Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.
Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.
SPLAT!! SPLAT!!
Hop! Hop! Hop!
Wipe. Wipe.
Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.
Step. Step. Step. Step. Step.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
The Numerous Benefits of Chasing Wild Rabbits
(Chapter 2 from the book "The Chicken Who Didn't Know Where to Lay Her Eggs")
The relationship between Shellie and Dingo, the rat terrier, had started out cautiously.
When Shellie first made her appearance, Dingo's curiosity made him want to get as close to the little chick as possible, but Paula did all she could to prevent him from doing so.
When Shellie had hatched, Dingo was already a year old. He was fully grown and his rat terrier personality had already become highly pronounced. He was full of energy and aggressive, if not particularly brave.
He had complete run of the house, the farm yard, and the farm. Paula had installed a dog door for him in the back door that led into the kitchen so that he could go in and out whenever he wanted. He had developed a daily routine by then. He got up early in the morning with Mike and Paula, made his rounds in the yard, came back in for breakfast, slept a while, went on a few trips in the SUV with Paula during the day, ate supper, made his nightly rounds soon after dark, and came back in to sleep on his blanket in the pantry for the night. Sometimes, he even went out in the middle of the night to make another round in the yard. He felt it was his duty as a top dog to keep watch over the house and yard at all times.
Dingo could also be quite a vain dog. He enjoyed lying in front of any mirror he could find and looking at himself. To make him as happy as possible, Paula had eventually placed a door-sized mirror beside his bed in the pantry so that he could look at himself whenever he wanted. Before he went to sleep at night, he would strut back and forth in front of the mirror while looking at himself. He practised the most threatening-looking walk he could muster. Mike said Dingo was the only dog he knew who spent more time in front of a mirror than a woman.
Like most young rat terriers, Dingo was rambunctious and had his nose in everything. He enjoyed barking at, chasing, and – if possible – catching everything he saw.
And he loved to dig. He dug holes under the house, in the yard, in the field behind the house and everywhere else he went. He particularly loved digging when there was a rabbit or mole or mouse underground. To him, that was one of his main jobs in life, and he did it as well as he possibly could.
Paula didn't try to stop him. She figured that if she was going to have a rat terrier, she was going to let him be a rat terrier. She let him bark, dig and chase almost as much as he wanted. The only thing she wouldn't let him do was bark at and chase the chickens and other farm animals. That particularly included Shellie.
Dingo certainly wanted to, but he had learned early on that the consequences weren't worth it. He knew that if he got caught, Paula would put him in the kennel for several days. She would then take him out for a walk only three or four times a day. The worst part was that when she took him out for a walk, she made him walk on a leash.
Dingo hated walking on a leash. He felt completely robbed of his dignity. As he was fully aware, no respectable country dog – and particular no respectable rat terrier – walks on a leash. It was the harshest of insults to his rat terrier pride. To him, maintaining an image of toughness was 90% of being an effective rat terrier. Just one day of walking on a leash could immediately erase months of hard-earned respect that had come from working on and polishing his image.
So when Shellie hatched, Dingo knew better than to try to catch her. He had already spent too much time in the kennel and on the end of the leash. He didn't want to risk that again.
At times, though, the thought crossed his mind. But Paula would always see the look on his face and say, "Dingo, don't even think about it."
When Paula put the freshly hatched Shellie in a box on the kitchen counter, Dingo could hear her chirping. Never before had Paula kept a little chirping creature like that in the kitchen. Until this new addition had come along, all the chickens and ducks and their babies had stayed in the farm yard.
Dingo found the situation stressful. He had never had to truly share Paula's attention with any other animal while he was in the house. Until then, he was her main companion, if you didn't count Mike and the cat who showed up occasionally. She took him fishing with her and let him sit on her lap while she was driving the SUV. While he was sitting on her lap, Paula would often sniff his left ear. When she had first done that, he had jerked his head away. But after she kept doing it again and again, he eventually just started putting his ear up to her nose every time he sat on her lap while in the SUV. It had somehow turned from an irritating and strange thing to do to a very comforting one over time. And it in no way impaired his image.
The only other creature that offered the least bit of competition was the cat, but her competition wasn't serious. She sometimes came inside the house, but she didn't stay long. Sometimes she even disappeared for months at a time. Her attitude seemed to be that she had better things to do than sit around with a dog and humans. She only showed up when she wanted something, which was usually Dingo's food.
But there was nothing Dingo could do about this new competition. Paula kept the box high up on the counter out of Dingo's jumping range. Even when he sprang as high as he could, he couldn't reach her.
The chick chirped constantly. The noise annoyed Dingo, particularly since he couldn't get a good look at what was making it. Where he normally lay on his blanket in the pantry, he could hear the chirping all day long.
When Dingo was tired and wanted to go to sleep, he would often stick his head as far in the corner of the pantry as he could to get away from the chirping. He couldn't even see himself in the mirror from there. Sometimes, he went so far as to put his paws over his ears. But none of that seemed to help much. The chick kept chirping. It was as if she were screaming, "What happened? Where is everybody? Why have you left me here alone in this box?"
Finally, after nearly three days of constant chirping, the chick gradually became quieter. Paula took her out of her box several times a day and talked to her. The chick really seemed to like that. As long as Paula talked, the chick remained quiet.
Dingo would stare at the little chick sitting on Paula's lap. He would sit at a safe distance away. He wondered if Paula would start sniffing the chick's ear the way she had done his.
Paula wouldn't let him get anywhere near the chick. All she had to do was raise her eyebrows at him and he would back away.
When the chick was almost a week old, Paula finally introduced her to Dingo. Paula held the chick in one hand and placed her other hand firmly on the back of Dingo's neck. She cautiously moved her hand with the chick to about three inches in front of Dingo's nose.
"Dingo, this is Shellie," Paula said, as if she were introducing a church visitor to the preacher. "Shellie, this is Dingo."
Paula held them both there for a few moments until Dingo relaxed a little. Then she said, "Come on, Dingo. Let's take Shellie for a walk."
Once outside with Dingo and Shellie, Paula carefully placed Shellie on the ground.
She turned to Dingo and said, "Dingo, you can walk with us, but you can't get too close, not yet at least. You have to stay at least five feet away."
Paula slowly started walking. Shellie stayed right at her heels.
Dingo followed at a distance. Every time he got closer than five feet, Paula would stop and say, "Dingo...."
She would point her finger to a spot at least five feet away and say, "That's as close as you can get. For now at least."
Dingo would move back away from Shellie.
He found all this highly frustrating. He was normally the one who was allowed to walk right at Paula's heels. For some explained reason, this tiny little furry-feathery creature had now taken his place.
Dingo's curiosity was also driving him crazy. He wanted to get a close-up look at this new creature. He wanted to go right up to her and sniff her all over. He didn't understand where this little creature had come from and why she had suddenly become the center of attention for Paula. He felt less important than before. But there didn't seem to be a lot he could do about it.
As time went on and Shellie grew bigger, Dingo began to get used to her. He soon realized that she wasn't so bad after all. Each day, she chirped less than the day before. She didn't try to steal his food or take over his bed like the cat did. She didn't seem to have a spiteful bone in her body, and she didn't act jealous when Paula petted, talked to or took walks with him. At any rate, he found her better than the cat.
Paula even began letting Dingo get nearer Shellie when all three of them went for a walk. After a few weeks, Dingo and Shellie even started walking side-by-side. It just seemed to be the logical thing to do. The two of them together could spot a fox creeping up on them far better than only one of them alone could.
When Shellie was about six months old, Dingo even learned to appreciate her.
That day had started out ordinarily enough. It was a typical June 2.
Shellie, Dingo and Paula were in the kitchen. Paula had just finished washing the lunch dishes. She had a slightly sad look on her face. She had moved very slowly while washing the dishes, something she usually did quickly and cheerfully. She dried off the dishes unenthusiastically and put them way. When she was finished, she walked over to one of the kitchen cabinets and took an old photo album down from the top shelf.
It was the first time Shellie had ever seen the album.
Paula sat down and began looking through the photos. Sometimes she would touch one, as if she wanted to have contact with the person there. At times, she smiled. At times, she got a very sad look on her face. Finally, she sighed deeply, closed the album, got up and put it away.
It was near 1:30 in the afternoon.
Paula turned on the TV to check the weather report. The weatherman promised clear skies for the rest of the day. He said the temperature would stay in the low 90s for most of the afternoon, and then a gentle wind with slight cooling would start in late afternoon or early evening.
Paula said to Shellie and Dingo, "Looks like this evening will be perfect for a little fishing trip. Let's go dig some worms."
Shellie and Dingo immediately jumped up. They both enjoyed going with Paula to dig worms, although for different reasons.
Paula got her worm can and the claw-shaped worm-digging tool out of the garage. The three of them walked to the worm bed in the back yard. The worm bed was actually an old refrigerator with the door removed that Paula had placed on its back and filled with rich soil. It was a small point of contention between Mike and his wife. Mike repeatedly told her that the old refrigerator made the back yard looked junky, as if they were poor. Paula told him that she would be glad to let him build her a fancy, high-tech, state-of-the-art, non-junky-looking worm bed. All he had to do was take the time. But he never got around to it. So the old refrigerator stayed.
The refrigerator was a place of great interest both to Shellie and Dingo. Shellie liked it because Paula occasionally threw her an earthworm as she dug. Shellie knew she could count on getting about one out of every 20 worms Paula dug up. Since Paula regularly sprinkled chicken pellets in the worm bed, all the worms were very well-fed and plump. Shellie found them much juicier and tastier than the other earthworms she found in the yard. Those were usually skinny, tough and stringy, plus they had a slightly bitter taste. The earthworms from the old refrigerator were sweet, spongy, moist and creamy, like elongated Little Debbie Cakes for chickens.
Dingo, of course, wasn't interested in the worms. The old refrigerator fascinated him for another reason: It attracted lots of mice and rabbits. They liked to lie in the cool soft ground underneath and drink from the pan of water Paula kept there just for them.
As Paula dug for worms, Shellie stood beside her waiting for her to throw her one. Dingo stayed busy sniffing the ground near the old refrigerator.
Suddenly, Dingo let out a loud yip. He took off running toward the field.
Paula looked up and said to Shellie, "Looks like Dingo's found a rabbit. I reckon he'll be busy the rest of the afternoon. Hope he has enough energy to go fishing this evening."
Paula and Shellie watched Dingo chase the rabbit out into the field. The rabbit knew exactly where he was going. He quickly disappeared in a hole along the edge of the field.
Dingo followed him right to the hole.
The hole was the perfect size for the rabbit, but Dingo could do no more than stick his head part of the way in. Dingo sniffed and yipped, sniffed and yipped. He could smell the rabbit.
Paula said to Shellie, "That rabbit's just sitting there underground laughing his head off at Dingo."
Dingo started digging furiously. He dug for a few moments, stuck his snout in the hole and sniffed for the rabbit, and then dug some more. He dug so furiously that he created small puffs of dust around him.
"He'll never get him," Paula said to Shellie. "That rabbit's too smart."
Paula dug a few more worms, gave Shellie one last one, and said, "OK. That's enough. I'll give you some more once we get to the Dark Pond."
Paula and Shellie headed back to the house. Dingo kept digging.
Back at the house, Paula put the worms in a cool place under the garage. She and Shellie went back in the house.
Paula turned on the TV. She clicked the remote control until she found the baseball game she wanted to watch. She and Shellie settled down together in the easy chair. Paula gave Shellie a kernel of corn even though no one had hit a home run yet. She told Shellie it was a special day.
A couple of hours later, Paula and Shellie heard the dog door in the kitchen make its flapping sound. Dingo had finally came home.
They heard Dingo drink at least half a bowl of water. Then he headed their way in the living room. His toenails clicked on the linoleum as he sluggishly walked across the floor. They could tell just from the dragging sound of his gait that he was worn out.
Dingo came into the room and looked up at Paula and Shellie.
As Paula had expected, Dingo hadn't caught the rabbit. If he had, he would have brought it home with him to show it off. But she knew that he wasn't disappointed. She knew that he, like most males, found the chase more enjoyable than the catch.
Dingo's eyes were bright and shining with excitement. He was also quite a sight to see. He was covered with so much dust and dirt that his hair, which was normally white, was reddish brown all over.
