringing the county sheriff back in and sharing our latest information.

Rich is pretty much a night person. Down here, especially in summer, it’s the only sane time to be out and about. During his wanderings, he makes friends, because that’s who he is. He’s also become vulnerable to those we stereotypically think of as the night element, including thieves.Or worse.

One of the friends he made is a woman named Amanda. (No last names here.) They talked, even got together - as platonic friends - a couple times. One day she announced to him that her old boyfriend was back in her life and she needed to discontinue their friendship. The boyfriend would not understand. Rich respected her wishes and stopped contact.

She has returned as a friend again, with a long, disturbing story. Back when she and Rich had met, she’d had a restraining order against the old boyfriend, now identified as Adam. One night when the cops showed up about a report that he'd violated the restraining order, she denied any problems. The cops left, never knowing that he was in the house, behind the door, with a knife to her neck.They do know now.

Some time this summer, she enlisted the help of several large, burly men friends and they physically threw Adam out. Now free to talk with Rich again, still as friends lest you misunderstand, more of her back story has come out. Adam’s too. 

He has a long history of violence, is emotionally and physically controlling. He knows about Rich, considers him a threat to his “relationship” with Amanda. Further, his long standing MO is using lug nuts as a weapon. (Sound familiar?) Rich described him using something with a purpose of shooting blanks, drilling it out, adding an actuator to put force behind the lug nuts. Rich explained that one to me, reminding me of one being used when our MN garage was turned into a 4th bedroom, but the remodel revealed many missing carriage bolts. An actuator was combined with a nail gun to seat proper bolts.

This makes Adam our prime suspect in the vandalism to our siding. But it doesn’t stop there.

Amanda uses a bicycle to get around, like Rich does. She reported that the other night Adam stole her bicycle, just after he was thrown out. It starts to seem likely that he may have been involved when Rich’s bicycle was stolen from the back yard a couple months ago also, well within the time frame when he knew about Rich, and shortly after the lug nuts incidents. Not only was the bike stolen, but Rich had worked on making a trailer to haul behind it which was loaded with items he was to bring to somebody the next day. Fortunately from just a transportation standpoint, Rich had stockpiled a variety of bike parts, and he put together what he fondly refers to as his “Frankenbike” so he could still get around easily. He now even had another trailer hooked up behind it, again put together from scrap by Rich.

Rich doesn’t go anywhere right now without a knife for defense. It rattled me to hear about it, just because I know how dangerous they can be and hope his temper doesn’t get out of hand in the wrong way. Then he informed me of the threat he has saved on his phone of Adam promising to rape him! Self defense is a whole different thing. 

*     *     *     *

 (Note: I don't know why this is color changed. The above between asterisks is what I copy-pasted in.)

Well, Adam escalated.

One night right after I came down here, Rich was up late, sitting out in the patio, doing whatever he does on his phone. He fell asleep briefly and when he woke, the phone was no longer in his hand. He hadn't dropped it. He doesn't sleep walk. When he got up and went into the house, he found his phone had been placed inside. Now we had reason to believe Adam had trespassed in the house without our consent.

Rich has heard Adam outside when Adam has visited a friend named Craig who lives across the back yard and two doors down. In one instance he was clearly calling the local home owners association trying to get Amanda in trouble with them. (She lives nearby.) We suspect he's been behind our troubles with them, and Rich has been given information from a third party to that effect. Rich occasionally sees Adam's truck driving slowly past the house. All I know to look for is a white Chevy pickup. Right now it probably has some front end damage.

Tonight - well, after 11 PM on the 30th - I woke up to hear my cell ring twice. Voicemail was left by Rich asking me to come and pick him up, and where, and why.I didn't even stop to get dressed, just grabbed my keys and purse and left.

Rich had been on his bike, towing its new trailer loaded with bike parts and other items to take to a  friend's house in El Mirage, two towns over. With the issues with the HOA, he was moving his bike parts there to work on, as well as taking some items over to give to the friend who was letting him set up work space there. Rich had gone only a mile when, heading down a street behind a strip mall rather than hit the highway, Adam was coming from the other direction in his Chevy, saw Rich, turned around and sped back up the street, plowing into the trailer and Rich's bike, accelerating the whole time, leaving a trail of debris about a hundred feet long, before speeding off.

Fortunately, where Rich was at the end of this attack is directly behind a bar in the mall, and somebody was outside smoking. He came over, called 911, then lent Rich his phone to contact me. (His phone was home on the charger.) When I arrived, Rich was still full of adrenaline, waving people away from the debris aka crime scene, and had one major thing on his mind.

I needed to warn Amanda! He gave me a description of her house and sent me off. It's pretty weird to knock on a stranger's door just before midnight but when I did, her housemate answered the door. (Since kicking Adam out, she's found an older gentleman friend to stay with her, and watch the house.) She wasn't home at the moment, but I told him briefly what had happened and that Richard wanted her to know and keep safe. He promised to contact her, and I returned home to grab Rich's phone, the dog, and return to Rich. The cops still hadn't shown up when I left, but had just arrived before I returned.

We both filled them in on the accident and the history with Adam, along with Rich's identification of him as the driver.Rich was sitting on the sidewalk as I pulled up the second time, now obviously in pain. He agreed to have the paramedics called. He asked me to collect whatever might be usable pieces from his bike and his load. I, in turn, after the cops were done taking pictures of the scene and Rich's back and knee, and the paramedics were discussing whether or not he wanted an ambulance ride to the ER, sweet talked a couple of them to help load the bike into the hatch of my car. They didn't believe it could go in, particularly with a crate fastened onto its back. I knew it would, if they let me show them how and I just borrowed their muscle. First however, I had to remove a bunch of glass pieces. They had no wish to cut their fingers, and I didn't want that either. But the glass was broken out of a picture frame, flat and easily picked up without incident, except for scaring the dog as pieces landed on the pavement and broke some  more. Once the bike was in and secured (straps always in the car), I wandered around loading whatever else wasn't totally destroyed into the spaces around the bike, until the cops briefly asked me to stop. By the time the scene was cleared for cleanup, up walked Amanda!

She was returning home after getting Rich's warning relayed to her. It was exactly what Rich didn't want, being where Adam would know how to find her. She, in turn, was trying to apologize, thinking it was her fault Adam had attacked Rich, since he'd tried to follow her in his truck earlier while she was walking, and she was having none of it, ducking around trees and between buildings where he couldn't follow. Well, assuming he's sane. Rich now had to spend much of his rapidly waning energy telling her it was all Adam's, not her fault. After getting introduced, she helped pull the wreckage apart with me so we could access whatever was salvageable, down to bolts and nuts scattered around. 

Rich finally agreed to sit in the car until it was time for me to drive him to the ER and the cops to leave. It was hard watching him having to move enough to bend and turn to get in. His shirt was still off from after the pictures were taken, and it looks pretty bad as well. Since the bits and pieces of wreckage were now in the car, I asked both of them if we could now please say goodbye and I could take him to the hospital. 

One little problem though. Rich needed to smoke. His rolling papers and tobacco were in his hip pocket, and he was only getting out of the car once, by damn. But his lighter was a casualty, and did Amanda have a spare one by any chance? She did. So I now just had to drop him at the corner of the parking lot near the ER because no smoking "on campus." Once he was out of the car, I drove over to the ER doors, called the guard over, explained what was going on  and requested somebody meet him part way at least after his smoke with a wheelchair. I also mentioned he had a copy of the police report in his hand, just so he would know we weren't totally wacko at too-damn-early-AM.

Rich had discussed with Amanda the idea that he'd be back home later to empty out the car so I could pick up Steve at the airport. It had to be emptied because I was driving slightly illegally with a side door that wouldn't close, and while that might work late at night going slow and with little other traffic, not so much between home and the airport. (I'd even asked the cops if they'd give me a ticket taking him to the ER and the car home with one side door  open. They declined to issue one.) Anyway, I told Rich in no uncertain terms that I'd have the car unloaded in the morning. It might not be all at once, I'd need to take breaks, but between his knee and  his ribs, no way I was letting him near that job. 

I lied though. Once home, I started pulling this out, then that out, got the whole bike and basket out with some finagling, and used my PJ top to wipe the salt out of my eyes until the car was empty!

So now I'm inside, trying to work off a big case of nerves. Not just the accident. But I keep thinking i hear sounds out in the yard. I've gone out to check once when it sounded like some things (bike parts?) got knocked over, but nobody around. Do I feel safe behind locked doors? Not tonight! Likely not till they find Adam and put him away for a long time. Maybe once the sun is up - soon now - I'll catch some sleep, waiting for the phone to ring.

We've Got Gas!

But nevermind that. The real question is whether the house does. 

We've been without since we left for Minnesota. After returning, there's been no need so far.  It's in AC mode right now, and we're months away from thinking about turning on the furnace. As for heating water, all we need to do for hot water is turn on the "cold" tap. The pipe runs through the attic, and unless changed, comes through at a quite adequate temperature for showers, dishes, and, well, laundry is done at "cold" though it never is cold. If we wish cooler water, we turn on the "hot" taps, since the water heater sits in AC and cools down to 81 degrees. If we want drinking-cool water, we use the dispenser on the fridge door. As for cooking, I nuke almost everything and Steve's not down yet to cook on the stove or in the oven. 

Today the gas company is here to check everything before turning on the supply at the meter. It's never been a problem before. Today, not so good. First, there is some heat damage in the top back of the oven. It needs to be left un-gassed until replacement. Problem today is there's a valve up high in the back that needs to be shut off and nobody could reach it. The whole house had to be without gas if that valve couldn't be turned, allowing no leaks. Rich had a solution. A shelf under the oven - it's a wall mount - needed to be demolished. It's about 2" below the oven itself, and one needs to reach through that to the back and then up (yeah, sure!) to turn off that valve. Rich, with permission, demolished that shelf. It was only good for holding a couple cords or flat tray or something anyway. So that part was fixed, in the sense of being able to separate it from the gas supply. A yellow tag is wired to the oven door handle reminding everybody it can't be used. It also alibis the gas guys in case we get stupid.

Somebody's going shopping later.

Then there's the fireplace in the lanai. We never use it. Never. It gets checked out each year that the gas company folks come and turn gas back on once we return. Of course last year nobody left, so it's been two now. It's not working. This one was easier to disconnect. Whoever wishes to use it in the future has some expense ahead of them. Won't be us, not if I have a say, at least until we are ready to sell the house. It'll be disclosed to whatever realtor we contact then if not fixed. Somebody will need a plumber and a part or so. Every once in a blue moon Steve thinks it'd be great to turn it on and sit in front of the fire. Now that Rich is there, we're not going to be sitting in front of that particular fire. Besides, we get lots of bonfires in the back yard in Minnesota, the kind with the smell of wood smoke and roasting brats and s'mores and good company. And free! That's enough for me.

The drier is just fine, and laundry has been piling up, waiting for it. Last is the furnace, up on the roof. It's sitting there in the same big metal box that the AC is in, the one (two?) we replaced a few years ago. Checking it out means pumping heat into the house. But hey, it hasn't quite reached today's high of 106 (it's cloudy) either outside or in. And the AC kicks back on quickly.

Usually these visits take about half an hour. Today it's been two. Plus we had two technicians. It's training day, so I hear a lot of the conversations between both men, and one side of the phone conversations as they check with HQ whether, once a problem area is cut off safely, the rest of the gas is good to be turned on. Verdict after all of this is we're good to go. With two isolated exceptions of course

The cost of these visits is supposed to be a standard $30, added to our next bill. I've been assured the extra time and work doesn't change the cost. The reason they come out is exactly what they did today, making sure there are no leaks, no dangers of fires or explosions. (No loss of customers!) That's been done.

Verdict after all of this is we're good to go. With two isolated exceptions, of course. We've got gas!

Where YOUR Rights End

I'm masking again when I go into stores. Yes, I'm fully vaccinated, and I plan to get the booster in October or sooner, depending on advisories and availability. Mid October will be 8 months.

It's not so much that I'm afraid of it, at least not any more. I'm afraid of spreading it. I can be completely asymptomatic, unaware of any exposure, and still be completely capable of infecting a lot of others. I also don't want to harbor the virus and be the host where it mutates into something even worse than it is now.

My right to swing my fist has been legally defined as stopping before it hits your nose. Or any other body part. Probably your window too, but I haven't bothered to check. I'm not in the habit of swinging my fist, so it just doesn't come up. But I also don't have the right to refuse to do any of a number of very simple things to prevent spreading a frequently fatal disease just because "Freedumb!" Your fist now comes in the form of viral particles.

Unless you're one of the many people I love, I can't quite bring myself to care, any longer, whether you choose an act that can kill yourself. Or in this case, refusing an act that can stop you from killing yourself and others. Just get the FREE! vaccine unless you doctor says you in particular can't. Mask up around others, whether you're vaccinated or not.  Mask your kids who are too young to receive it yet. 

I will care about all those who have to deal with the aftereffects of your bad choices. I worry for the rescue folk who have to navigate the mountain crevasse because you were stupid on your hike. I worry for the health professionals who have to struggle to prevent countless unnecessary deaths after deaths after deaths. I ache for the family member who finds your body next to the gun. I feel sorry for those folks who run crematoriums and funeral homes who are overwhelmed by the load. I feel sorry for those who own animals and can no longer acquire the necessary dewormer because a flood of stupid human consumers cleared the shelves of it because they won't get vaccinated and don't know this will kill them faster. I mourn the teachers and students who die because preventative measures are refused by parents, school boards, or right wingnuts influencing school boards.

I fear for all of us who will need our hospitals in the present/future but no beds are available because they're filled with covid patients, and we can't get the lifesaving care we might need. I also worry that those hospitals go bankrupt because the high costs of covid hospitalizations are extremely high and not all of us are well insured.

But if you want to kill yourself, I'm no longer able to care about you. You have the right to do so, I suppose. You don't have the right to take others along with you, to endanger others, to break their hearts, to devastate them financially, to even try to make us care.

If only you could just all get together and go away quietly. Because as much as I'd wish it, as much as I try not to care, I'm still the kind of human who can't quite be that indifferent. I just wish you were too.

Imposssible!

My phone worked this morning. I talked to three people. All social calls, people close to me. Important in their own ways. Just not business.

This afternoon and ever since, it hasn't worked. I needed to make several business calls. Important calls. I set up the call, tell my phone to make the call, it shows it's doing so... for just over a second before it goes back to just displaying the number I wish to reach. 

Sometimes our house runs interference, being concrete block,  so when I had to run Richard somewhere in the car, while he was busy there I tried again. Same result. 

HEY THANKS, T-MOBILE !

Richard has the same problem. But he can change how his phone is set up to downgrade to 2G. It seemed to work for him, thou it may not be cause & effect. I can't. Never figured I'd ever want/need to. For that matter, not sure why I need the 4G my new flip phone is equipped with. All I ever do on it is talk to people. It's a phone, dang it. It's all I want. But today it isn't a phone. It's a temptation, something I'm debating throwing hard and far. Except it's not the phone's fault. It's T-Mobile.

So I decided to log in to their website and email customer disservice that way. They of course wanted me to change my password. They consider using it for over a few months makes it weak. It's weak, all right, a very polite way of swearing at them , telling them to stuff their constant insistence that I change the password. I could swear much less weakly. (Note, those of you with a hacking bent, none of those words are actually part of that password.) They still let me in, so I perused their website. Nearly every bit of is is financial stuff. How's my bill? What's my usage? Do I want to upgrade in ridiculous ways? Add people? 

Where's customer support?

Well, it's exactly where it's been for the last 23 years or so I've been their customer, well before they were even T-Mobile. It's ON MY PHONE! Using my phone I can dial 611 and get ahold of them. Otherwise there's an 800 number I can call, already programmed into my phone before I purchase it.

You get the irony, right?

IT'S FRIGGIN' IMPOSSIBLE !!!!!!

I dunno, can I shoot somebody? I mean, I'd have to go  get a gun first and way things are going I'd need to use my phone to do so. But... Can I? But for now, anyway, those offices I needed to contact are closed, so I've got overnight to hope nobody needs a 911 call or something, and try something different tomorrow.

*     *     *     *

Richard offered to help by checking out my phone. Even though we have 5G in the neighborhood right now, he's had to downgrade his in order to use it around the house. (Weird!) That was last year. He looked at mine, tried to figure how to get my dumb-phone to try a lower "G" in case that made a difference, and informed me that the 4G I was told the phone came with was really only a choice between 2G and 3G. (In case you were wondering, they're not additive. If they were,  I'd have 5G already. Silly thought. What would I need with that?)

I did note to him later that 4G was part of the opening screen in tiny letters, but unmistakable as a 4. He just shrugged, sticking to the ideas that 1: I was lied to and 2: my phone innards didn't match the screen.

Eventually he decided my phone wasn't going to give an answer, and lent me his, along with a special power source to keep it running while I used the 800 number to contact tech support. Since any time I touch a smart phone something weird happens, it was set on the counter in the kitchen. I decided to make my long hold times useful by doing dishes. Wiping more counters. Cleaning the stove. Washing the floor including kitchen, front entry, and hall down to the bathroom. And finally, washing the front door frame where "everybody" touches it without washing their hands first so it accumulates a lot of black on the white paint.

Yeah, the call lasted that long. I didn't get to the inside of the refrigerator though. Another day's job.

For the final 20 minutes or so, the first person I was talking to managed to connect my problem to a second person who actually called me on my own phone. Note that first person never hung up. So there were times when both of them, obviously unconnected to each other, were trying to talk to me at the same time. I stuck with the second one, the one who got my phone actually working, by somehow connecting to it from their end. Eventually Rich stepped in and talked to #1 to let her know why I wasn't answering her.

I took advantage of the situation to point out to both women that their website really should have some way to reach tech support via email or chat room or something for circumstances like mine. One agreed to pass it on.  The other acknowledged the issue without offering to kick it upstairs. Oh well.

Once my phone started working, woman #2 told me to shut it down, wait 60 seconds, and turn it on again. We needed to check that their ability to reach me wasn't some kind of fluke. OK so far. I was then instructed by woman #1 - the first indication of any kind of communication between them - that I was now to try to call somebody. OK, I called Rich. Since that phone was in use, I could hear it ringing right on the counter in front of me (totally weird: nobody's phone rings when you're on the line with somebody else!)  but obviously I didn't answer or break the connection in any way - as if I knew how.  Then woman #1 suggested I call somebody else. I called Steve, waking him up, but it worked.

Now woman #2 got back in the picture and informed me that they would be mailing me a new, free, SIM card. I should have it in 24 - 48 hours. Replace my current card with the new one. Did that mean I'd lose my directory? There's a whole lot of numbers on it that are nowhere else without a whole lot of work, and some I've forgotten I even need until I need them. Like the local post office, one of the calls I was trying to make that afternoon. Why the heck isn't my mail coming when I sent in the change of address card almost two weeks ago? Anyway, she insisted all my numbers would stay in my phone. I guess we'll find out. If needed, I can always switch between cards to locate all those existing numbers to find out what might not have transferred, because, ya know, I'm retired and have nothing else to do. Or something.