"Dingo, you're too dirty to come in here. You have to stay in the kitchen," Paula told him.
Dingo obeyed. He had been through this numerous times before. He knew that the only way he could come in the living room was first to get a bath, and that was one thing he disliked almost as much as being placed in the kennel and walked on a leash.
By this time, Shellie was getting a little bored with the baseball game. Not one home run had been hit today, and the corn bowl was just as full as when the game had started. She decided to go into the kitchen with Dingo. Even though Dingo wasn't a chicken, Shellie found him to be a good companion. He was always good for a surprise.
Dingo was as tired as he could be. All the digging and chasing under the hot sun had left him fully exhausted. He went straight to his blanket, lay down facing the mirror, stretched his head out in front of him and got ready to take a nap.
Then it started. When Dingo was just about to fall asleep, a crawling and biting feeling started on his skin. Dingo sat up and start scratching.
As soon as Dingo scratched, the crawling and biting stopped. He lay back down and started to doze off again.
Then the crawling and biting started again. Dingo sat up and scratched.
Shellie watched Dingo from her counter perch. His restlessness made her a little agitated, but also very curious. She noticed that Dingo wasn't his usual self. He rarely had any trouble falling asleep. Normally, he merely had to lie down, stretch his head out in front of him on his blanket, take a look at himself in the mirror, close his eyes, and he was immediately asleep.
Shellie's curiosity finally got the better of her. When Dingo began another spell of scratching, she hopped down from the counter and walked slowly toward him. She didn't want to disturb him any more than he already was. Even though she had come to trust Dingo, she never let herself forget that he was a dog and she was a chicken. She understood that he had teeth and she didn't.
Dingo stopped scratching and stretched out again. He let out a deep breath like he always did right before he fell asleep. Shellie crept nearer and peered at him. Then she saw his back twitch a little. She looked at the spot that had twitched.
She saw a small black creature crawl out of his fur. Shellie had never seen such a creature before, but she instinctively knew what to do. She opened her beak and in one fast snap, snatched the tiny creature and swallowed it. Shellie had just eaten her first flea.
When Shellie's sharp beak struck Dingo's back, he gave a slight jump and looked up. When he saw that it was only Shellie, he closed his eyes again. He was simply too tired to do anything else. He figured Shellie would go away soon.
Shellie stayed where she was. She had to admit that one flea wasn't very filling, but it had certainly tasted good, with almost the texture and feel of a sesame seed, if not exactly the same Chinese-food flavor. And it had been fun to catch.
She watched Dingo. This time, his back leg twitched. Shellie looked closely. She could see another flea crawling.
She got as close as she could and quickly took another peck. She could feel the flea on her tongue and swallowed him. Unlike the juicy and creamy worms from the worm bed, the flea was firm and dry. The only difference was the tickling sensations its crawling legs caused on her tongue.
Dingo opened his eyes again. He gave Shellie another tired look. He wasn't sure why she was pecking him, but he had to admit that it seemed to make the itching stop. He put his head back down, closed his eyes, and dozed off.
Shellie watched for another twitch. This time it was on Dingo's right ear.
She spotted the flea and nabbed him. Dingo didn't even open his eyes this time. Instead, he wagged his tail once and let out a deep breath.
During the next half hour, Shellie caught at least 90 fleas. Then Dingo's fur finally stopped twitching. He fell into a deep sleep.
Shellie walked over to her water bowl. She drank several mouthfuls. Fleas, she realized, weren't very filling even in large quantities, but they certainly made her thirsty. She hopped back up on her counter perch and started drifting off to sleep herself.
In the living room, she heard Paula let out a joyful, "Go! Go! Go!"
Her favorite team had just hit a home run.
The relationship between Shellie and Dingo, the rat terrier, had started out cautiously.
When Shellie first made her appearance, Dingo's curiosity made him want to get as close to the little chick as possible, but Paula did all she could to prevent him from doing so.
When Shellie had hatched, Dingo was already a year old. He was fully grown and his rat terrier personality had already become highly pronounced. He was full of energy and aggressive, if not particularly brave.
He had complete run of the house, the farm yard, and the farm. Paula had installed a dog door for him in the back door that led into the kitchen so that he could go in and out whenever he wanted. He had developed a daily routine by then. He got up early in the morning with Mike and Paula, made his rounds in the yard, came back in for breakfast, slept a while, went on a few trips in the SUV with Paula during the day, ate supper, made his nightly rounds soon after dark, and came back in to sleep on his blanket in the pantry for the night. Sometimes, he even went out in the middle of the night to make another round in the yard. He felt it was his duty as a top dog to keep watch over the house and yard at all times.
Dingo could also be quite a vain dog. He enjoyed lying in front of any mirror he could find and looking at himself. To make him as happy as possible, Paula had eventually placed a door-sized mirror beside his bed in the pantry so that he could look at himself whenever he wanted. Before he went to sleep at night, he would strut back and forth in front of the mirror while looking at himself. He practised the most threatening-looking walk he could muster. Mike said Dingo was the only dog he knew who spent more time in front of a mirror than a woman.
Like most young rat terriers, Dingo was rambunctious and had his nose in everything. He enjoyed barking at, chasing, and – if possible – catching everything he saw.
And he loved to dig. He dug holes under the house, in the yard, in the field behind the house and everywhere else he went. He particularly loved digging when there was a rabbit or mole or mouse underground. To him, that was one of his main jobs in life, and he did it as well as he possibly could.
Paula didn't try to stop him. She figured that if she was going to have a rat terrier, she was going to let him be a rat terrier. She let him bark, dig and chase almost as much as he wanted. The only thing she wouldn't let him do was bark at and chase the chickens and other farm animals. That particularly included Shellie.
Dingo certainly wanted to, but he had learned early on that the consequences weren't worth it. He knew that if he got caught, Paula would put him in the kennel for several days. She would then take him out for a walk only three or four times a day. The worst part was that when she took him out for a walk, she made him walk on a leash.
Dingo hated walking on a leash. He felt completely robbed of his dignity. As he was fully aware, no respectable country dog – and particular no respectable rat terrier – walks on a leash. It was the harshest of insults to his rat terrier pride. To him, maintaining an image of toughness was 90% of being an effective rat terrier. Just one day of walking on a leash could immediately erase months of hard-earned respect that had come from working on and polishing his image.
So when Shellie hatched, Dingo knew better than to try to catch her. He had already spent too much time in the kennel and on the end of the leash. He didn't want to risk that again.
At times, though, the thought crossed his mind. But Paula would always see the look on his face and say, "Dingo, don't even think about it."
When Paula put the freshly hatched Shellie in a box on the kitchen counter, Dingo could hear her chirping. Never before had Paula kept a little chirping creature like that in the kitchen. Until this new addition had come along, all the chickens and ducks and their babies had stayed in the farm yard.
Dingo found the situation stressful. He had never had to truly share Paula's attention with any other animal while he was in the house. Until then, he was her main companion, if you didn't count Mike and the cat who showed up occasionally. She took him fishing with her and let him sit on her lap while she was driving the SUV. While he was sitting on her lap, Paula would often sniff his left ear. When she had first done that, he had jerked his head away. But after she kept doing it again and again, he eventually just started putting his ear up to her nose every time he sat on her lap while in the SUV. It had somehow turned from an irritating and strange thing to do to a very comforting one over time. And it in no way impaired his image.
The only other creature that offered the least bit of competition was the cat, but her competition wasn't serious. She sometimes came inside the house, but she didn't stay long. Sometimes she even disappeared for months at a time. Her attitude seemed to be that she had better things to do than sit around with a dog and humans. She only showed up when she wanted something, which was usually Dingo's food.
But there was nothing Dingo could do about this new competition. Paula kept the box high up on the counter out of Dingo's jumping range. Even when he sprang as high as he could, he couldn't reach her.
The chick chirped constantly. The noise annoyed Dingo, particularly since he couldn't get a good look at what was making it. Where he normally lay on his blanket in the pantry, he could hear the chirping all day long.
When Dingo was tired and wanted to go to sleep, he would often stick his head as far in the corner of the pantry as he could to get away from the chirping. He couldn't even see himself in the mirror from there. Sometimes, he went so far as to put his paws over his ears. But none of that seemed to help much. The chick kept chirping. It was as if she were screaming, "What happened? Where is everybody? Why have you left me here alone in this box?"
Finally, after nearly three days of constant chirping, the chick gradually became quieter. Paula took her out of her box several times a day and talked to her. The chick really seemed to like that. As long as Paula talked, the chick remained quiet.
Dingo would stare at the little chick sitting on Paula's lap. He would sit at a safe distance away. He wondered if Paula would start sniffing the chick's ear the way she had done his.
Paula wouldn't let him get anywhere near the chick. All she had to do was raise her eyebrows at him and he would back away.
When the chick was almost a week old, Paula finally introduced her to Dingo. Paula held the chick in one hand and placed her other hand firmly on the back of Dingo's neck. She cautiously moved her hand with the chick to about three inches in front of Dingo's nose.
"Dingo, this is Shellie," Paula said, as if she were introducing a church visitor to the preacher. "Shellie, this is Dingo."
Paula held them both there for a few moments until Dingo relaxed a little. Then she said, "Come on, Dingo. Let's take Shellie for a walk."
Once outside with Dingo and Shellie, Paula carefully placed Shellie on the ground.
She turned to Dingo and said, "Dingo, you can walk with us, but you can't get too close, not yet at least. You have to stay at least five feet away."
Paula slowly started walking. Shellie stayed right at her heels.
Dingo followed at a distance. Every time he got closer than five feet, Paula would stop and say, "Dingo...."
She would point her finger to a spot at least five feet away and say, "That's as close as you can get. For now at least."
Dingo would move back away from Shellie.
He found all this highly frustrating. He was normally the one who was allowed to walk right at Paula's heels. For some explained reason, this tiny little furry-feathery creature had now taken his place.
Dingo's curiosity was also driving him crazy. He wanted to get a close-up look at this new creature. He wanted to go right up to her and sniff her all over. He didn't understand where this little creature had come from and why she had suddenly become the center of attention for Paula. He felt less important than before. But there didn't seem to be a lot he could do about it.
As time went on and Shellie grew bigger, Dingo began to get used to her. He soon realized that she wasn't so bad after all. Each day, she chirped less than the day before. She didn't try to steal his food or take over his bed like the cat did. She didn't seem to have a spiteful bone in her body, and she didn't act jealous when Paula petted, talked to or took walks with him. At any rate, he found her better than the cat.
Paula even began letting Dingo get nearer Shellie when all three of them went for a walk. After a few weeks, Dingo and Shellie even started walking side-by-side. It just seemed to be the logical thing to do. The two of them together could spot a fox creeping up on them far better than only one of them alone could.
When Shellie was about six months old, Dingo even learned to appreciate her.
That day had started out ordinarily enough. It was a typical June 2.
Shellie, Dingo and Paula were in the kitchen. Paula had just finished washing the lunch dishes. She had a slightly sad look on her face. She had moved very slowly while washing the dishes, something she usually did quickly and cheerfully. She dried off the dishes unenthusiastically and put them way. When she was finished, she walked over to one of the kitchen cabinets and took an old photo album down from the top shelf.
It was the first time Shellie had ever seen the album.
Paula sat down and began looking through the photos. Sometimes she would touch one, as if she wanted to have contact with the person there. At times, she smiled. At times, she got a very sad look on her face. Finally, she sighed deeply, closed the album, got up and put it away.
It was near 1:30 in the afternoon.
Paula turned on the TV to check the weather report. The weatherman promised clear skies for the rest of the day. He said the temperature would stay in the low 90s for most of the afternoon, and then a gentle wind with slight cooling would start in late afternoon or early evening.
Paula said to Shellie and Dingo, "Looks like this evening will be perfect for a little fishing trip. Let's go dig some worms."
Shellie and Dingo immediately jumped up. They both enjoyed going with Paula to dig worms, although for different reasons.
Paula got her worm can and the claw-shaped worm-digging tool out of the garage. The three of them walked to the worm bed in the back yard. The worm bed was actually an old refrigerator with the door removed that Paula had placed on its back and filled with rich soil. It was a small point of contention between Mike and his wife. Mike repeatedly told her that the old refrigerator made the back yard looked junky, as if they were poor. Paula told him that she would be glad to let him build her a fancy, high-tech, state-of-the-art, non-junky-looking worm bed. All he had to do was take the time. But he never got around to it. So the old refrigerator stayed.
The refrigerator was a place of great interest both to Shellie and Dingo. Shellie liked it because Paula occasionally threw her an earthworm as she dug. Shellie knew she could count on getting about one out of every 20 worms Paula dug up. Since Paula regularly sprinkled chicken pellets in the worm bed, all the worms were very well-fed and plump. Shellie found them much juicier and tastier than the other earthworms she found in the yard. Those were usually skinny, tough and stringy, plus they had a slightly bitter taste. The earthworms from the old refrigerator were sweet, spongy, moist and creamy, like elongated Little Debbie Cakes for chickens.
Dingo, of course, wasn't interested in the worms. The old refrigerator fascinated him for another reason: It attracted lots of mice and rabbits. They liked to lie in the cool soft ground underneath and drink from the pan of water Paula kept there just for them.
As Paula dug for worms, Shellie stood beside her waiting for her to throw her one. Dingo stayed busy sniffing the ground near the old refrigerator.
Suddenly, Dingo let out a loud yip. He took off running toward the field.
Paula looked up and said to Shellie, "Looks like Dingo's found a rabbit. I reckon he'll be busy the rest of the afternoon. Hope he has enough energy to go fishing this evening."
Paula and Shellie watched Dingo chase the rabbit out into the field. The rabbit knew exactly where he was going. He quickly disappeared in a hole along the edge of the field.
Dingo followed him right to the hole.
The hole was the perfect size for the rabbit, but Dingo could do no more than stick his head part of the way in. Dingo sniffed and yipped, sniffed and yipped. He could smell the rabbit.
Paula said to Shellie, "That rabbit's just sitting there underground laughing his head off at Dingo."
Dingo started digging furiously. He dug for a few moments, stuck his snout in the hole and sniffed for the rabbit, and then dug some more. He dug so furiously that he created small puffs of dust around him.
"He'll never get him," Paula said to Shellie. "That rabbit's too smart."
Paula dug a few more worms, gave Shellie one last one, and said, "OK. That's enough. I'll give you some more once we get to the Dark Pond."
Paula and Shellie headed back to the house. Dingo kept digging.
Back at the house, Paula put the worms in a cool place under the garage. She and Shellie went back in the house.
Paula turned on the TV. She clicked the remote control until she found the baseball game she wanted to watch. She and Shellie settled down together in the easy chair. Paula gave Shellie a kernel of corn even though no one had hit a home run yet. She told Shellie it was a special day.
A couple of hours later, Paula and Shellie heard the dog door in the kitchen make its flapping sound. Dingo had finally came home.
They heard Dingo drink at least half a bowl of water. Then he headed their way in the living room. His toenails clicked on the linoleum as he sluggishly walked across the floor. They could tell just from the dragging sound of his gait that he was worn out.
Dingo came into the room and looked up at Paula and Shellie.
As Paula had expected, Dingo hadn't caught the rabbit. If he had, he would have brought it home with him to show it off. But she knew that he wasn't disappointed. She knew that he, like most males, found the chase more enjoyable than the catch.
Dingo's eyes were bright and shining with excitement. He was also quite a sight to see. He was covered with so much dust and dirt that his hair, which was normally white, was reddish brown all over.
"Dingo, you're too dirty to come in here. You have to stay in the kitchen," Paula told him.
Dingo obeyed. He had been through this numerous times before. He knew that the only way he could come in the living room was first to get a bath, and that was one thing he disliked almost as much as being placed in the kennel and walked on a leash.
By this time, Shellie was getting a little bored with the baseball game. Not one home run had been hit today, and the corn bowl was just as full as when the game had started. She decided to go into the kitchen with Dingo. Even though Dingo wasn't a chicken, Shellie found him to be a good companion. He was always good for a surprise.
Dingo was as tired as he could be. All the digging and chasing under the hot sun had left him fully exhausted. He went straight to his blanket, lay down facing the mirror, stretched his head out in front of him and got ready to take a nap.
Then it started. When Dingo was just about to fall asleep, a crawling and biting feeling started on his skin. Dingo sat up and start scratching.
As soon as Dingo scratched, the crawling and biting stopped. He lay back down and started to doze off again.
Then the crawling and biting started again. Dingo sat up and scratched.
Shellie watched Dingo from her counter perch. His restlessness made her a little agitated, but also very curious. She noticed that Dingo wasn't his usual self. He rarely had any trouble falling asleep. Normally, he merely had to lie down, stretch his head out in front of him on his blanket, take a look at himself in the mirror, close his eyes, and he was immediately asleep.
Shellie's curiosity finally got the better of her. When Dingo began another spell of scratching, she hopped down from the counter and walked slowly toward him. She didn't want to disturb him any more than he already was. Even though she had come to trust Dingo, she never let herself forget that he was a dog and she was a chicken. She understood that he had teeth and she didn't.
Dingo stopped scratching and stretched out again. He let out a deep breath like he always did right before he fell asleep. Shellie crept nearer and peered at him. Then she saw his back twitch a little. She looked at the spot that had twitched.
She saw a small black creature crawl out of his fur. Shellie had never seen such a creature before, but she instinctively knew what to do. She opened her beak and in one fast snap, snatched the tiny creature and swallowed it. Shellie had just eaten her first flea.
When Shellie's sharp beak struck Dingo's back, he gave a slight jump and looked up. When he saw that it was only Shellie, he closed his eyes again. He was simply too tired to do anything else. He figured Shellie would go away soon.
Shellie stayed where she was. She had to admit that one flea wasn't very filling, but it had certainly tasted good, with almost the texture and feel of a sesame seed, if not exactly the same Chinese-food flavor. And it had been fun to catch.
She watched Dingo. This time, his back leg twitched. Shellie looked closely. She could see another flea crawling.
She got as close as she could and quickly took another peck. She could feel the flea on her tongue and swallowed him. Unlike the juicy and creamy worms from the worm bed, the flea was firm and dry. The only difference was the tickling sensations its crawling legs caused on her tongue.
Dingo opened his eyes again. He gave Shellie another tired look. He wasn't sure why she was pecking him, but he had to admit that it seemed to make the itching stop. He put his head back down, closed his eyes, and dozed off.
Shellie watched for another twitch. This time it was on Dingo's right ear.
She spotted the flea and nabbed him. Dingo didn't even open his eyes this time. Instead, he wagged his tail once and let out a deep breath.
During the next half hour, Shellie caught at least 90 fleas. Then Dingo's fur finally stopped twitching. He fell into a deep sleep.
Shellie walked over to her water bowl. She drank several mouthfuls. Fleas, she realized, weren't very filling even in large quantities, but they certainly made her thirsty. She hopped back up on her counter perch and started drifting off to sleep herself.
In the living room, she heard Paula let out a joyful, "Go! Go! Go!"
Her favorite team had just hit a home run.
Monday, December 28, 2009
SUVs and Other Unexpected Places
(Chapter 1 from the book "The Chicken Who Didn’t Know Where
to Lay Her Eggs")
Shellie had a bumpy beginning in life, but at least she had auspicious genes. Her father was the largest, most dominant rooster in the farm yard, and her mother the most productive layer in the entire coop.
When it had become apparent that Shellie wasn't going to come into the world the normal way like most chicks, farmer’s wife, Paula had had to step in and take drastic measures. It hadn't been at all clear whether even those measures would be enough, but, in the end, Paula seemed to work the magic that her husband often said only she could.
After Paula had gotten Shellie past those touch-and-go first few days, both she and Mike, Mike, had assumed that Shellie would turn out to be like any other chicken. They had assumed that she would spend a couple of weeks being a cute and precious furry ball with spindly legs, a tiny beak and eyes, and then evolve into a scrawny, long-legged adolescent pullet. They were right at least that far.
They had then assumed that Shellie would blossom into a plump, full-feathered layer that would be just as pragmatic and predictable as any other hen in the farm yard. As both of them knew, all chickens are basically the same, and they do fundamentally the same things. A chicken gets up with the sun, spends a large part of each day pecking around for food, and, above all, makes a comfortable nest and lays all her eggs in that spot and only that spot.
Shellie didn't quite fit the pattern. For one thing, she remained a very small hen, only half the size of the other hens in the yard. For another, Shellie developed some very unchicken-like behaviors and views on life.
When Shellie was fully grown and it came time for her to take her place beside the other chickens in the coop, even the best genes from the whole farm yard didn’t seem to have the right programming.
Instead of finding the perfect spot for laying her eggs, Shellie laid them anywhere and everywhere. She laid eggs out in the middle of the farm yard, on the front-door mat, and in the old refrigerator under the giant oak tree in the backyard that served as a fishing-worm bed for Paula.
Paula sometimes found eggs in the mailbox, in the kitchen sink and under the hood of her SUV. Those under the hood of the SUV were the most perplexing. Theoretically, it shouldn't have been possible for Shellie to lay eggs there. All the spaces were very tight and seemingly too cramped for even a small hen like Shellie to squeeze into, much less lay an egg. But that's exactly what Shellie managed to do. And she managed to do it without getting any oil or grease on her feathers. Shellie was, if not a typical chicken, at least a very clean one.
Mike occasionally suggested that the best way to solve the problem was simply to get rid of the SUV. He had never wanted it in the first place. The only reason he had bought it was that his sister, Desert Doe (although he often called her "Dessert Donut"), had purchased it but then couldn't make the payments. Mike had bought it from her to get her out of a tight situation. He had given Desert Doe a small used car in turn, which he had picked up for a very good price. Mike appreciated the value of used cars. He was proud to let people know that he had never bought a brand-new car in his life, only used ones that were in excellent condition. Once he bought a used car, he drove it until it fell apart from rust or he wrecked it. He had already wrecked a number of vehicles. When he was driving, he tended to look at the crops in everyone else's fields rather than at the road. That led to him driving into a number of ditches.
Paula often assumed that it would only be a matter of time before Mike also drove the SUV into a ditch. Fortunately, she told herself, it was far sturdier than most vehicles and could withstand such mishaps better.
The SUV was certainly a very nice vehicle. But it also had a few negatives. It gobbled gas faster than any vehicle Mike had ever had owned, and the insurance on it was high. Mike certainly didn't need the SUV. He had enough other powerful vehicles and trucks for getting around on the farm.
But Paula liked it. She frequently praised how extremely reliable and safe it was. Moreover, she loved driving it up and down the dirt roads and through the fields on the farm. One of her greatest pleasures was to drive it as fast as she dared on the dirt roads and make the dust fly up behind her in giant red clouds. She relished looking in the rear-view mirror and seeing those red dust clouds so thick behind her that they blocked out everything else in sight.
And Shellie certainly liked the SUV, especially as a place for laying eggs.
Every time Mike and his wife got ready to drive the SUV, they had learned that they better open the hood to see if Shellie or any of her eggs were under it. Spotting Shellie was easy enough, but finding her eggs was a real challenge. Shellie had a knack for laying them in very hard-to-see and hard-to-get-to places. Often, Mike and his wife couldn't find the eggs even if they used a heavy-duty flashlight.
The SUV was actually about the only place Shellie ever laid eggs more than once. Otherwise, she just laid her eggs wherever she happened to be when the egg was ready to come out. She tended not to spend any time thinking about laying eggs even when it came time to lay one.
The only place Shellie didn’t lay eggs was where she was supposed to – in the chicken coop. She had never even built a nest there.
Unlike the other chickens in the yard, Shellie rarely ventured into the chicken coop. She just didn't see much point of going there. From the way she saw things, the chicken coop was already full of chickens and one more would have just made it that much more crowded. She preferred spending her time in the house with Paula. The house wasn't at all crowded with other chickens. The only other beings there besides Paula and herself were Mike, the rat terrier, and, every now and then, the cat.
Paula wasn't at all bothered by having Shellie in the house, and she didn't care where Shellie lay her eggs. As far as she was concerned, Shellie could lay her eggs anywhere she wanted. As she told her husband, there wasn't a single verse in the Bible – or in any other book that Paula had ever read – that said that a chicken had to lay her eggs in one place and only one place. Paula figured that if the Bible didn't tell chickens where to lay their eggs, they could lay them wherever they wanted.
Mike was a little less tolerant. He found it irritating that fresh eggs could turn up anywhere at anytime. When he wasn't careful – which was usually the case – he stepped on them, sat on them, or lay down on them. When he did that, he would always say something unmentionable about Shellie beneath his breath.