Woman #2 also informed me she was going to call my phone on Saturday to confirm it was still working. Nice! Thus started the discussion of time availability and time zones and Arizona not being on daylight savings time. Because, you know, I'm sure she wasn't anywhere in this country and needed that information. While she spoke lovely English, that accent was really thick and I'd had to slow her down several times to understand her. (I let her think that I thought it was because I'm a geezer and it had nothing to do with her. Like that happens all the time, right?)

*     *     *     *

But hey, phone is working. They'll send stuff, and call back to verify all's well around 5 PM tonight. Guess I don't need to shoot anybody after all, eh? Gonna head off to Walmart this morning for an hour's shopping before my car turns to a puddle in the sun. Or I do. 

Say, I wonder if e.e.cummings meant living in Arizona when he wrote that the world is puddle-wonderful. Too late to ask.

Grumpy - Day 3 Returning Home

I was just getting to sleep when I woke up with one of those "Linda Blair” leg cramps. It hits at the ankle and tries to twist your foot off. (Go watch "The Exorcist".) I’ve learned that it means there’s too little calcium in my diet - too late to fix that now. But sitting up and rubbing it for a while usually takes away the need to twist itself, so long as I’m careful not to stretch the muscles getting back into bed.

The noise levels outside were relentless. The walls here are paper thin. I heard everything outside, next door in either direction, and across the back wall since the rooms all join with no center isle, just outside doors. The upstairs residents were stomping around so late and started again so early I wondered if they might be vampires, a silly train of thought that led to other more realistic worries about possible safety issues.

I woke again at 2:30. Not because I was refreshed and the time zone change gave me an extra hour, but I was freezing. So was the dog! I decided to do two things. First, add a whole second layer of clothes and flip the two scratchy bath towels over the sheet - yes, seriously, no blanket in the room - so I could huddle under it, but before that I decided to see if I could nudge any heat from the wall unit. Somewhere all the words or symbols or whatever it started out with had been rubbed off or peeled off or…. When I'd arrived in the room, the temperature was comfortable so I hadn't bothered to mess with their system. There'd been other issues.

If there is a heat setting on the thing, I couldn’t find it even with the lights on. As soon as I crawled under the sheets/towels, Heather Too joined me, snuggling down around my shins, the one place I had no clothing in my room to cover. No, I wasn’t going to head back out to the car where the warm stuff was packed. Why not? By the time I figured out where the good stuff was I’d be wide awake, and the third day of the trip is always the tiredest. That’s why I plan for it to be the shortest.

As I tried to drift off, somebody had loud music going outside. Does nobody in management in this place supervise the guests at all? Then by 4:30 the pipes started making somebody’s-taking-a-bath noises. But by then I was in full cranky stubborn mode. I refused to get up until all the different noises combined together at… let’s see… 5:17. OK, surrender. Maybe an actual nap down the road today, eh?

Oh Gawd! Now I have to repack the whole danged suitcase, don’t I? I pack with jammies and toiletries as the first things I reach. It didn’t help last night (technically this morning) when I ransacked it for any possible warmer, loose second layer. At least there’s still enough warm water to freshen up a bit, make my hair controllable again. I checked out that tub last night and no safety bar, no non-slick bottom, no trust in my safety. Spits and spots it is then, as Mom would say.

But where did all these flies come from? 

Once I finally hit the road again, just a hair too early for McDonald's and not willing to wait for it, things started to get better. Put on the motel-doesn't-have-this-either list a coffee pot. The office would have coffee in another hour plus, but I damn sure wasn't waiting around for that. I had light, some classical music on the radio (for what only turned out to be the next 20 miles) and I was getting outta there ASAP! Who knows? A nap later? More caffeine? Just anywhere else but here! I poured my coffee fixins in a bottle of water, shook it, loaded the car, emptied the dog, and fled.

By the way, here's another "hack" I like when traveling. I save those paper coffee cups after the coffee is gone. Their next use is pouring gorp in, setting in the center cup folder, making it easily reachable to tip some into my mouth and put back without taking my eyes off the road. If something drops, pick it up later. Somewhere in the day there will be an accumulated napkin, or just a whole collection of such in the door pocket. One goes into the now empty cup and its lid goes back on. It's final use is to be in my hand when I'm walking the dog. Should she leave the kind of mess that needs picking up, off the lid goes, napkin surrounds the turds, they go into the cup, and cup with lid goes into any waste receptacle.

As soon as I hit Arizona there were lit signboards along the freeway, regularly warning of very heavy and slow traffic at mile #205. Expect long delays. After comparing those signs with standard signs giving miles to (insert next two towns here) and Flagstaff, I figured mile 205 must be just this side of Flag. I can navigate parts of the area, but I'd be stuck in the long lineup with everybody else. It was time for that alternate route we'd talked about several times but never taken. It cuts off at Winslow and angles southwest to Camp Verde. Consulting a map, I figured out what to look for and approximately how far between road changes, and exited.

After a bit, I was in beautiful country! I'd gone from blah to juniper forest to tall pines and high elevation. Sure, some places it was twisty mountain driving, but almost no traffic the whole way, just exquisite scenery and peace. I can see why parts of this are the go-to summer heat getaway for a lot of Phoenix folk. Unfortunately, much as I'd love to show Steve all of this, and regret not taking it on any earlier trip, it's bumpy as hell in places, and each bump reminded me of an opportunity lost. And no, very few places where it might have been possible to pull off the road safely for a shot or 85 so I could show him later.

I arrived home at 2:30, finding the expected and the unexpected. Rich was there as requested to help unload the car, turn back on the electricity (tricky breaker box cover) and assist with whatever. His spider bites are ugly as hell but he insists they are healing. He also showed me the two newest ones. 

You know how we say "it's a dry heat"? Yeah, not right now. There's finally a real  monsoon season after two years without, so humidity is up.  Yes, I packed one of those bandanas I've been wearing on my head up north while working. It would sure be useful now. I expect it will turn up somewhere by the time I've done the unpacking and all the other work. And there is a ton of other work. Little spills that were ignored because they might have been fairly clear or at least blended in with the surface when made have oxidized. Brown and black spots, splats, and splashes everywhere you look, a trail from kitchen to living room where somebody carries in food and beverage, somehow oxidized black instead of brown. All the predictable spots cover the kitchen floor, but unexpectedly cover the sink and new countertops as well. Fortunately, the new counters are new enough that nothing sticks, just wipes off easily. 

HOWEVER....

The sinks' bottoms are covered in black goo, not just a film but solid goo. It gets worse when Rich informs me that somebody was doing a sewer project in the neighborhood and "stuff" backed up in the plumbing. This includes the kitchen sinks, and one bathroom's sink and toilet. In addition, the pipes so "blessed" are somewhat plugged up. Three flushes later removes all but what's coating the inside of the toilet bowl and needs bleach and a  brush to clean. Rich managed to unplug the bathroom sink pipe so it finally drains. Somehow the black goo didn't quite reach the inside of that sink, unlike the kitchen. Not sure I'm ready to try the shower! Numerous paper towels remove the worst from the kitchen, followed by soap and scrubbing pads, soap and rinsing, followed by a final hands wash. Of course this gets done without my glasses because so much salt sweat has dripped on them that they're useless till cleaned themselves.

I'm relieved that there is enough travel food left that I can postpone much more kitchen cleaning. It turns out we left without cleaning the inside of the refrigerator. Besides, I promised Rich I'd treat him to supper at the fast food joint of his choice tonight. The microwave will have to do for anything else getting cooked because I still can't get through to the gas company to order getting that turned on again.  I'm OK with that. I'm finally ready to wait the 40 minutes or whatever it will be this time I start the call to get it scheduled. Something about unusually high call volume. Can't do it on the road. My phone is on the charger as I type. The weather keeps showers comfortable enough since ground temperature these days is hot and the pipes are shallow - or running through the attic. There is no such thing as cold water, unless it comes out of the fridge/freezer. So, gas can wait.

There were other unpleasant things to return home to. A couple of pictures fell off the wall. The tape holding them didn't survive the heat, as Rich insisted it would, and we don't use nails in a house not built with standard current building specifications, like 16" vertical stud centers. Or just all vertical studs!!!  Or even 2x4 studs! Apparently they weren't needed to space between concrete block walls and whatever board was used on the interior back in 1961. Arizona, doncha know.  One picture left glass in shards over a fairly wide area. The AC seems to be taking its own sweet time in cooling down the house. Of course, we made that even more difficult for it when we aired out the house after pulling out the 8 no-pest strips set out to kill multi-legged intruders. Before opening it up, inside was significantly cooler than outside. Outside was 106. Soon inside was as well. Adding ceiling fans helped for comfort. So did remembering to (blush) close that final window an hour after turning the AC on! At least we really got the house aired out, eh?

Then there was getting TV again. First, replace batteries in the remote. Try to remember how this remote works because it's different from Paul's Dish remote.  Then encourage the Hopper to do a start-up self check by again disconnecting power for 30 seconds. Then call Dish because all sorts of weird things are happening that I won't take 20 more column inches to describe (you're welcome) that even the tech on the line took 25 minutes to fix. After that, put in an extra timer request to record programs that are finally showing in the program guide half an hour ahead of when they start but with no "I'm going to be recorded" red dot. If you don't tell it to record tonight's showing, it won't, not till tomorrow when it all somehow magically straightens itself out and all the timers are again working. Welcome home!