But he especially got irritated when eggs ended up under the hood of the SUV. The fact that Paula fed Shellie fresh garlic every day didn't make things any more bearable for Mike. Shellie's eggs always had a slight garlic aroma, and Mike wasn't fond of garlic. The ones who liked garlic were Paula and the preacher.
When Mike switched on the SUV, the eggs that didn't end up hard-boiled would sometimes explode. The egg yolk and egg white would splatter on the hot parts of the SUV and burn to a crisp. The smell of burnt garlic egg would get into the air-conditioning or heating system and fill the inside of the SUV. Mike would have to sprinkle baking soda throughout the SUV and roll down the windows for days to get the smell of burnt egg out. He especially resented the smell of burnt garlic eggs on hot days when he wanted to roll the SUV windows all the way up and turn the air-conditioner on full blast. He repeatedly told his wife, "It's an SUV, not a chicken coop."
Every time an egg would explode under the hood of the SUV, Mike would beg his wife do something about it, especially since she insisted on keeping the SUV. He even proposed a few things himself. He told his wife that he could quickly find other useful purposes for Shellie.
The one idea he put forth most frequently was to make Shellie the main dish on the Sunday supper table. He figured that Sunday supper was the ideal time to have baked chicken with applesauce. That was always the time of the week the preacher, his wife and two children were most likely to drop by unannounced. And the preacher’s favorite meal was baked hen with applesauce.
But, fortunately for Shellie, Paula had no intention of letting her end up on Sunday's supper table. To her, Shellie was much more than just a chicken. She didn't care that Shellie couldn't figure out the proper place to lay her eggs. The important thing was that Shellie was Shellie.
Besides, Shellie's eggs were extremely tasty with their slight garlic favor, and quite big for such a small hen. Paula just took it in stride that she might find one of Shellie's eggs in the most unexpected of places. On one occasion, she had even found one on her bed pillow. She had never told her husband about that. Shellie wasn't supposed to go into the bedroom. But Paula sometimes let her do so when she knew Mike was going to be gone all day. It was just one of their secrets. They had lots of secrets.
Anytime Mike suggested putting Shellie on the Sunday supper table, Paula quickly pointed out that that would be short-sighted. She pointed out that the preacher loved Shellie's eggs. He bragged about their delicate garlic flavor every time he and his family dropped by unannounced. He said they were tastier than any other eggs he had ever eaten. He particularly liked them when they were devilled.
But there was an even more important reason that Paula would never let Shellie become Sunday supper. For her, Shellie filled an important role that nobody else could, not even her husband or her daughter. Paula called Shellie "her therapist". She found Shellie a particularly good listener, and Shellie never offered useless advice. Paula could talk to Shellie about anything. She could tell Shellie things that she didn't dare tell any human – neither the preacher nor her husband nor her own daughter.
Shellie and Pau
la spent large parts of each day together. Shellie frequently sat in Paula’s lap for hours on end as Paula watched baseball on the living room TV. On cold days, the rat terrier would also sit there with them. Normally, however, he preferred his own chair. To him, three in a chair was usually just too crowded. He had trouble stretching out and dreaming about chasing rabbits.
The only one who never sat with them was the cat. She had never thought much of Shellie, and she thought even less of the rat terrier. She spent very little time in the house, and, when she did, she was either lying on the rat terrier's blanket or eating his food. The cat didn't actually like the rat terrier's food. She just ate it to aggravate him. She liked to eat his food, make him mad enough to growl and whimper at her, and then just flick her tail at him as she kept eating. She knew he wasn't brave enough to do anything more than growl.
As Paula and Shellie sat there watching baseball in the easy chair, Paula would occasionally stroke Shellie's back gently and tell Shellie her thoughts. She would often tell her about her life before she came to live on the farm.
The only time either of them got up was when Paula wanted another glass of ice tea or when Shellie needed to lay another egg. Otherwise, they would sit there and watch the baseball fly back and forth across the field hour after hour. When the team Paula was rooting for hit a home run, Paula would give Shellie a kernel of corn from the bowl she kept for just that purpose on the little table beside the chair.
Mike often scoffed at his wife when he saw her sitting in the chair with Shellie. He sometimes told her that she preferred Shellie to him, her own daughter and her grandson.
Paula rarely replied. She merely kept her eyes glued on the baseball game, took a sip of ice tea with one hand and stroked Shellie's back with the other.
If she said anything at all, it would be something like, "Is Desert Doe coming this year?"
Mentioning Desert Doe was always a good way to make Mike quit fussing.
to Lay Her Eggs")
Shellie had a bumpy beginning in life, but at least she had auspicious genes. Her father was the largest, most dominant rooster in the farm yard, and her mother the most productive layer in the entire coop.
When it had become apparent that Shellie wasn't going to come into the world the normal way like most chicks, farmer’s wife, Paula had had to step in and take drastic measures. It hadn't been at all clear whether even those measures would be enough, but, in the end, Paula seemed to work the magic that her husband often said only she could.
After Paula had gotten Shellie past those touch-and-go first few days, both she and Mike, Mike, had assumed that Shellie would turn out to be like any other chicken. They had assumed that she would spend a couple of weeks being a cute and precious furry ball with spindly legs, a tiny beak and eyes, and then evolve into a scrawny, long-legged adolescent pullet. They were right at least that far.
They had then assumed that Shellie would blossom into a plump, full-feathered layer that would be just as pragmatic and predictable as any other hen in the farm yard. As both of them knew, all chickens are basically the same, and they do fundamentally the same things. A chicken gets up with the sun, spends a large part of each day pecking around for food, and, above all, makes a comfortable nest and lays all her eggs in that spot and only that spot.
Shellie didn't quite fit the pattern. For one thing, she remained a very small hen, only half the size of the other hens in the yard. For another, Shellie developed some very unchicken-like behaviors and views on life.
When Shellie was fully grown and it came time for her to take her place beside the other chickens in the coop, even the best genes from the whole farm yard didn’t seem to have the right programming.
Instead of finding the perfect spot for laying her eggs, Shellie laid them anywhere and everywhere. She laid eggs out in the middle of the farm yard, on the front-door mat, and in the old refrigerator under the giant oak tree in the backyard that served as a fishing-worm bed for Paula.
Paula sometimes found eggs in the mailbox, in the kitchen sink and under the hood of her SUV. Those under the hood of the SUV were the most perplexing. Theoretically, it shouldn't have been possible for Shellie to lay eggs there. All the spaces were very tight and seemingly too cramped for even a small hen like Shellie to squeeze into, much less lay an egg. But that's exactly what Shellie managed to do. And she managed to do it without getting any oil or grease on her feathers. Shellie was, if not a typical chicken, at least a very clean one.
Mike occasionally suggested that the best way to solve the problem was simply to get rid of the SUV. He had never wanted it in the first place. The only reason he had bought it was that his sister, Desert Doe (although he often called her "Dessert Donut"), had purchased it but then couldn't make the payments. Mike had bought it from her to get her out of a tight situation. He had given Desert Doe a small used car in turn, which he had picked up for a very good price. Mike appreciated the value of used cars. He was proud to let people know that he had never bought a brand-new car in his life, only used ones that were in excellent condition. Once he bought a used car, he drove it until it fell apart from rust or he wrecked it. He had already wrecked a number of vehicles. When he was driving, he tended to look at the crops in everyone else's fields rather than at the road. That led to him driving into a number of ditches.
Paula often assumed that it would only be a matter of time before Mike also drove the SUV into a ditch. Fortunately, she told herself, it was far sturdier than most vehicles and could withstand such mishaps better.
The SUV was certainly a very nice vehicle. But it also had a few negatives. It gobbled gas faster than any vehicle Mike had ever had owned, and the insurance on it was high. Mike certainly didn't need the SUV. He had enough other powerful vehicles and trucks for getting around on the farm.
But Paula liked it. She frequently praised how extremely reliable and safe it was. Moreover, she loved driving it up and down the dirt roads and through the fields on the farm. One of her greatest pleasures was to drive it as fast as she dared on the dirt roads and make the dust fly up behind her in giant red clouds. She relished looking in the rear-view mirror and seeing those red dust clouds so thick behind her that they blocked out everything else in sight.
And Shellie certainly liked the SUV, especially as a place for laying eggs.
Every time Mike and his wife got ready to drive the SUV, they had learned that they better open the hood to see if Shellie or any of her eggs were under it. Spotting Shellie was easy enough, but finding her eggs was a real challenge. Shellie had a knack for laying them in very hard-to-see and hard-to-get-to places. Often, Mike and his wife couldn't find the eggs even if they used a heavy-duty flashlight.
The SUV was actually about the only place Shellie ever laid eggs more than once. Otherwise, she just laid her eggs wherever she happened to be when the egg was ready to come out. She tended not to spend any time thinking about laying eggs even when it came time to lay one.
The only place Shellie didn’t lay eggs was where she was supposed to – in the chicken coop. She had never even built a nest there.
Unlike the other chickens in the yard, Shellie rarely ventured into the chicken coop. She just didn't see much point of going there. From the way she saw things, the chicken coop was already full of chickens and one more would have just made it that much more crowded. She preferred spending her time in the house with Paula. The house wasn't at all crowded with other chickens. The only other beings there besides Paula and herself were Mike, the rat terrier, and, every now and then, the cat.
Paula wasn't at all bothered by having Shellie in the house, and she didn't care where Shellie lay her eggs. As far as she was concerned, Shellie could lay her eggs anywhere she wanted. As she told her husband, there wasn't a single verse in the Bible – or in any other book that Paula had ever read – that said that a chicken had to lay her eggs in one place and only one place. Paula figured that if the Bible didn't tell chickens where to lay their eggs, they could lay them wherever they wanted.
Mike was a little less tolerant. He found it irritating that fresh eggs could turn up anywhere at anytime. When he wasn't careful – which was usually the case – he stepped on them, sat on them, or lay down on them. When he did that, he would always say something unmentionable about Shellie beneath his breath.
But he especially got irritated when eggs ended up under the hood of the SUV. The fact that Paula fed Shellie fresh garlic every day didn't make things any more bearable for Mike. Shellie's eggs always had a slight garlic aroma, and Mike wasn't fond of garlic. The ones who liked garlic were Paula and the preacher.
When Mike switched on the SUV, the eggs that didn't end up hard-boiled would sometimes explode. The egg yolk and egg white would splatter on the hot parts of the SUV and burn to a crisp. The smell of burnt garlic egg would get into the air-conditioning or heating system and fill the inside of the SUV. Mike would have to sprinkle baking soda throughout the SUV and roll down the windows for days to get the smell of burnt egg out. He especially resented the smell of burnt garlic eggs on hot days when he wanted to roll the SUV windows all the way up and turn the air-conditioner on full blast. He repeatedly told his wife, "It's an SUV, not a chicken coop."
Every time an egg would explode under the hood of the SUV, Mike would beg his wife do something about it, especially since she insisted on keeping the SUV. He even proposed a few things himself. He told his wife that he could quickly find other useful purposes for Shellie.
The one idea he put forth most frequently was to make Shellie the main dish on the Sunday supper table. He figured that Sunday supper was the ideal time to have baked chicken with applesauce. That was always the time of the week the preacher, his wife and two children were most likely to drop by unannounced. And the preacher’s favorite meal was baked hen with applesauce.
But, fortunately for Shellie, Paula had no intention of letting her end up on Sunday's supper table. To her, Shellie was much more than just a chicken. She didn't care that Shellie couldn't figure out the proper place to lay her eggs. The important thing was that Shellie was Shellie.
Besides, Shellie's eggs were extremely tasty with their slight garlic favor, and quite big for such a small hen. Paula just took it in stride that she might find one of Shellie's eggs in the most unexpected of places. On one occasion, she had even found one on her bed pillow. She had never told her husband about that. Shellie wasn't supposed to go into the bedroom. But Paula sometimes let her do so when she knew Mike was going to be gone all day. It was just one of their secrets. They had lots of secrets.
Anytime Mike suggested putting Shellie on the Sunday supper table, Paula quickly pointed out that that would be short-sighted. She pointed out that the preacher loved Shellie's eggs. He bragged about their delicate garlic flavor every time he and his family dropped by unannounced. He said they were tastier than any other eggs he had ever eaten. He particularly liked them when they were devilled.