Batteries also need to be replaced in the living room clock - done - and in one of the smoke alarms down the hall chirping cheerfully every thirty seconds. That battery needs to go on the shopping list. Other clocks get reset, stuff here and there plugged back in.

While we lost a few plants in the yard while we were gone, there were nice surprises as well. The rains have been enough to prompt the desert willow to bloom again! I never thought it bloomed more than once in spring. My San Marcos hibiscus is loaded with blooms, the Mexican bird of paradise likewise, and the ocotillos  are positively bushy-looking with all the leaves. I'll have to spend more time out there checking things out, but I'll wait till it's cooler. 

Like November.

I'm sure I'll be ready to go outside again by November.

Whimsy - Day 2 Returning Home

My evening didn’t stop being a challenge after I quit writing my post last night. I have a particular way of dealing with pills when I travel. Experience has shown me that those plastic pry-up case lids on a week's supply of pills don’t always need my help to open. The resulting chaos is not to be repeated. So what I do is lay out piles of pills morning pills on the table, then put each day's worth in a little zip lock bag. Those are available online, usually under jewelry supplies, though drug dealers know them well too. That’s one reason I go the extra cost to get them in 4 mil weight. Plus, they hold up to using them multiple times with no problems. PM pills get the same treatment, and magic markers label each for time of day. Than all the AM pills go in one standard sandwich baggie and the PM ones get their own. So easy to use and they take up so little space that way.

Obviously they are among the last things packed before I head out the door. But while in my room last night, a quick hunt didn’t produce them where I thought I should have packed them. I even called Steve, asking did I leave them behind? (Not a total tragedy, but then I’d have to go dig the box of all the bottles of pills out of the car and do the routine twice every day! There were enough of everything in that box of bottles to last me until Steve flew down if I had to do it that way.) Should I give up or just look harder? Steve checked, and no, I hadn’t left them behind. Time to rack the brain. Once calmer, I recalled putting them somewhere I was sure would be taken into the motel at the end of every day. Since they weren’t in my suitcase….

I had it! They were in the bottom of the bag of dog supplies! Whew!  Hey, go ahead and laugh. It worked! All the plan needed was a brain. All the brain needed was less stress. Possible some sleep, but the pills had to come before sleep, so....

We left the motel just a little later in the morning than yesterday. I’d expected it to be drier, but it was just as muggy, though even warmer, than the morning before.

I knew which way to turn out of the motel parking lot to hit the turnipke. Unfortunately, the signs gave me a choice of lanes to pick, totally divergent, to get to Wichita. One said take the right lane to go eastbound to Wichita. The other lane was bore a sign to use it to go westbound  to Wichita. Need I mention that Wichita was south from there? (Is it just me or is there something about Kansas?) Good there was nearly no traffic that early because I had to stop dead in my lane to decide which wrong direction I wanted to take! Eenie, meenie, miney... I just took the firwst turn and it was the only one actually leading to the turnpike. After I approached the tollbooth to grab my ticket, the lane divided in two and this time the signs simply said “Wichita” and “Kansas City”. I guess somebody finally figured out that east and west weren’t helpful.

It can get weird when you’re out driving in the wee hours. It starts with only being able to see lane stripes, lit road signs and the occasional set of head or taillights. Eventually you get two different levels of black to chose between for some idea of what’s happening around you, one for the road and sky, the other for the deep shadows along the road which gradually identify themselves as trees or whatever. Occasionally your lights manage to elicit a pair of glows from the eyes of a roadside deer, but that was yesterday! They don’t seem to occupy spaces along the Kansas turnpike. Skyward, this morning there was a bright planet just over both the east and west horizon, and a full moon now low in the west.

Vision is even more complicated when the jacked-up pickup pulls in behind you with four high beams, two over two, all bouncing off your rearview mirror into your eyes. At that point everything else disappears. I always react by slowing down. It’s my reaction to all tailgaters, day or night. They never get me speeding up. Eventually they find an opportunity, however unsafe, to pull out and go bother some other motorist.

Two shades of black eventually resolved to a hint of a glow on the horizon. Surely that’s not dawn breaking, right? It’s the wrong direction. Hey, Ii’s Wichita! By the time I’m actually in the city, the sky overhead has resolved into a deep blue, and continued lightening from there.

Between Emporia and the end of the turnpike there are three zones to pull in to without exiting where you can get gas, food, and use the facilities.They are between the two sets of lanes of the turnpike, where you can enter and exit from either direction. Just don't get confused! The final one, and only one left after El Dorado,  shows a bright pair of golden arches. Breakfast! In the short time between pulling in and parking with my sandwich, I noticed a particular cloud, formerly invisible as it had been totally dark when I'd passed under it. Most of it still was dark grey and flat as if it were a budding thunderhead. One spot rose straight up from the top in a column, high enough it was lit up by a sun not yet over my horizon.

I think some times that wind currents must have a sense of humor, a whimsy if you will. In the moment I first noticed the clouds, the lit top was a perfect rendition of a scruffy dog head. No imagination needed. After unwrapping my sandwich and taking my first bite, it had changed.  Still the only part lit, the top part had morphed into a man’s head. From the bottom up, there was a jutting chin with a pointed beard, a smiling mouth as if reveling in the first rays of the sun, a bulbous nose in front of a high cheekbone, a heavy brow over a deep-set eye, and hair that was pulled off the forehead into a knot on the top of the head. Before I finished my sandwich, it was just another messy cloud again.

Whimsy!

By the time I rolled across the border to Oklahoma around 7, the sun was fully up. The wispy clouds in front of me were now white, having first been noticeable as pink, then later yellow,  the pink in turn gracing the low western clouds.

The rest of my day was pretty much same-old, same-old. Only now the roads were much bumpier. It continues through Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle. Apparently New Mexico has had some recent road construction, as there is a noticeable smoothing of the pavement. Steve will be happy to hear that flying down is by far the best choice for his worsening back! I, on the other hand, am enjoying myself, even though well aware of the bumps. But my back is fine. It's just that Steve has gotten me aware of what each bump would cost him in pain. Personally, I don't worry about a bump unless it threatens to break an axle, something that's never happened to me. There was a pothole years ago that bent my tire rim and cost me a flat, but....

I took the “mandatory” stop at the Cherokee Trading Post, and made a few small purchases after finding out that what really caught my eye was not coming along with me at its $300 price tag. Regardless, it was a quick stop since the heat was rising and the dog had to stay in the car.

I did manage finally to find a few public radio stations on the way, lightening the miles. As the freeway descended Sandia Mountain into Albuquerque, I was glad I wasn’t heading uphill, aka out of downtown in rush hour. A few sets of flashing lights indicated the start of what looked like about 8 miles of stop and… yep, just sit. We all drove by them heading towards the city center at a steady 65.

Before hitting the motel I stopped for a supper sandwich a couple blocks away. Drive through, of course, since that’s the only way I didn’t have to wear a mask. New Mexico is requiring them everywhere inside again, and people are respecting it. As I exited, traffic on the street was stopped for a light. As it changed, cars started moving again, except the guy in the grey truck just back from where I was. He sat. So, figuring he meant to, I pulled out, drove the three car lengths to the corner for a right turn to head back to the motel. As soon as I entered the street, he honked steadily at  me until past where I turned off.

I didn’t think more of it. I just figured it was mistaken communication. Staying put a few extra seconds is no big deal and it’s what I’ve both done and seen done when letting another car out into traffic. At the motel, I donned my mask, went in and registered, and came back out… just to find the same grey truck in their parking lot behind my car, front window rolled down, and the driver yelling at me. 

“You pulled out in front of me.” Really, he’s inconvenienced for two seconds and he follows me around the 4 blocks it took to get back to the motel, then waited in the parking lot while I checked in, just to accost me?

“Wow, you followed me all this way to tell  me that?”

“You pulled out in front of me.”

“You were stopped.”

“No I wasn’t. You pulled out in front of me.”

"Yes you were."

"You pulled out in front of me."

Well... I’m glad you were paying attention.”

He gave up on me then and backed out of the parking lot. I could have meant my last comment different ways, including a sarcastic comment on his not paying attention when the light changed and starting up with the other traffic, but, hey, why push it with a nasty tone? As I was still wearing my mask, having just left the office, he couldn't see facial expressions, so who knew what he thought he was reacting to?

The motel gets one thing right. The bed is a normal low height. I can sit in it rather than climb up. Somehow there must be a secret motel code that requires that they make up for beds you have to climb up into by adding extra pillows you can’t possibly need. This one only has two of them! Of course the sheet and blanket are pulled tight and tucked in so hard I need a shovel to dig my way under them!

Wait! What blanket?

Incidentally, this post will also be put online later after I get home. After getting the wi-fi code at this motel, I was offered a choice between paying $6 for the privilege (stop by with your card), or… well, the free option wasn’t clickable. If you happened to send an important email, we’re both SOL for another 24 hours. But hey, don’t bother trying to figure it out. The fact that you’re reading this means I connected with wi-fi again. At home. Safe.

Bittersweet - Day 1 Returning Home

 Nature called and woke me at 3.  That’s AM. Lately I wake up at 4 am, so I just figured I’d go back to sleep after. Of course Heather Too needed to go outside as well. And equally of course, she got as far as the first blades of grass, verified that they were indeed wet and cold, and turned right around and came back in. I wasn’t going to bother to argue with her, just climbed back in bed.

Did I sleep? Of course not. While the car was mostly packed, it still needed our last bits of stuff  still in use before we left.Toothbrush, dog dishes once emptied, a bag of dirty clothes from the night before, etc. It was al organized, but those final touches were just enough to keep me awake. I know better than to argue with my awakened self.

We’d had company the day before, final bonfire of the summer, at least for me. Steve may have more until his plane leaves. One expected guest couldn’t make it, and I had a sizable box of videos - yes, VHS - that now needed to be dropped off with her on the way down.  I’d checked out the map already so I knew the way to her house, and we’d discussed my timing before she’d need to leave for work. I decided to be just a bit later, while still on time, so I could collect a farewell hug from my son before he slipped out the door to go to work. Steve of course stayed up, not just from his sleep patterns but to make sure I didn’t sleep past 4 and give me his hug too.

Tricky me, once time to get in the car, I put a leash on Heather Too and dragged her into the (cold, wet) grass in the front yard along the driveway and she was finally persuaded she might as well make the most of the opportunity. At last! I firmly believe in the saying "an empty dog is a good dog!"

5 AM is still full on dark, but the full moon was still up and the streetlights on. We were rolling! That good mood lasted about 4 miles down the road. I suddenly realized I wanted to say bye-for-now emotionally to the area as I drove through, but it was still to dark to see more than a couple feet past the shoulder, so I pretty much had to imagine what I was driving past. That was the part which made it bittersweet. That plus heading down earlier than I wanted, before my self-assigned tasks were complete, fully aware of the regrowth in many of the places I’d worked on that I’d have to tackle again next year. I hope the stump killer, used after the process started, would be successful in killing where it was used, and could complete the job next year.

While I was mulling all this over, pretty much wallowing for the first 4 miles down the road, I did manage to see a doe start out into my lane from the shoulder and suddenly turn around and head back into the grass and bushes. Now that’s a good way to start a trip! Forget the dismals and just drive, girl. Only something like 675 miles to go today.

The sun was up, drifting between clouds, when I arrived at my first stop, dropping off the videos. There I got my best hug of the day, and that’s after the first two pretty good ones at home. Just for good  measure, we made it two nice long ones before we both had to be on our way for our different days.

By the time I left the cities behind and was out in the country again, rolling on cruise control down I 35, it had warmed up enough I could stop defogging the windshield. Very humid start to the day.

It only took me twelve hours to clear the Kansas turnpike at El Dorado. There were a couple gas stops, a coffee (2nd cup) stop, and a few rest stops with dog walking and re-watering. Oh yeah, one McDonalds ice cream cone mid afternoon as a pick-me-up. Didn’t need a nap, so I’ll probably hit the hay early. This means it doesn’t really matter that the only TV control that works is the on/off, and what’s on possibly appeals to fairly slow teenagers. Possibly. Not only that but the wifi comes with a warning that I have to agree to all their terms and conditions and even after that it’s still just not secure. So I’m not going online to check weather, emails, and what not. I can write this on my internal word processing software rather than the blogs, and paste it in tomorrow.  (Note: delays until after home and unpacked.)

These were not the first of the frustrations. My car decided to wait until I was on the turnpike and had just passed the last possible place to get gas before lighting up the symbol that says “Feed me or else!” The exit to town was still a ways off but as soon as I saw the El Dorado exit I took it.  However…

My map search of the day before showed a heavy commercial zone immediately after getting off and paying your toll. This road led through  lots of countryside. Eventually there was a school. A few houses. Another school. Wooded lots and fields. Finally, now that I’m trying not to panic, there’s a Caseys up ahead. Cool - kill two birds. Gas up and get info. Turns out what the map didn’t show, and the signs didn’t make clear, possibly because I was busy changing lanes and speeds with construction zones several times, is that there are actually two exits for El Dorado. I needed the second one. So I follow directions through town to my turn and another two miles further to the motel. I know, because it was on the map (how trusting!) that I’ll pass a Burger King just before I reach the motel, and there’s a McDonalds on the other side of the street if I’ve gone too far. So first thing I pass is the Micky D’s on my side just before the motel, and the Burger King is up and across where the McDonald's is supposed to be.

Sigh….

Good thing I brought a book. Not the kindle, but a real, hard copy paperback book. The dog is already bored enough that after sleeping all but about an hour of the ride down, and then only to look out the window or take a brief walk, she’s curled up on the footstool that comes with the chair I’m sitting in to write this. When you first enter the room, it looks cozy, tucked back in the corner with a cushion in the back. Of course the cushion is so deep there’s only enough seat left to perch on, so that had to go away. The the footstool is a bit too high and too flat, nothing like a comfy recliner, so my feet instead are on the floor. The dog gets the footstool.

I’m pretty sure she can hop up on the always-too-high-platform bed in the room that seems to be an inescapable fad in the motel industry these days.  I’m willing to bet even at that height it’s still not enough to discourage any, say, bedbugs that might inhabit the room. After all, I’ve seen them crawling across the ceiling when we were infested back when! But it’s enough to discourage me. I can't wait to get back home to a properly low bed again.

There was a recent walkabout with the dog. It produced even better results than the expected ones. First, I ran into the lady from the front desk, and she fixed the TV! There’s a little lump of a doohickey on the end of a tiny wire that is the  connection to Cox. It had fallen behind the desk the TV sits on. Now that it’s on said desk, I can watch something different than whatever that awful program was.

Oh, and we had musical accompaniment on our walkabout. Cicadas. The grassy dog area is huge. and as we had a long walk, I pinpointed where the sound came from. It’s across the grassy area, over the trucker’s parking lot, across the street and other field and in a thick line of trees! Even with the wind coming from behind me and toward them, they were L.O.U.D!

But hey, I was up early, so forget the TV. Snooze time, early start tomorrow.

Waiting For Somebody Else To Die...

...So You Can Get Your Turn At An ICU Bed. So you can likely die there too. Taking somebody else's spot, somebody who's waiting for you to die also. 

You might think of this as a moral dilemma. But you'd have to be a certain kind of moral person in the first place. Maybe there's a tightrope you can mentally walk, where it's OK to wait for somebody else to die so you can get your turn, so long as you sort of hope that they don't die. 

Sort of. Because of course  you really really  hope you can get your own turn for the best care and treatment, and you know the only way a bed clears up for you is by somebody dying. The ones who don't quite die don't count. They are going to be taking up their ICU bed for weeks or months, and even after they improve are likely going to go on for months or longer of half-living, their bodies ravaged by all the effects of long covid, the blood clots, the mental fog, the gasping for oxygen that there's never quite enough of. 

So you gotta hope somebody dies quickly. No prolonging agony because that wouldn't be merciful - for them or for you. Because  by this time, for you, there's going to be a much-too-long time where you can wonder, as you search for each breath,  why your supreme diety left you - yes, wonderful, faithful, observant you - in this struggling state, when obviously you deserve that bed, where you're not sure that anonymous stranger does. Were they as wonderful as you? As faithful to your deity? As observant of the holy laws? As trusting in your earned place at the head of whatever line you need to be head of? Why, such a long wait might even lead to doubt, and why would your deity tempt you that way?

Speaking of mercy, how much are you showing to all those medical people who have to tend those unending lines of people who are showing up, waiting for the next bed to open for their turn in it, knowing most of them are going to die also, those medical personnel who have to go home night after night unable to save lives as they were trained, burnt out and still facing the endless streams of you coming through their doors? They daily have to face the process of triage, a terrible burden on those whose only wish is to heal. You could have chosen not to be here!

You've been scared. First, all those wicked people trying to get you to believe that there's some horrible new disease out there, created just to kill you, but it's only a hoax because those awful people have  for sure some evil purpose either to scare you in order to somehow control you, or perhaps even kill you if - just maybe if - it's not all a hoax.

Then there's some demoniacal vaccine developed almost miraculously, but you know that's not safe. You can wait and make sure it's OK first, but you're sure it'll sterilize your men, abort your babies, embed microchips in your body because somehow your cell phones aren't already tracking your movements to whatever extent somebody might want to do that because... you are somehow more important than your 300 million fellows are to be tracked and monitored? Besides, needles are scary.

You watch as people around you get sick - or so they're told - and yet they're just not that sick. A sniffle, an ache, even nothing at all, and they're told to stay home, miss work, miss out on fun, and all for nothing much at all. Why should you be bothered with something that little? You've had colds before. Everybody gets them. No biggie. Only the old and week die off, and they do that anyway from the flu, so it's just their time, right? Some people who've been hiding other illnesses get sick to, some of those die, and isn't that just culling the herd? You hear that those people get sicker than your people, and doesn't that just mean they are a weaker kind of person and that means your people are better?

The news keeps changing. Facts and truth should always be a stable thing, unchanging, for anything else is a pack of lies. Masks? First they say no, then they try to make you wear them. Which is the lie? They can be uncomfortable so why lose that freedom to go without them because it's your deity-given right to do whatever you please and this nation was founded under (your choice of favorite deity here), so just another reason to avoid wearing a mask. You won't get sick anyway, because it's still just a cold except for those weaker folks.

You haven't gotten to the point of thinking about how you can spread it to all those others without even realizing you're sick. You haven't accepted that it's changing, getting worse, because, remember now, truth doesn't change. Even if you're "forced" to wear a token mask because some bully wants to take away your freedom, you can't breathe "enough" so it's pulled off your nose. Surely that doesn't do any harm? Surely if you can be safe being six feet away from the next person, doesn't that really mean just 3 feet? And only if they're coughing? And never never ever do they mean your good friends, your fellow church-going buddies, your family who needs to attend that wedding, funeral, party, rally, concert....