But there was an even more important reason that Paula would never let Shellie become Sunday supper. For her, Shellie filled an important role that nobody else could, not even her husband or her daughter. Paula called Shellie "her therapist". She found Shellie a particularly good listener, and Shellie never offered useless advice. Paula could talk to Shellie about anything. She could tell Shellie things that she didn't dare tell any human – neither the preacher nor her husband nor her own daughter.
Shellie and Pau
la spent large parts of each day together. Shellie frequently sat in Paula’s lap for hours on end as Paula watched baseball on the living room TV. On cold days, the rat terrier would also sit there with them. Normally, however, he preferred his own chair. To him, three in a chair was usually just too crowded. He had trouble stretching out and dreaming about chasing rabbits.
The only one who never sat with them was the cat. She had never thought much of Shellie, and she thought even less of the rat terrier. She spent very little time in the house, and, when she did, she was either lying on the rat terrier's blanket or eating his food. The cat didn't actually like the rat terrier's food. She just ate it to aggravate him. She liked to eat his food, make him mad enough to growl and whimper at her, and then just flick her tail at him as she kept eating. She knew he wasn't brave enough to do anything more than growl.
As Paula and Shellie sat there watching baseball in the easy chair, Paula would occasionally stroke Shellie's back gently and tell Shellie her thoughts. She would often tell her about her life before she came to live on the farm.
The only time either of them got up was when Paula wanted another glass of ice tea or when Shellie needed to lay another egg. Otherwise, they would sit there and watch the baseball fly back and forth across the field hour after hour. When the team Paula was rooting for hit a home run, Paula would give Shellie a kernel of corn from the bowl she kept for just that purpose on the little table beside the chair.
Mike often scoffed at his wife when he saw her sitting in the chair with Shellie. He sometimes told her that she preferred Shellie to him, her own daughter and her grandson.
Paula rarely replied. She merely kept her eyes glued on the baseball game, took a sip of ice tea with one hand and stroked Shellie's back with the other.
If she said anything at all, it would be something like, "Is Desert Doe coming this year?"
Mentioning Desert Doe was always a good way to make Mike quit fussing.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Room Surprises
One of my favorite part of traveling is staying in hotels. Often, the hotel room ends up being the most interesting part of my stay in a given town. Each hotel room has its own personality, highlights…and flaws. I love putting myself in the head of whoever designed the hotel room and asking myself why he or she designed it the way that I experienced it.
For example, my hotel room in Pompei was a little eerie, yet it had one very strong aspect that let me forgive all the other flaws. Before I tell you that, however, I’ll back up a bit and describe the overall hotel.
The hotel was located about 100 yards from one of the two main entrances to the ancient city of Pompei. This was very nice. All I had to do was walk out of the hotel and there stood the old historical city right at my feet. That was nice, but I found one thing a little strange: there were no other hotels around. The closest one was about 500 yards away, down the hill and out of sight. It seemed like my hotel had bought the right to be the one-and-only hotel directly at the gates of the ancient city.
To make all of this even a bit more strange, there were practically no other guests in the hotel. I got the sense that I shared the entire four-floor hotel with only one other person, who I saw only once.
The hotel appeared to have been built in the 1950s, or perhaps in the 60s. It was generally in good condition, but it was showing some wear and tear. For example, my room appeared not to have undergone any major renovations since it was originally built. The desk table, chair, cabinet, closet, and bathroom were the originals and all slightly beat up, but still in working order.
The effect that this had on me was that I was situated in an aging hotel that would appear in a Stephen King and Jack Nicholson movie.
But as I said at the start of this entry, the hotel had one saving grace, and that is the view. The room opened onto a large balcony that provided me with a dazzling view of the entire city of Naples, its harbor and the mountains surrounding the city on three sides, including Mount Vesuvius. It was indeed spectacular. Plus, the balcony was located directly above the hotel’s pool, which was, of course, closed since the time of year was December.
That view let me forgive all the shortcomings of the room and the hotel in general, which included an absence of any operating full-service restaurants in the area. The only food alternatives were three snack concessions located right outside the gates of the ancient city. Pizza and sandwiches were all they offered.
But the view made me forget all of the rest. Plus, it changed depending on the time of day and how bright the day was or dark the night was. Just as the daytime view was breathtaking, the night one was also fascinating, clearly showing the shape of the basin Naples is located in.
If I were asked to give the room a rating, I would probably say C+ or B-. In addition to the above description, the room had a very small TV, and it operated only about half the week that I stayed there. Fortunately, the hotel and the surrounding environment were very quiet, free of human-generated or city-generated noise.
Would I stay there again? Probably. The price was simply too good, and the room met most of my main requirements to an acceptable extent. The sense of desolation and isolation there made me a bit uneasy, but I seemed to adapt to it as the week progressed.
For example, my hotel room in Pompei was a little eerie, yet it had one very strong aspect that let me forgive all the other flaws. Before I tell you that, however, I’ll back up a bit and describe the overall hotel.
The hotel was located about 100 yards from one of the two main entrances to the ancient city of Pompei. This was very nice. All I had to do was walk out of the hotel and there stood the old historical city right at my feet. That was nice, but I found one thing a little strange: there were no other hotels around. The closest one was about 500 yards away, down the hill and out of sight. It seemed like my hotel had bought the right to be the one-and-only hotel directly at the gates of the ancient city.
To make all of this even a bit more strange, there were practically no other guests in the hotel. I got the sense that I shared the entire four-floor hotel with only one other person, who I saw only once.
The hotel appeared to have been built in the 1950s, or perhaps in the 60s. It was generally in good condition, but it was showing some wear and tear. For example, my room appeared not to have undergone any major renovations since it was originally built. The desk table, chair, cabinet, closet, and bathroom were the originals and all slightly beat up, but still in working order.
The effect that this had on me was that I was situated in an aging hotel that would appear in a Stephen King and Jack Nicholson movie.
But as I said at the start of this entry, the hotel had one saving grace, and that is the view. The room opened onto a large balcony that provided me with a dazzling view of the entire city of Naples, its harbor and the mountains surrounding the city on three sides, including Mount Vesuvius. It was indeed spectacular. Plus, the balcony was located directly above the hotel’s pool, which was, of course, closed since the time of year was December.
That view let me forgive all the shortcomings of the room and the hotel in general, which included an absence of any operating full-service restaurants in the area. The only food alternatives were three snack concessions located right outside the gates of the ancient city. Pizza and sandwiches were all they offered.
But the view made me forget all of the rest. Plus, it changed depending on the time of day and how bright the day was or dark the night was. Just as the daytime view was breathtaking, the night one was also fascinating, clearly showing the shape of the basin Naples is located in.
If I were asked to give the room a rating, I would probably say C+ or B-. In addition to the above description, the room had a very small TV, and it operated only about half the week that I stayed there. Fortunately, the hotel and the surrounding environment were very quiet, free of human-generated or city-generated noise.
Would I stay there again? Probably. The price was simply too good, and the room met most of my main requirements to an acceptable extent. The sense of desolation and isolation there made me a bit uneasy, but I seemed to adapt to it as the week progressed.
Headed Home
A petal swept me away today,
then sat down beside me,
tempting me with its sweet, lush skin:
a prism of spring
through a drop of rosewater.
It was so close I could absorb its heat
and scent its wintergreen breath,
long and deep, full enough to bathe in.
I knew that it was just a petal,
but we all want a petal,
or to be one,
if only for the moment lost.
then sat down beside me,
tempting me with its sweet, lush skin:
a prism of spring
through a drop of rosewater.
It was so close I could absorb its heat
and scent its wintergreen breath,
long and deep, full enough to bathe in.
I knew that it was just a petal,
but we all want a petal,
or to be one,
if only for the moment lost.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
ssssssssssssssssss
Snakes are long, too long,
even the very short ones.
Rats squeak. Snakes hiss,
like a cat with 16 poison claws.
Snakes slither, side to side, up and down,
a scaley stock market in a bear market.
Never get too close to a snake.
Far enough away is closer than you think.
Snakes can sense you
before you know they are there.
Step carefully.
The ground hides truth from human eyes.
even the very short ones.
Rats squeak. Snakes hiss,
like a cat with 16 poison claws.
Snakes slither, side to side, up and down,
a scaley stock market in a bear market.
Never get too close to a snake.
Far enough away is closer than you think.
Snakes can sense you
before you know they are there.
Step carefully.
The ground hides truth from human eyes.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Will Dangle for Food
One night while in Italy, I stayed overnight in the town of Lamezia Terme, which is a mid-size town with no special features except that it is the home to some ancient Roman hot springs, which are no longer there from what I gather.
After I got off the train and checked into the hotel for the night, I decided to go find (what else?) a restaurant. I asked the hotel reception desk for a map of the city. They looked rather lost and said that they did not have one but that there was a large one on a sign outside the train station. So I found the sign and tried to figure out where my best luck would lay.
There were no restaurants directly around the train station so I found a likable spot on the map. It showed a promising area located on the other side of the tracks.
I set off in search of a way to get over the tracks. Eventually, I found a crossing about half a mile down the road. (Keep in mind that you are talking about a limping, quickly-aging 54-year-old man undertaking all this.) I crossed the tracks and turned right, anticipating a section of town full of shops and restaurants.
But there was nothing. By nothing, I mean there were no houses, no shops, no restaurants, and not even a fully paved road. There was a dirt-lane road to the right.
At a loss for any better alternative, I decided to follow the road, hoping that the pot of gold would soon lay at my feet.
However, after walking about another half a mile, all that lay at my feet was another set of tracks. They came into town at about a 90-degree angle to the tracks I had just crossed under.
Yet, not all seemed lost. I saw some lit neon lights somewhere on the other side of the tracks. All I had to do was get there. So I decided to persevere. After all, my only other choice was to turn back and go home hungry.
So I set off across the tracks, being careful not to step on the rails, only on the wooden planks. (Somebody, somewhere had warned me that some train tracks are electrified. I saw no reason to test my luck.)
After I made it across the tracks successfully, I found myself facing a metal rail that had a 10-foot drop on the other side. One end of the metal rail headed up a hill that left an even steeper drop on the other side, so I knew I would no luck there. In the other direction, I ran into a locked metal gate with a 12-foot fence. So there was no way down to but to try my luck at jumping from the lowest point of the rail.
But once I began to attempt a jump, I decided the best thing was to do was to dangle myself down the drop from the rail so that my fall would actually only be four or so feet rather than 10 feet. So, despite little voices in my head telling me that people who had just had operations should not try dangling on rails to attempt a 10-foot drop, I proceeded.
As soon as I started, there proved to be no way to rescind my decision. I found myself dangling with my hands around a rusty rail and my feet a few feet above a mud puddle. But I had no choice at that point.
I released my hands from around the rail, praying that no recent incisions popped open.
My feet hit the ground and I almost fell backward, but I caught my balance just in time, like an over-fat cat. I was ready to catch myself with my hands, but even that proved unnecessary. Also, I did not seem to have ripped open any of my new incisions.
It was then that I also realized that my back was not hurting for the first time in years. I twisted my shoulders and felt a natural looseness and flexibility that had long seemed gone. Apparently, dangling from a fence rail at seven o’clock in the dark in an unknown town in Southern Italy does wonders for a hurting back.
So, I set out to find the neon signs I had seen. I quickly discovered that they were for a business selling (you guessed it) metal rails!
I continued. By now, it occurred to me that the map outside the train station was completely misleading. There were no city streets whatsoever on this side of the tracks, just deserted railway grounds and a large circular drive that teen-age kids were racing their cars around and around.
With my luck now running low, I decided the best thing was to head back to my hotel. After three or four failed attempts at finding the way back to the hotel, I stopped various joggers along the way to ask them for directions. Surprisingly, they were all extremely helpful and polite, which is something I discovered throughout Italy.
Anyway, at nine at night, I finally made it back to the hotel, with an empty stomach but with a pleasantly non-hurting back. I slept like a king.
After I got off the train and checked into the hotel for the night, I decided to go find (what else?) a restaurant. I asked the hotel reception desk for a map of the city. They looked rather lost and said that they did not have one but that there was a large one on a sign outside the train station. So I found the sign and tried to figure out where my best luck would lay.