Now after all that, now that you're really truly "likely", as they say, and really truly need that already filled ICU bed, all you can do is wait and hope it opens up soon. For you. Because it's "your turn" now. You deserve it and that means yesterday.

I am willing to bet that, when you and  hundreds of thousands of your fellows are lined up waiting for "your" bed to open up, your thoughts are not going to be centered on how you could have avoided getting here. Or how you could have avoided assisting all these others in getting here with you. And I bet you also won't understand just why it is, with so many patients waiting and so few staffed beds available, that the people jumping to the head of the line aren't going to be those who chose to be here, but those who tried to do all they could to avoid getting here. Because that's where we're heading. Judgement calls are going to have to be made. Lines are going to have to be drawn. Rulings are already being made. That person in a terrible accident might be chosen ahead of you and you won't understand how we got to this place. That child who, for a little while yet, still isn't eligible  to be vaccinated and hasn't made the choice to be here as you have, might get pushed to the head of the line.

And you just won't understand it. This was your "Freedumb." But....

Bye bye.

A Difference Of Perspective

Afganistan's news has brought back a memory from a few months back. The prompting visual is of an Afganistan parent passing a baby over a wall at the Kabul airport to a Marine who accepted the child. No clue what happened after, and that's the triggering part.

The conversation in memory harkens back to our southern border, another news shot of a couple of young children being dropped over the wall onto American soil. The woman I was speaking to saw it as a horrible thing to do, proof of the lack of caring by the parent(s) of the children, proof that these were people whom we didn't want to have in our country.

After reflecting for a minute, not having formed an opinion yet, I came at it another way. Parents pretty universally do love their children and want what is best for them. I recognized how traumatizing the event could be for the children, being separated from family that way. But I suggested that the woman I was speaking with, while fully recognizing the tragedy of that act, try to imagine how awful their lives must be in order for that to seem like a good idea. Not knowing what's happening to your young children is terrible. What in their lives is so much worse that this is better? What would it take for her to resort to the same action?

A Game For The Grandkids

We had two granddaughters visit  us Sunday. At 5 and 7, they have abundant energy. Since we're into our 70s, that can become wearing. There are no toys here for kids, and adult conversations don't really appeal to them. While we had a great chat with their Mom (Daddy had to work), they needed something to keep them busy for a bit. There would be a bonfire and weenie roast shortly, but there was still time to kill.

With all the yard work I've been doing this summer, there are things still very much not getting done. At least one of those things is much better for short bodies stooping over than for mine. I came up with a plan. I could let them do a chore that - hopefully - would be fun for them, and they could have a chance to earn some spending money. I happened to have a whole bunch of quarters I'd saved for the laundromat when I still thought the basement steps would be too much for me. Turns out I can navigate the stairs down to Paul's washer and dryer, and the quarters have been untouched.

We also had a pair of plastic ice cream buckets with handles, just a perfect size for small arms and hands to fill and carry around. There is also an apple tree that has been dropping buggy apples all over since it hadn't gotten sprayed in time to prevent the infestation... for the last several years. In fact, the decision has been made to take the tree down since there is no interest in continuing to prune and spray as needed in order to get a harvestable crop.

I took the girls outside, gave each a bucket, pointed out the apples and the compost pile (our former fish pond) where they needed to be tossed or dumped. Find your fun however you like so long as they go in. For each bucket that is filled, with me as the decider on how full is full, and emptied into the old pond, I would pay $2.00.

Both girls were interested. The older one took great pride in filling her bucket quickly, over and over. She also had enough arithmetic skill to keep a correct count, both in buckets and dollars. The younger one had a few reservations about rotten apples, not to mention the occasional bug, but fortunately there were only a very few of each. She also had interesting ideas about how full her bucket needed to be to be declared full. Her big sister helped insist the level needed to be higher than halfway. Then higher than 3/4 way. Eventually I stepped in and "discovered" a subtly collected pile of apples to be picked up by the younger one, and big sister was happy enough with her own skill and ability to spot them to accept her sister getting an occasional assist.

By the time the job was over, older sister dumped 7 buckets and her sister 3. Good thing I'd counted my quarter collection the day before and checked for a few dollar bills as well! It lasted just as long as the apples did, plus 3 bills. Older sister thinks she wants to buy another doll in a particular brand that offers several to collect. Mom says their prices start within her new budget. Younger sister had no idea how to spend hers, but was happy with just having some money of her own to spend. Fortunately she was also hazy on how much more her sister earned than she had, just happy that she hadn't had to work as hard as big sister. Each got their proceeds in a ziploc bag which went to Mommy's purse for safekeeping until it was time to spend it.

Now the question is: with the tree coming down, what are we going to do next year? What have I started?

Oh, and as I passed the apple tree this morning on my way to finishing yard cleanup from last week's yard work, I noticed we'd had a wind yesterday. While there are still several bushels worth on the tree, the ground was again littered with windfall buggy apples. Guess they'll stay there. I'm out of quarters and no more grandkids are due who might like to pick them up. I might see if a certain 3-year-old great-grand kid wants to practice throwing them pondwards this weekend. Hmm? After she gets over being shy around us again, of course. I'm pretty sure she can't hit any windows.... Well, not hard anyway.

As Time Rushes Crawling

Time has been a bit weird this week. Or maybe this week has just been weird for some time. It's easy to get confused. Take the rain. Last weekend we had three days of it, totaling a good 5 inches. Be patient - it will make sense shortly. Two miles west along the highway there is a large field with a pond next to the road. It used to house bison, but people died, new generations wanted different things, and the bison got sold. The farm will be sold shortly as well. But the bison were our markers. It was where we were in relation to home. What they were doing, where in the field they were, how many light brown babies there were, all marked time. The pond in particular was a reliable calendar. It froze and thawed with the seasons, filled in the spring, held ducks, geese, the occasional heron or egret. The bison waded in to drink, to cool down in the heat of summer. Late in the summer most years, but earlier now with the drought, it would start drying up. Birds would leave. Bison would cluster around a water tank near the buildings. When it rained last weekend I watched for the pond to fill back up. Just even a teeny bit. The other rains we'd gotten were light enough to have no effect. But surely 5 inches...?

When I drove to the dealership Thursday to get my car fixed, I passed the pond. Still dry. On the way to pick it up yesterday, once Paul was home from work and gave me a lift, it was filled brim to brim. No mud, just green plants touched by the water. It had taken that long, exactly, for the rain to soak in and slowly flow down to fill the pond. Exactly. Very slow, until it actually happened overnight. But this time, there were no bison meandering down for a drink. No birds have come back, perhaps discouraged by too long without water to keep alive whatever they were feeding on there. Nothing to mark the time passing as in years past. By the time autumn brushes the field with gold I'll be long since south, in a place where the rare green is always green, having learned to survive without browning because it's always dry and plants still need their chlorophyll, so they guard it closely, never letting it drop so it has to be renewed.

By the way, the car is fixed and the bank account is a mere $453 and change lighter. The problem was exactly where I said it was, working exactly as I imagined, but the mechanism was a switch rather than a loose connection. It took an extra day to locate one in the metro area. I'm supposed to be impressed by the fact one was available, when I'm actually negatively impressed by their parts department not having one on hand and fixing it right away.

Do you recall I mentioned that I've "graduated" to working 2 hours in the yard? I went out a bit late this morning. Cooler air has come down for a brief visit, and it came without smoke or humidity. Last night I could see many of the stars again, and the dog had to go out early enough this morning that I could see the Milky Way in the sky. It's just a hint, still, a patch of light stripe. Nothing like what I saw in Arches, an official Dark Skies area. Still, it was the first time I've seen it, aside from Arches, in many years, a piece of my childhood when I grew up in rural northern Minnesota when winter night skies were dark enough both early and late enough that seeing it was possible on any cloudless cold night.

Anyway, because I was out so early with the dog, I took a nap after we came inside. It was 9:00 before I got dressed for the yard, often my heading back in time on those hot mornings. Today was cleaning up the mess I've made for the last couple weeks in the front yard. The southern side has a border of lilacs part way along, with wild roses filling in to the east from a single plant given to me by a neighbor 30 years ago, and way overgrown honeysuckle bushes to the west until they reach the back yard fence. The lilacs got a chainsaw haircut to a height of 6 feet just after we got here, and the honeysuckle is scheduled for the same in the fall. In the shade they provide, there is a very healthy border of green hostas, a smattering of daylilies so shaded they no longer bloom and barely survive. Spring's lack of foliage still allows sunshine for crocus, scillas and daffodils to bloom and store enough energy to give it a go again the following year. But everything had gotten so overgrown and untended that it's taken me two weeks to clear out everything unwanted. That list includes all the usual suspects for this yard except thistles (too shady), a whole lot of dead wood and a thick cover of rotting sugar maple leaves. That tree has thrived there. It's the only thing that doesn't need attention, and it doesn't get any, even tapping in spring.

The roses were so overgrown that the new growth is too spindly to support itself once the weeds were removed. With major clearing and cutting back, I'm sure they will start thriving again. The cutting back revealed the heretofore successfully hidden utility boxes on the property line. All our power is buried, so this is the only access. It's a great way to prevent ice from bringing down the wires. And roses are a greatly thorny barrier to prevent any needed maintenance. The boxes couldn't be seen until the pruners did major damage to the old growth. We had gotten here just in time to see the huge mound of fragrant pink blooms this spring. You'd think they'd be full of rose hips by now, but either neglect or the drought left them without the resources this year. Proof that previous years had been kinder shows in the young plants sprouting out in the grass two to three feet away from their assigned growing spot, vulnerable to the mower... in the unlikely event that happens. Sunlight now invades the area  for the first half of the day, so I have hope for new, healthier growth. Perhaps even a willingness for any needed utility maintenance personnel to actually approach those boxes again -  without swearing!