There were no restaurants directly around the train station so I found a likable spot on the map. It showed a promising area located on the other side of the tracks.
I set off in search of a way to get over the tracks. Eventually, I found a crossing about half a mile down the road. (Keep in mind that you are talking about a limping, quickly-aging 54-year-old man undertaking all this.) I crossed the tracks and turned right, anticipating a section of town full of shops and restaurants.
But there was nothing. By nothing, I mean there were no houses, no shops, no restaurants, and not even a fully paved road. There was a dirt-lane road to the right.
At a loss for any better alternative, I decided to follow the road, hoping that the pot of gold would soon lay at my feet.
However, after walking about another half a mile, all that lay at my feet was another set of tracks. They came into town at about a 90-degree angle to the tracks I had just crossed under.
Yet, not all seemed lost. I saw some lit neon lights somewhere on the other side of the tracks. All I had to do was get there. So I decided to persevere. After all, my only other choice was to turn back and go home hungry.
So I set off across the tracks, being careful not to step on the rails, only on the wooden planks. (Somebody, somewhere had warned me that some train tracks are electrified. I saw no reason to test my luck.)
After I made it across the tracks successfully, I found myself facing a metal rail that had a 10-foot drop on the other side. One end of the metal rail headed up a hill that left an even steeper drop on the other side, so I knew I would no luck there. In the other direction, I ran into a locked metal gate with a 12-foot fence. So there was no way down to but to try my luck at jumping from the lowest point of the rail.
But once I began to attempt a jump, I decided the best thing was to do was to dangle myself down the drop from the rail so that my fall would actually only be four or so feet rather than 10 feet. So, despite little voices in my head telling me that people who had just had operations should not try dangling on rails to attempt a 10-foot drop, I proceeded.
As soon as I started, there proved to be no way to rescind my decision. I found myself dangling with my hands around a rusty rail and my feet a few feet above a mud puddle. But I had no choice at that point.
I released my hands from around the rail, praying that no recent incisions popped open.
My feet hit the ground and I almost fell backward, but I caught my balance just in time, like an over-fat cat. I was ready to catch myself with my hands, but even that proved unnecessary. Also, I did not seem to have ripped open any of my new incisions.
It was then that I also realized that my back was not hurting for the first time in years. I twisted my shoulders and felt a natural looseness and flexibility that had long seemed gone. Apparently, dangling from a fence rail at seven o’clock in the dark in an unknown town in Southern Italy does wonders for a hurting back.
So, I set out to find the neon signs I had seen. I quickly discovered that they were for a business selling (you guessed it) metal rails!
I continued. By now, it occurred to me that the map outside the train station was completely misleading. There were no city streets whatsoever on this side of the tracks, just deserted railway grounds and a large circular drive that teen-age kids were racing their cars around and around.
With my luck now running low, I decided the best thing was to head back to my hotel. After three or four failed attempts at finding the way back to the hotel, I stopped various joggers along the way to ask them for directions. Surprisingly, they were all extremely helpful and polite, which is something I discovered throughout Italy.
Anyway, at nine at night, I finally made it back to the hotel, with an empty stomach but with a pleasantly non-hurting back. I slept like a king.
Fried Steak and Prego! Prego!
Just back from a three-week tour of Italy. What a country! And I only saw part of it, mostly the western side. This tour took me through Bologna, Rome, Naples, Pompei, Consensa and Lamezia in Southern Italy, and Messina and Cefalu in Sicily.
I stayed a week in the small Sicilian town of Cefalu (pronounced SHEF-A-LOO). It is a beautiful place. The local people have preserved the old city so well that it feels like a Disneyland town. The town is located on a beach that butts up against a steep stone cliff that glows in the sunshine. Two old churches butt right up against the cliff. There are lots of great shops and restaurants, all oriented toward tourists, but still enjoyable. Everything is pretty pricy, but if you pick out just one or two special things to treat yourself to, you will feel your money has been well spent.
Since food is a large part of any trip for me, I visited a couple of the restaurants, both serving typical Sicilian food. In both cases, I spent 40 to 50 euros, including a carafe of wine and coffee. Both restaurants delivered up great food. A few of the memorable dishes were breaded fried steak (almost Southern style!) , grilled lamb, grilled vegetables (eggplant, bell pepper, squash), potato nuggets home-made).
Both restaurants also delivered up a bit of family drama, since all the people who worked there were relatives of the owners (the restaurants marketed themselves as fully family-owned and –operated). So the entire meal also let me enjoy the drama the family was having inside and outside the kitchen. Lots of rushing around, whispering in the corner, hushed arguments between waiters and owner here and there. It could have been off-putting, but I chose to view it all as enjoying a window into what goes on behind the scene, and it was all real.
More later. There’s so much to tell!
I stayed a week in the small Sicilian town of Cefalu (pronounced SHEF-A-LOO). It is a beautiful place. The local people have preserved the old city so well that it feels like a Disneyland town. The town is located on a beach that butts up against a steep stone cliff that glows in the sunshine. Two old churches butt right up against the cliff. There are lots of great shops and restaurants, all oriented toward tourists, but still enjoyable. Everything is pretty pricy, but if you pick out just one or two special things to treat yourself to, you will feel your money has been well spent.
Since food is a large part of any trip for me, I visited a couple of the restaurants, both serving typical Sicilian food. In both cases, I spent 40 to 50 euros, including a carafe of wine and coffee. Both restaurants delivered up great food. A few of the memorable dishes were breaded fried steak (almost Southern style!) , grilled lamb, grilled vegetables (eggplant, bell pepper, squash), potato nuggets home-made).
Both restaurants also delivered up a bit of family drama, since all the people who worked there were relatives of the owners (the restaurants marketed themselves as fully family-owned and –operated). So the entire meal also let me enjoy the drama the family was having inside and outside the kitchen. Lots of rushing around, whispering in the corner, hushed arguments between waiters and owner here and there. It could have been off-putting, but I chose to view it all as enjoying a window into what goes on behind the scene, and it was all real.
More later. There’s so much to tell!
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Hangin'
Today, I’m going to address a subject which I find very painful and unpleasant: draperies, as in draperies and curtains. No matter how you approach them, the feeling in the end is not a good one. For example, when I moved into my first apartment here in Munich, where draperies must be furnished by the renter, I foolishly thought that I would be able to pick up some cheap drapes for under 100 euros. Wow! Was I ignorant.
As I quickly found out, to properly outfit the apartment with drapes would cost a bundle, at least a thousand euros, possibly more. Now, I’m glad to output some big bucks for things that I like (just ask Alice about my expensive Venetian pig), but for draperies???????!!!!!! I had no idea that draperies were that important in life!!!!
The most painful part about the whole draperies-purchase-process is that no matter which solution I chose, I knew I would be unhappy with it. For instance, there are so many choices of prints and fabrics to choose from, that no matter which one I finally went with, my brain would never stop pestering me with the thought that I should have picked the other print, the brighter one, the one with the lighter fabric. Plus, dealing with a pushy saleswoman who knew EXACTLY what I want without ever asking me made it all even a greater ordeal.
In the end, I gave up and chose the cave-man solution: I bought a large sheet of black plastic sheeting and made curtains for all the windows. It was not elegant, but it did the trick. To the horror of my neighbors, once they found out. But,if I had cared what they thought, I would have purchased the $3000 bright-flower-print which the saleslady proposed and which I completely disliked.
As I quickly found out, to properly outfit the apartment with drapes would cost a bundle, at least a thousand euros, possibly more. Now, I’m glad to output some big bucks for things that I like (just ask Alice about my expensive Venetian pig), but for draperies???????!!!!!! I had no idea that draperies were that important in life!!!!
The most painful part about the whole draperies-purchase-process is that no matter which solution I chose, I knew I would be unhappy with it. For instance, there are so many choices of prints and fabrics to choose from, that no matter which one I finally went with, my brain would never stop pestering me with the thought that I should have picked the other print, the brighter one, the one with the lighter fabric. Plus, dealing with a pushy saleswoman who knew EXACTLY what I want without ever asking me made it all even a greater ordeal.
In the end, I gave up and chose the cave-man solution: I bought a large sheet of black plastic sheeting and made curtains for all the windows. It was not elegant, but it did the trick. To the horror of my neighbors, once they found out. But,if I had cared what they thought, I would have purchased the $3000 bright-flower-print which the saleslady proposed and which I completely disliked.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
decisions, decisions, decisions
I’m currently focused on my next project: an extended trip through ITALY!!! I have about 6 weeks of vacation time to take, and I’m going to use as many as those days as possible traveling through my favorite country.
So far, I have planned a week in Pompeii followed by a week in Sicily. I’m currently analyzing locations on the east coast of Italy as possible destinations for a 3rd week. If possible, I would also like to spend a week in Venice (I can’t get enough of that place!). Given the time I am on a train, I’m looking at a total of 4 weeks in the country.
I know very little about the east coast of Italy. It’s certainly not one of the tourist sites you hear a lot about, but I think it has a lot to offer. I’m considering visiting the cities of Bari, Trani, Foggia, Rimini, Ravenna. To be honest, I have heard of any of them. But I bought a very good tourist book that introduces me to all of them. Now, I will have to begin to pare down my list. To see everything would take months.
That may sound overwhelming, but my personal rule as a tourist. Never try to see everything that a place has to offer. Instead, leave some for a second or third visit. It will be worth it!
So far, I have planned a week in Pompeii followed by a week in Sicily. I’m currently analyzing locations on the east coast of Italy as possible destinations for a 3rd week. If possible, I would also like to spend a week in Venice (I can’t get enough of that place!). Given the time I am on a train, I’m looking at a total of 4 weeks in the country.
I know very little about the east coast of Italy. It’s certainly not one of the tourist sites you hear a lot about, but I think it has a lot to offer. I’m considering visiting the cities of Bari, Trani, Foggia, Rimini, Ravenna. To be honest, I have heard of any of them. But I bought a very good tourist book that introduces me to all of them. Now, I will have to begin to pare down my list. To see everything would take months.
That may sound overwhelming, but my personal rule as a tourist. Never try to see everything that a place has to offer. Instead, leave some for a second or third visit. It will be worth it!
Wednesday, November 04, 2009
Dreams of a Non-Smoker
Last night, I had another flying dream. This one lasted for a long time. I was flying from one situation and location to another. All the flying got me in trouble a couple of times. In one situation, I was scheduled to go to dinner with a couple from my job, but I was so busy flying that I completely forgot about it until midnight, at which point the couple had long given up on me.
But another situation was very pleasant. I was flying above bundles of freshly cured tobacco. In fact, the tobacco was still warm and giving off enough heat that I felt the warmth even though I was 50 feet high. But the best part was the aroma. The smell of the just-out-of-the-barn tobacco was rich and lovely. This sort of surprises me because I generally detest anything related to tobacco. The odor of cigarettes and cigars is enough to make me go ballistic. I just have to escape as fast as I can. But in the dream, I let myself drift and float above the tobacco for a long time, just enjoying the moment and the aroma.
But another situation was very pleasant. I was flying above bundles of freshly cured tobacco. In fact, the tobacco was still warm and giving off enough heat that I felt the warmth even though I was 50 feet high. But the best part was the aroma. The smell of the just-out-of-the-barn tobacco was rich and lovely. This sort of surprises me because I generally detest anything related to tobacco. The odor of cigarettes and cigars is enough to make me go ballistic. I just have to escape as fast as I can. But in the dream, I let myself drift and float above the tobacco for a long time, just enjoying the moment and the aroma.
Monday, November 02, 2009
Water Wonder
The bathroom in my apartment is very small, with only enough room for a shower. Usually, that is just fine with me. I never was much of a tub bather. A quick shower is all I need.
However, there are times when a tub bath is the perfect medicine for a ragged soul. Just the luxury of lying there in warm water, letting you spirit relax.
So I found myself on a mission to get a tub in my bathroom. But I didn’t want to go to all the trouble of having to get a permit to install one. To find a solution, I headed down to a Home Depot-like store here to see what they had.
There was nothing suitable in their bath department. Everything there would have required a plumber and a lot of headaches.
So I decided to see what might be available in the garden center. Indeed, I saw several large pails and buckets that might do, but they were all just a bit small.
Then my eyes fell on a large, solid, plastic pail that is supposed to be used as a water reservoir in fountain installation. It is round, a little more than a yard wide and 20 inches deep. It was big enough for me to crouch down in and also to lie down in.