The sugar maple shades the yard where I've been working these two weeks. Today was lovely, and I had a really big job to tackle. No illusions about finishing it. I felt sure that a mess that took two weeks to make would take quite a few days to clear. There's no chemicals to apply, no sorting between types of foliage to decided keep or kill. But there's lots of cutting of branches, stripping leaves off to go into the compost, small twigs up to 2" trunks to separate,  section, and relocate depending on size and anticipated use, and trips with full wheelbarrow and overflowing tote into the back yard, the whole area to be topped off by a good raking for the pride of claiming a job finished. For this year.

We have baby pine/spruce/something? trees growing in the lawn in the space currently covered by all the detritus removed these two weeks. The needles are short so I've no confidence in identifying them. They get mowed rather than dug out, so each one little trunk multiplies into many and they grow out sideways. The rain has helped in loosening the ground enough that a well gloved hand - sometimes two - can pull them out along with an 8" tap root, occasionally a fist sized root ball of dirt as well. They are jarring to see in a mix of grass and  broad leaved plants. The brain registers a wrongness before the eye can actually see it, so the job stops as I scan around to work out just what and where I saw something. I have to take careful note and go straight to pluck it, then scan again for the others because they are always in groups, never just one. I move my chair and two turn out to have been under it unnoticed when I first moved the chair to that spot. Or three. Four. Five. I'll go away a few feet and return to find ones I've missed. 

What's really emotionally jarring is no matter how many I've picked, there is never that resin scent of pine, or spruce, that hint of Christmas that even though it fades too quickly is still trumpeting the holiday season when the holiday greenery is first brought in. But still, they have to be. There is nothing I know of that looks and feels like these that isn't some kind of conifer. Those blueish green things are needles. They just don't smell right. I do realize that reminders of December in August could be just another way of messing with time, but the absence is still wrong.

The lovely weather, the size of the task, and the variety of all that needed doing, combined to keep me going past my usual time. I'd start to feel a bit tired, a muscle would protest. I didn't overheat, sweat into my bandana, get thirsty. When a blister started in the thumb of my pruning hand, I shifted tactics to use it less and still make progress. Eventually I just decided I'd done enough for the day. I didn't need to push myself to make that blister pop. The big piles I started with could be consolidated with making what was left into a single one. Tomorrow should see the job done if I could just get Paul to used his guy-muscles for cutting the last few of the extra large branches into firewood lengths so I could sort and trim and relocate. 

But as I started walking toward the house, I decided I really was kinda tired. Maybe I'd ask him to dump out the wheelbarrow and tote, relocating stuff where it needs to be in the back yard for me so I could get a good start on tomorrow's job without having to spend time on that bit too. Closer to the door that sounded like an even better idea, while I put the tools away for the day. Entering the house I had to get closer to the clock to see just what time it was: did I really work until 12:10?  That would explain why I had no energy left. Not to mention the blister. Wait! Wrong hands. It's 2:00? Seriously, I was out there for five whole hours? Holy crap!

OK, I'm officially sitting down for the rest of the day, asking Paul for all that help I was thinking of, and after a bathroom break, going to finish the bag of gorp next to my chair rather than even microwaving anything for lunch! Holy Crap!!!!

Maybe I can talk somebody into bring me some ibuprofin for that arm that's starting to complain big time too.

Unsettled

I have a plan. Actually, I have several. I don't know which to use. If any. I need more information and I have to wait for it. The rest of the world is still waking up. So I have to wait. 

One of the pieces of information I need is whether or not it will actually rain here this morning. Because the next yard task involves chemicals, I need to wait to find out. It's tough enough spending a couple hours plus out there every morning - since I've "graduated" to working that long - without needing to repeat it again when stuff has grown back with multi trunks because the stumps still live. The latest forecast is maybe 9:30 for knowing if it will rain or not. By then I pretty much need to be recovering from the job and cleaning up for taking the car in and dropping off videos along the way. So I can't head outside to work off this nervous energy that way.

Sometimes blogging helps, if for nothing else but ordering my thoughts so they make more sense. To me, anyway, as I try to have it make sense to you. There are decisions to be made. Possible actions to be taken. Not that it's my problem, exactly, but I'm trying to figure out whether I can help, or even if I should get involved.

We left one of my sons in Arizona when we came north for the summer. He had/has limited access to the house, and certain responsibilities in exchange for my making the monthly payments on a court ordered fine. He helps me, I help him. He doesn't have access to the whole house for several reasons. First - though not necessarily in order of importance - last summer is the only summer I ever want to be stuck with a $300 / month AC bill. Next, because he's not 55 yet, he's not allowed to stay while we aren't there due to the HOA covenants about it being a senior community. Finally, we don't trust the people he tries to be kind to out on the streets. He has a good heart, but two of them had untreated mental illness issues, and one of those had to be removed by the police after she turned and attacked him. This happened after we left, but we're now extra glad the point was enforced with deadbolts not reachable with keys beforehand. (No puns intended.)

He can be on the property, store his possessions, use the laundry, keep food in his own little refrigerator, cook in a microwave. He cannot stay the night. I'm pretty sure he's not coping well. He keeps a lot from us, like taking three weeks to inform us that the woman he had thrown out after inviting her to use the laundry (already a violation of our rules) had broken his hand by hitting it with his rock hammer. He also took his time to let us know his bicycles had been stolen out of the yard so he no longer had transportation.

His latest issue is more worrisome, and true to form it's been coming in slowly by increasing dribs and drabs. At first he was totally incommunicado. Then he mentioned a spider bite on his neck. No information about what kind of spider, or where he encountered it, or how he even knew it was a spider and not some other venomous desert bug on the back of his neck just under the skull. He did mention he'd been a bit out of it in the week since it happened. 

In this morning's email I see he sent pictures. One is of the red spot on his neck. Three others are of a finger, badly swollen at a joint and with yellow/grayish discolored skin. Another spider bite, he says, without elaboration. He want's to show us because he's on his way to the ER. He doesn't know if they'll remove it. He tries to be flip with something about never giving the finger to a spider because he'll take it. I double check the time stamp and it's last night, after I went to bed. No further updates. 

Without a bicycle he must have walked to the hospital, about a mile and a half. That alone is troublesome because he's saying other stuff about postponing necessary things until he can be made to find them important again. Not only does that speak to his safety along the way, but I'd been trying to reach him about his court matters.

I pay those monthly fees by calling into the court and putting it on my credit card, something he doesn't have. So he pays me, or like now swaps work for it and I make the call. With covid, court doesn't want to actually see anybody. Do it online. Do it over the phone. And periodically, contact the judge for a status update. The people taking the fine payments won't accept one if the judge hasn't been contacted in a timely manner. They put out a warrant for him instead. So I now know that somewhere in his non-rational state post spider bite #1, he missed that latest phone appointment with the judge, because I was so informed when they refused yesterday's payment. That's what he can't feel is inportant right now.

I kinda have a hunch that the court won't agree with that assessment. So somewhere in all my running around today I need to call the hospital, find out has he been admitted, can I get information on his state of health, and how then can/should I relay that information to the court? I envision both/either they come and pick him up, possibly interrupting treatment, or temporarily "forgiving" the missed call and let me pay the fine. OK, yes, great imagination, Heather.

While writing this, I heard rain pattering on the window behind me. At least one question is answered for the day. All else, including my gut, literally,  remains... unsettled.

Southbound Oriented

There comes a moment where one is no longer on vacation but gearing up to return home. I've just passed that.

The yard work is wrapping up. Never confuse that with being done. Ain't gonna happen. But the to-do-before list hovers over my head. Rain had prevented my getting rid of weeds and weed trees for a bit, but there have been other projects. Yesterday was perfect for clearing off the front of the driveway, as in the part next to the house. For the last couple of years a collection of tools, the garbage/recycle bins, and a ladder have contributed to an accumulation of stray sticks which never quite made it to the back yard, as well as a wind trap for leaves and tree seeds to accumulate. Two wheelbarrow loads went back after what is already compost got shoveled up from the concrete. A ladder still sits nearby but Paul let me know - upon my request - where in the back yard it needs to go.

For some reason the frustration of not being able to do my primary job leaves me itching to get other postponed tasks finished. So the entryway got (significantly) cleared. Well, all Steve's fishing stuff is back in side the house anyway, where it actually belongs, but the chainsaw is still there. I wrangled Paul into relocating the scooter into that entryway space, ready for Steve's excursions to the local store, and later moving him around inside airports on his trip home. There was some fuss with the battery, but charging the new batteries seems to have settled that. A key had to be located after three years of the scooter just sitting around in our bedroom now that it was to be used again. The key - of course! - was under the TV in the living room. So are about 5 other sets of keys that somebody, some other time, will need to figure out a use for. Meanwhile the bedroom has more space in it. Good news is I can reach the window easily for fresh air. Bad news is I lost my "clothes tree."