I immediately bought the thing, brought in home on the bus (lots of concerned stares), set it up, and filled it with hot water and a sudsy bath soap. It proved to be perfect: deep enough to soak in!
Here are a few pictures of the water wonder:
However, there are times when a tub bath is the perfect medicine for a ragged soul. Just the luxury of lying there in warm water, letting you spirit relax.
So I found myself on a mission to get a tub in my bathroom. But I didn’t want to go to all the trouble of having to get a permit to install one. To find a solution, I headed down to a Home Depot-like store here to see what they had.
There was nothing suitable in their bath department. Everything there would have required a plumber and a lot of headaches.
So I decided to see what might be available in the garden center. Indeed, I saw several large pails and buckets that might do, but they were all just a bit small.
Then my eyes fell on a large, solid, plastic pail that is supposed to be used as a water reservoir in fountain installation. It is round, a little more than a yard wide and 20 inches deep. It was big enough for me to crouch down in and also to lie down in.
I immediately bought the thing, brought in home on the bus (lots of concerned stares), set it up, and filled it with hot water and a sudsy bath soap. It proved to be perfect: deep enough to soak in!
Here are a few pictures of the water wonder:
Together Forever
When I was a child, I received a tiny little black chick as a pet. She was indeed completely black and a little beauty. I named her Little Bit (although I probably should credit my mother with coming up with the name). She was just what I had been wanting.
But I soon grew worried that she might feel lonely sitting in her pen all by herself. So my mother did some of her magic and pretty soon a tiny yellow duckling appeared in the pen as well. Although a duckling is not a chick, that did not seem to bother either Little Bit or the duckling, who, of course, soon received the name Donald.
Anyway, Little Bit and Donald bonded as if they were true sister and brother. When they grew big enough to leave their pen and to begin leading a farmyard life, they stayed together the entire time. We had other chickens in the yard, and Little Bit and Donald also roamed around with them, but they still stuck together no matter what. It was a fascinating bond to watch, two different species tied together by some unseen spirit.
This went on for several years. They roamed the farmyard together each day, never more than a few feet apart. At night, Little Bit would fly up into the walnut tree to roost with the other chickens, and Donald would sit at the base of the tree, and sleep with his head stuck under his wing.
Of course, all magical things come to an end sooner or later. And after a few years, Donald disappeared one night. We figured that a night critter of some kind, a fox maybe, grabbed him while he was asleep under the walnut tree.
After that, Little Bit stuck pretty close to the other chickens. I have no idea whether she missed him or not, because I have no idea what goes on inside a chicken’s head and heart.
Little Bit lived to a graceful old age for a chicken. Once she passed away, my main hope was that she and Donald were reunited somewhere up there in farmyard heaven.
But I soon grew worried that she might feel lonely sitting in her pen all by herself. So my mother did some of her magic and pretty soon a tiny yellow duckling appeared in the pen as well. Although a duckling is not a chick, that did not seem to bother either Little Bit or the duckling, who, of course, soon received the name Donald.
Anyway, Little Bit and Donald bonded as if they were true sister and brother. When they grew big enough to leave their pen and to begin leading a farmyard life, they stayed together the entire time. We had other chickens in the yard, and Little Bit and Donald also roamed around with them, but they still stuck together no matter what. It was a fascinating bond to watch, two different species tied together by some unseen spirit.
This went on for several years. They roamed the farmyard together each day, never more than a few feet apart. At night, Little Bit would fly up into the walnut tree to roost with the other chickens, and Donald would sit at the base of the tree, and sleep with his head stuck under his wing.
Of course, all magical things come to an end sooner or later. And after a few years, Donald disappeared one night. We figured that a night critter of some kind, a fox maybe, grabbed him while he was asleep under the walnut tree.
After that, Little Bit stuck pretty close to the other chickens. I have no idea whether she missed him or not, because I have no idea what goes on inside a chicken’s head and heart.
Little Bit lived to a graceful old age for a chicken. Once she passed away, my main hope was that she and Donald were reunited somewhere up there in farmyard heaven.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Chopstick Law
Today I went to lunch at a a very cheap, all-you-can-eat Chinese restaurant – only six euros. The food is very mediocre, but if you know what to select, you can come away with a pretty satisfying meal. For example, the Chinese noodles, cucumber salad, pig knuckles and chop suey are quite good.
But that’s not the real reason I keep going back. The restaurant has a couple of very charming characteristics that had led it to have a very dedicated customer base. For example, it is always packed with Chinese. I figure the fellow who runs the place must entertain 200 to 300 customers a day. Crowds come in, eat, and then whisk out, all within half an hour.
So utter convenience is one big factor. Quick in, quick out.
But the truly compelling reason for going back is the owner. He runs everything himself from getting drinks for people to refilling the empty food containers to bussing the tables to settling the final bill. I do suppose that he has a cook in the back, but I’ve never seen him or her.
The fellow is sort of a prickly type. He does not hesitate to bark at customers who are getting out of line (literally) or who have complaints about the food. If anyone does complain (but I have only seen that once), he very cooly barks “You eat! You pay! You go!”. And they do.
If you have any questions, he will answer you, but it is usually with no more than one sharp syllable. For example, I asked him where I could find a napkin and he jutted a finger in the air toward the other end of the food line and uttered a very sharp “THERE!”. And indeed, the napkins were there. I somehow felt ashamed of myself, and by no means offended by his harsh tone.
He runs everything like that. But the part about it that wins me over is that the fellow is relentlessly fair. He treats you no differently whether you are Chinese or non-Chinese, rich or poor, ugly or pretty. He’s simply efficient and fair through and through. I always feel good about myself after I leave the establishment, as if I have been handled with endless tough love. It’s a fascinating and satisfying concept he’s got going there.
But that’s not the real reason I keep going back. The restaurant has a couple of very charming characteristics that had led it to have a very dedicated customer base. For example, it is always packed with Chinese. I figure the fellow who runs the place must entertain 200 to 300 customers a day. Crowds come in, eat, and then whisk out, all within half an hour.
So utter convenience is one big factor. Quick in, quick out.
But the truly compelling reason for going back is the owner. He runs everything himself from getting drinks for people to refilling the empty food containers to bussing the tables to settling the final bill. I do suppose that he has a cook in the back, but I’ve never seen him or her.
The fellow is sort of a prickly type. He does not hesitate to bark at customers who are getting out of line (literally) or who have complaints about the food. If anyone does complain (but I have only seen that once), he very cooly barks “You eat! You pay! You go!”. And they do.
If you have any questions, he will answer you, but it is usually with no more than one sharp syllable. For example, I asked him where I could find a napkin and he jutted a finger in the air toward the other end of the food line and uttered a very sharp “THERE!”. And indeed, the napkins were there. I somehow felt ashamed of myself, and by no means offended by his harsh tone.
He runs everything like that. But the part about it that wins me over is that the fellow is relentlessly fair. He treats you no differently whether you are Chinese or non-Chinese, rich or poor, ugly or pretty. He’s simply efficient and fair through and through. I always feel good about myself after I leave the establishment, as if I have been handled with endless tough love. It’s a fascinating and satisfying concept he’s got going there.
Egyptian Wonder
I’m always amazed at how much ancient civilizations achieved, often leaving us to pale in comparison. And I am even more amazed at their feats if you consider that they did not have one of our daily stimulants to get them going: coffee.
Mornings are the worst part of my day. When I first wake up, the Monster of Morning Dread is usually sitting right on top of me. He’s a heavy, gruesome fellow made of rusty metals that grind and clack as the gears of his innards churn and turn. He’s also part animal, almost bearlike, a sulky, nasty, mean-spirited bear who does his best to make me stay in bed with the covers over my head.
The only thing that can really conquer him is a large cup of coffee. Why that works so much better than orange juice, a cola, or tea is probably due to the large wallop of caffeine that it delivers. Somehow, coffee subdues that monster, driving him back into the walls of my apartment and out of sight until the next day.
So the fact that the ancient Egyptians got so much done without daily coffee is amazing. Perhaps they didn’t have a Morning Monster that came to roost on their shoulders as soon as the sun came up. Perhaps drinking all that Nile water scared him out of town and into exile in the desert. If only I could do the same!
Mornings are the worst part of my day. When I first wake up, the Monster of Morning Dread is usually sitting right on top of me. He’s a heavy, gruesome fellow made of rusty metals that grind and clack as the gears of his innards churn and turn. He’s also part animal, almost bearlike, a sulky, nasty, mean-spirited bear who does his best to make me stay in bed with the covers over my head.
The only thing that can really conquer him is a large cup of coffee. Why that works so much better than orange juice, a cola, or tea is probably due to the large wallop of caffeine that it delivers. Somehow, coffee subdues that monster, driving him back into the walls of my apartment and out of sight until the next day.
So the fact that the ancient Egyptians got so much done without daily coffee is amazing. Perhaps they didn’t have a Morning Monster that came to roost on their shoulders as soon as the sun came up. Perhaps drinking all that Nile water scared him out of town and into exile in the desert. If only I could do the same!
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Rediscovery
For decades, my life has been free of something that I thought I would never miss again: peanut butter. After childhood, I simply quit eating it. It was never a special treat for me, and it certainly wasn’t the healthiest thing in the world to eat.
But the past just roped me back in. While at the grocery store lately, I discovered that they had dedicated a small part of one shelf to real American peanut butter, both creamy and crunchy.
So I bought a jar and also invested in a jar of strawberry jam. I rushed home, mixed together several large dollops of the two of them. I made myself a sandwich, and was amazed at how satisfying it was. Just downright satisfying, as rewarding as a succulent piece of steak.
Since then, peanut butter has again become a regular part of my life. It’s such as easy food, just waiting for you anytime of the day or night. Of course, there’s the horrible downside of extra inches on my waistline, and this is a challenge I will have to face up to pretty soon. But, until then, I am going to spoil myself as much as I can.
But the past just roped me back in. While at the grocery store lately, I discovered that they had dedicated a small part of one shelf to real American peanut butter, both creamy and crunchy.
So I bought a jar and also invested in a jar of strawberry jam. I rushed home, mixed together several large dollops of the two of them. I made myself a sandwich, and was amazed at how satisfying it was. Just downright satisfying, as rewarding as a succulent piece of steak.
Since then, peanut butter has again become a regular part of my life. It’s such as easy food, just waiting for you anytime of the day or night. Of course, there’s the horrible downside of extra inches on my waistline, and this is a challenge I will have to face up to pretty soon. But, until then, I am going to spoil myself as much as I can.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Friday, October 16, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Burning Content
I remember as a child not liking tomatoes. They left a flat, watery taste in my mouth, and their texture was somehow unsatisfying. I tried to learn to like them, but with not much luck. At some point, I just started avoiding them unless they were forced upon me.
But then in early adulthood, 20 years of age or so, all that changed. For some reason, tomatoes suddenly filled my mouth with a light and sparkling flavor. Since then I have always enjoyed them immensely.
Now something similar has happened with candles. Up to this point in life, I found candles bothersome, cloying and illogical. After all, why use a candle when the wonder of modern lighting is at your fingertips.
But now that has changed as well. Burning a candle after I come home from work gives me a great sense of contentment, erasing a lot of the abrasiveness encountered throughout the day. I even like scented ones, and scented ones of all colors. Almost ridiculously, I find myself shopping for them, looking for new scents, different sizes, different burn techniques. Right now, I have two different aromas burning, one peach and one called Fresh Breeze (now that leaves your imagination wide open, doesn’t it?).
Candlelight is certainly comforting, making bulb light feel somehow corrosive. Perhaps there’s some deep-seated behavior from our cavepeople days that makes this feel so rewarding. After all, an apartment or house is little more than a glorified cave, and a little candlelight never did any of them any harm.
But then in early adulthood, 20 years of age or so, all that changed. For some reason, tomatoes suddenly filled my mouth with a light and sparkling flavor. Since then I have always enjoyed them immensely.
Now something similar has happened with candles. Up to this point in life, I found candles bothersome, cloying and illogical. After all, why use a candle when the wonder of modern lighting is at your fingertips.
But now that has changed as well. Burning a candle after I come home from work gives me a great sense of contentment, erasing a lot of the abrasiveness encountered throughout the day. I even like scented ones, and scented ones of all colors. Almost ridiculously, I find myself shopping for them, looking for new scents, different sizes, different burn techniques. Right now, I have two different aromas burning, one peach and one called Fresh Breeze (now that leaves your imagination wide open, doesn’t it?).