That frustration didn't stop there in pushing me to do stuff. Stray items are getting organized again. Dog necessities are again divided into for-the-trip-to-be-packed, and for-the-trip-for-use. Clothes, meds, food and electronics are mentally organized, and starting to be physically organized. Without Steve in the front seat, the car has room for a couple pieces of furniture to head down. Of course they have hollow spaces, so they will be first fitted into the car to see where they best will travel, then brought back in to be loaded up with spare clothes, souvenirs, etc. The brain is busy even when the body isn't. I'm getting back to not falling asleep as I mentally work on figuring it all out.

The video library has now been cleared off the shelves on one wall in the 3rd bedroom, aka den. Old copied-from-the-TV tapes have been relegated to our thankfully very large garbage can. Kids videos, mostly Disney, are in a fairly large box waiting for my granddaughter's visit in a couple weeks to take with her for her kids. (I asked first.) These also include a couple of videos from her dance class when she was little, as well as videos of her when she was little that I took. No comments on the lack of decent editing, please. A few other home videos, labeled for the trip they were taken on, like "Yellowstone", will be kept in order to see what can be done with them for long term storage - provided anything is left worth saving.

That leaves all the to-be-donated videos. I was slightly shocked a few years ago to find out that it's hard to get rid of them, even for free. A little research revealed that Family Pathways will still accept them. Thursday they will be dropped off on my way to get the car fixed - without turning said car off because the starting function is no longer trustworthy. Yesterday the final sort happened on the videos. There are now 3 boxes of them in the back of the car. There are also 8 bags full in the hatch. All in all, there are close to 200 heading out for somebody else to enjoy. It's a fairly eclectic bunch. Sets include Star Trek videos, civil war, John Wayne, fishing how-tos, and the full boxed Black Adder. (I would have given those to my daughter who introduced me to that particular brand of British humor, but she long ago got her own - on DVDs.) In addition there are all sorts of generally family friendly movies, both modern at the time and old classics, along with all kinds of musicals. I finally even parted with a belly dancing video. Heck, I still remember all the moves, even still have some of the flexibility I gained decades ago.

Sighhh....

I mentioned my car starter, didn't I? Pretty sure it's not the starter. Not exactly. Not the tranny either, exactly, though it happens in the interface between the two. As an automatic, my car needs to be in park to start. Sometimes, and now with increasing frequency, I have to pull the knob back out of park and put it in again before it will start. To me that screams loose connection. Maybe a dust buildup from it sitting through a few too many haboobs - dust storms for you who haven't heard that term before. I'm hoping for a quick, cheap fix. Early this year I ran into another loose connection, one in the front left turn light. Richard fixed that, after I'd replaced the bulb during an oil change. The new bulb worked fine in the shop, something which lasted until two miles down the freeway when I had to use it again. He looked at where the bulb was hooked up and found two loose wires sitting an inch apart and simply twisted them together. No problem since. I expect tomorrow a bill of at least $150 just for as simple a fix. I just don't trust the dealership to give me as simple a fix. But whatever it is, it must be done before that 1800 mile drive.

But this morning's thunderstorm has blown over, and it's about time to get dressed for more yard work. It won't be as wet as it sounds, since most isolated storms or simple rain clouds, from whatever direction, manage to part and go around Shafer. It's amazing that we got 5" of rain over the last several days. I can already see weeds sprouting from those places I cleared without adding the weed/brush killer. Dang!

My Great Sock Puppet Lake

The lake is called Superior for a reason. It's huge, it's awesome, it's frequently scary and occasionally deadly. For me, however, all that vanishes the second I look at a map of it. It makes me giggle. What I see is a raggedy-ass sock puppet.

Start with Duluth/Suprior, in the lower left of the map. Or Southwest, if you insist. That's the nose. The long head rises up to where Isle Royale forms a slanted eye. If you follow the southern shore, the first bit of land jutting north into the lake, forming a mouth, is where Bayfield and the Apostle Islands lay. I can't help imagining the islands as food bits in the mouth, ready to pour out since my puppet is chewing with its mouth open, and of course facing down.

The next bit of land jutting up north into the lake/puppet ends at Copper Harbor. This is the neck, and everything behind it, aka to the east, is a raggedy sock, loose and raveled, likely why it was donated for this silly use in the first place. Why turn a good sock into a puppet, after all?

Still can't see it? Take your right hand, thumb towards you. Bend it down at the wrist, fingers together but thumb spread. Imagine a sock fitted over the hand at that angle, the toe stuffed back up into that gap between fingers and thumb making the mouth of the puppet. Unlike the lake, when your thumb moves separately from your fingers, it's a mouth talking. It's how sock puppets work. Add a long eye, and voila! You now have a "Superior" sock puppet.

If you're like me, once you see it, you can never unsee the puppet. But shhhhh! It'll be our little secret.

One Thing Leads To Another

Once I finished posting yesterday, true to form - and your expectations, no doubt - I headed back outside, camera in hand. There were still raindrops hanging under the cranberries and covering many of the garden blossoms. And yes, I carried the dog out to the middle of the yard and set her down to finally do her thing. Since we were near the grape arbor, I decided to shoot that first, and made a discovery. The bronzing leaves were being attacked by Japanese beetles, turning each into dying lace almost matching their own colors. Single leaves had half a dozen of the beautiful pests on them, others one or two. I had seen one here and there throughout the yard this summer, but never anything like this. Seems it's mating season.

Once done in the yard, I had another errand to run, and just because, took the camera along. I needed to cut some cattails, both for myself and for a couple other people. One good thing about cutting cattails in a drought year, you can easily find dry spots to walk into the middle of a roadside patch, not risking muddy shoes. While they are visible all along highways out here, I refuse to stop along anything but low traffic country roads. The drivers along Highway 8 are insane! Plus, the shoulders are narrow. I found myself a good spot a few miles out of the next town over, and clippers in hand, waded in. As I emerged with two handfuls for the car, I noted around the edges of the marsh that the cattails are already starting to fuzz out. Not just this marsh either. I had certainly put this off till the last minute!

Taking a few different roads back home, I started noting what was blooming now along the roadsides, how colors and species were changing from my last outing, the morning of the fog. Field corn was fully tassled, goldenrod shouted for attention from the ditches. Though early August, fall was definitely arriving. I started getting acutely nostalgic. I miss Minnesota autumns. The Sonoran Desert doesn't have them. There is something special about the smell of the vegetation after the first hard frost that I miss, even better than a fresh cut hayfield or mown lawn, though they all signal dying vegetation. That late fall air signals an end to mosquitoes, changing colors in a palette that varies by the day, the return of lower humidity and bluer skies, and of course the beginning of the next school year. Every year I'd mark my birthday with the arrival of blue asters and red sumac. With all that hitting me, I changed purpose from heading home to driving around looking for more roadside things to shoot. 

Last night's storm had cleared the air somewhat, leaving clouds in blue-ish skies, and there was finally a reason to head out to Crex for that last trip I'd promised  myself. After a quick run to Walmart with Steve for milk and prescriptions, I headed north.

Do you know what the first red sumac leaves along a busy highway, a turtle, a doe, a large flying hawk, a sandhill crane in the road, five turkeys on a fallen tree along the highway, and hundreds of butterflies have in common? I saw every one of them and never got a shot. On the other hand, there were familiar landmarks with different colors and vegatation, new water levels giving different reflections, and a plethora of roadside flowers attracting those butterflies. A family of trumpeter swans obligingly swam within camera range, and even periodically managed to emerge from between the tall grasses in the foreground  which seemed to always block their heads by the time the camera was ready.  A fellow photographer pulled up behind me for the trumpeters, prompting a conversation based from his view of my license plate on the unlikely coincidence of two people from the Phoenix area (Scottsdale vs. Sun City) now back in Minnesota for the summer, and out in Wisconsin at the same time enjoying Crex. He actually knew where "good old Shafer" was, and I knew his Hopkins high school had two athletes in the Olympics right now. I did see his car later, emerging from the parking area I was entering near an osprey nest with one youngster still patiently waiting for its parents to bring its next meal.

What I thought was a distant sandhill crane in grey form turned out, upon enlargement of the shot back home, to be a blue heron. A different, actual sandhill, strode across the road as I made a turn before disappearing into the tall grasses on the other side. My now very buggy windshield prevented a shot straight on, and the grasses hid most of it from view through the open window, but it was there.

Besides all those butterflies I didn't shoot, one obligingly visited a large swath of purple liatris stalks right where I could park and roll down the driver side window for a series of shots. This one was a dark swallowtail with yellowish-tan spots, the mirror opposite of the tiger swallowtail visiting my tiger lilies a few days earlier, just a short visit, no time to get a camera so just enjoy. The butterfly I did shoot was much the worse for wear, missing one wing "tail," likely damage from the storm or similar buffeting since traffic in Crex is slow.

On my way out, I noticed two cars stopped along the road, one fellow out with his camera pointed down at the edge of the road. This was a monster camera, what looked to be an 18' long barrel lens with a saucer-wide end. I figure ten pounds? What would he be finding standing in place long enough to make all that work worth while? And the other car to stop and watch? I paused a bit as I passed, partly to avoid bothering whatever he was shooting, but mostly to figure out what the fuss was about. It was an orange butterfly, smaller than a monarch and fairly plain.

I had to chuckle as I drove on. Not only did I have a bunch of butterfly shots of my own, with my little lightweight camera, never having to get out of the car, but I'd just spent five minutes about a quarter mile  away around another bend, shooting the same dead tree snag I'd shot earlier in the day from the opposite side just because of its unusual form, but this time, from about 20 feet away, I got seven shots of the bald eagle sitting on the top of it!

By the way, his head feathers looked like he'd had a bit of a rough go in the previous evening's storm as well.