Candlelight is certainly comforting, making bulb light feel somehow corrosive. Perhaps there’s some deep-seated behavior from our cavepeople days that makes this feel so rewarding. After all, an apartment or house is little more than a glorified cave, and a little candlelight never did any of them any harm.
Monday, October 12, 2009
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Monday, October 05, 2009
Sunday, October 04, 2009
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Monday, September 28, 2009
White to Ashes
The first time I touched a cotton ball,
I noticed that it was soft, delicate.
The cotton threads clung slightly
to the grooves of my fingerprints,
as if someone were raking their nails
across a chalkboard without making any sound.
But the longer I caressed the cotton ball,
the less I could feel it.
Instead, my finger seemed to get heavier and heavier
as if someone were placing a tiny ball of lead
on my finger with each stroke.
The weight eventually became so great
that I could no longer lift my finger.
I can feel a cotton ball once,
but not a thousand times, not a million times.
And it’s a good idea not to try.
It’s a slow, creeping form of self-murder,
And there is no unmurder.
I noticed that it was soft, delicate.
The cotton threads clung slightly
to the grooves of my fingerprints,
as if someone were raking their nails
across a chalkboard without making any sound.
But the longer I caressed the cotton ball,
the less I could feel it.
Instead, my finger seemed to get heavier and heavier
as if someone were placing a tiny ball of lead
on my finger with each stroke.
The weight eventually became so great
that I could no longer lift my finger.
I can feel a cotton ball once,
but not a thousand times, not a million times.
And it’s a good idea not to try.
It’s a slow, creeping form of self-murder,
And there is no unmurder.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Monday, September 21, 2009
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Loud, but ...
The apartment across the hall from mine is occupied by a very lively lady. She’s 40 years old or so and originates from Ghana. I have no problem with her, but she is very loud. However, it doesn’t bother me much because it is a very happy loudness.
It is simply impossible for her to do anything quietly. On weekend nights, I’ve resigned myself to lots of partying until around midnight. This goes on every Friday and Saturday night. Lots of friends, relatives and everyone else it seems drops by for a few hours.
I probably would not notice it so much if she shut the door to the apartment. But it’s a small 1-room apartment that can hold no more than 8 or 9 people (standing, not sitting), and 15 to 20 people always show up. The only way to accommodate them all is to open the door and let them spill into the hall. So, they are basically partying right outside my door.
Amazingly, none of these parties have generated any trouble. The partyers do emit a lot of good-natured laughing. Even though it is loud laughing, it is always in fun and devoid of meanness. Somehow, it makes me feel content, as if the world is indeed in perfect order. I occasionally fall asleep listening to it.
The amazing thing about it all is that no loud disagreements or fights break out. That’s why I have come to be amazed by lady who lives there. She must have a very strong talent for keeping human relationships running smoothly. I could probably learn something from her.
It is simply impossible for her to do anything quietly. On weekend nights, I’ve resigned myself to lots of partying until around midnight. This goes on every Friday and Saturday night. Lots of friends, relatives and everyone else it seems drops by for a few hours.
I probably would not notice it so much if she shut the door to the apartment. But it’s a small 1-room apartment that can hold no more than 8 or 9 people (standing, not sitting), and 15 to 20 people always show up. The only way to accommodate them all is to open the door and let them spill into the hall. So, they are basically partying right outside my door.
Amazingly, none of these parties have generated any trouble. The partyers do emit a lot of good-natured laughing. Even though it is loud laughing, it is always in fun and devoid of meanness. Somehow, it makes me feel content, as if the world is indeed in perfect order. I occasionally fall asleep listening to it.
The amazing thing about it all is that no loud disagreements or fights break out. That’s why I have come to be amazed by lady who lives there. She must have a very strong talent for keeping human relationships running smoothly. I could probably learn something from her.
Friday, September 18, 2009
More than just a Woof
The world is full of theories, rumors, hearsay and first-person accounts of making contact with space aliens. But few of them hold water, so I decided to come up with a theory of my own. In my theory, the aliens are already here, living among us and, sometimes, with us. Some have been here much longer than we have.
Now you may be asking what those aliens look like. All you have to do is look at all the wonderful animals around you. Those are the aliens, but it is hard to imagine them as such since they have been here so much longer than us and they are such a normal part of our everyday life. And that is exactly their plan.
If you find this theory a bit goofy, then just watch a hummingbird the next time it shows up in your yard. Note how its flying ability is virtually inexplicable, yet it does it so perfectly, stopping, starting, zooming, and keeping a close eye on you the entire time. It probably understands you much better than you it.
If that is not enough proof for you, then take a minute to think about your house pets, your cat, your dog. Have you noticed how perfectly these creatures mold themselves around your life, making you feel needed and loved when no one else seems to. And these animals understand you so well, at times seeming to read your mind and also to control you.
So the next time you find yourself getting annoyed by something in life, remember who’s here on earth with you. Take a second to think about exactly what that animal is and how it gives you so much. A space alien can be a very wonderful thing, sleeping there next to you.
Now you may be asking what those aliens look like. All you have to do is look at all the wonderful animals around you. Those are the aliens, but it is hard to imagine them as such since they have been here so much longer than us and they are such a normal part of our everyday life. And that is exactly their plan.
If you find this theory a bit goofy, then just watch a hummingbird the next time it shows up in your yard. Note how its flying ability is virtually inexplicable, yet it does it so perfectly, stopping, starting, zooming, and keeping a close eye on you the entire time. It probably understands you much better than you it.
If that is not enough proof for you, then take a minute to think about your house pets, your cat, your dog. Have you noticed how perfectly these creatures mold themselves around your life, making you feel needed and loved when no one else seems to. And these animals understand you so well, at times seeming to read your mind and also to control you.
So the next time you find yourself getting annoyed by something in life, remember who’s here on earth with you. Take a second to think about exactly what that animal is and how it gives you so much. A space alien can be a very wonderful thing, sleeping there next to you.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
Monday, September 14, 2009
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Here Longer Than Planned
When I first arrived, the night sky was sprinkled with stars,
the city below full of lights, each holding a million promises,
so many in all I could never fathom them.
But I noticed the lights were slowly vanishing,
one at a time, taking their promises with them.
The city grew darker and darker,
turning into isolated specks of white connected by black.
As sunup drew near, only a few lights were left,
enough to remember on one hand,
and each of them now bearing only a thimbleful of promises.
The sun began creeping up behind me,
its brightness gradually revealing what minutes before
had been hidden under the blanket of blackness.
I had no choice. I couldn’t delay any longer.
I set forth to find those few lights that had kept burning.
But I found none of them.
Light without darkness leaves no space for aliens.
I did the best I could, coming to terms with the visibility
and the things it showed me, some horrible
but some wonderful and worth all those lost promises,
the feel and smell of a dog, its tongue washing my face,
the taste of a peach right from the tree, and the magic of math.
I never found those last few lights
but quit searching.
There are so many other things to see, to do.
They’re here, waiting for me.
TT 2009
the city below full of lights, each holding a million promises,
so many in all I could never fathom them.
But I noticed the lights were slowly vanishing,
one at a time, taking their promises with them.
The city grew darker and darker,
turning into isolated specks of white connected by black.
As sunup drew near, only a few lights were left,
enough to remember on one hand,
and each of them now bearing only a thimbleful of promises.
The sun began creeping up behind me,
its brightness gradually revealing what minutes before
had been hidden under the blanket of blackness.
I had no choice. I couldn’t delay any longer.
I set forth to find those few lights that had kept burning.
But I found none of them.
Light without darkness leaves no space for aliens.
I did the best I could, coming to terms with the visibility
and the things it showed me, some horrible
but some wonderful and worth all those lost promises,
the feel and smell of a dog, its tongue washing my face,
the taste of a peach right from the tree, and the magic of math.
I never found those last few lights
but quit searching.
There are so many other things to see, to do.
They’re here, waiting for me.
TT 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Singalong
One Dozen Country-Western Titles Just Waiting for Some Lyrics:
My Nitty Ain’t Got no Gritty
XXXL Love
Nun With a Gun
He’s Gone Huntin’, But It Smells Mighty Fishy
I Got Life, But Nary a Wife
Bird Flu, Swine Flu, You Flu
Hollywood’s Fine, But Nashville’s Mine
She Stole My Heart and That Ain’t The Only Part
Smokin’ and Tokin’
Death Row Love
Man-Eatin’ Catfish
Gotta Big Ass, But a Much Bigger Heart
My Nitty Ain’t Got no Gritty
XXXL Love
Nun With a Gun
He’s Gone Huntin’, But It Smells Mighty Fishy
I Got Life, But Nary a Wife
Bird Flu, Swine Flu, You Flu
Hollywood’s Fine, But Nashville’s Mine
She Stole My Heart and That Ain’t The Only Part
Smokin’ and Tokin’
Death Row Love
Man-Eatin’ Catfish
Gotta Big Ass, But a Much Bigger Heart
Friday, September 11, 2009
Tuesday, September 08, 2009
Nutty Day
Today turned out to be a very pleasant, fluid, unplanned sort of day. I had to leave work at 4:30 because we are not allowed to work one minute of overtime until the economic crisis disappears. So I put in my time, walked to the bus and headed home.
But I quickly changed plans. The day was so absolutely beautiful that sitting around in an apartment would be a sin. The sky was crystal blue and the temperature was hovering around the 70 degree mark.
Given those conditions, I decided having dinner outside would be a wonderful thing to do. So I decided to head down to one of my favorite spots downtown: a somewhat funky, somewhat haphazard Vietnamese restaurant with a tiny Biergarten. Despite that description, the food there is great and cheap.
Yet I never got there. Instead, I took a stroll down the street, which was full of fruit and vegetable businesses that display their goods outside. I love looking at all the tasty things there. After passing two of them, I came upon one that was selling fresh, baby okra at an unbelievably low price. I had to have some, so I filled a bag full and went in to pay.
As I stood in line to pay, I spotted some hazelnut brittle on sale. It’s just like peanut brittle, but with hazelnuts. No peanut brittle was available, but didn’t bother me for long because I spotted some almond brittle, pistachio brittle, and mixed nut brittle right alongside the hazelnut brittle.
The line was moving fast , so I grabbed as many of the various kinds of brittle that I could hold and stood there trying not to let any of them slip to the floor. Fortunately, I succeeded.
Why I went crazy for all that brittle is a mystery to me, though I doubt that it will last long. It’s the kind of thing that will make me obsess for it day and night.
Anyway, I left the store with my okra and brittle, and decided to go to dinner before the brittle won all of my attention. As fate would have it, I ended up going to a completely different restaurant than I had planned, although it was still a Vietnamese restaurant. The food was great and low, low calorie, so I felt no guilt by finishing the evening with a couple bars of pistachio and hazelnut brittle. Almond will have to wait until tomorrow. Maybe.
But I quickly changed plans. The day was so absolutely beautiful that sitting around in an apartment would be a sin. The sky was crystal blue and the temperature was hovering around the 70 degree mark.
Given those conditions, I decided having dinner outside would be a wonderful thing to do. So I decided to head down to one of my favorite spots downtown: a somewhat funky, somewhat haphazard Vietnamese restaurant with a tiny Biergarten. Despite that description, the food there is great and cheap.
Yet I never got there. Instead, I took a stroll down the street, which was full of fruit and vegetable businesses that display their goods outside. I love looking at all the tasty things there. After passing two of them, I came upon one that was selling fresh, baby okra at an unbelievably low price. I had to have some, so I filled a bag full and went in to pay.
As I stood in line to pay, I spotted some hazelnut brittle on sale. It’s just like peanut brittle, but with hazelnuts. No peanut brittle was available, but didn’t bother me for long because I spotted some almond brittle, pistachio brittle, and mixed nut brittle right alongside the hazelnut brittle.
The line was moving fast , so I grabbed as many of the various kinds of brittle that I could hold and stood there trying not to let any of them slip to the floor. Fortunately, I succeeded.
Why I went crazy for all that brittle is a mystery to me, though I doubt that it will last long. It’s the kind of thing that will make me obsess for it day and night.
Anyway, I left the store with my okra and brittle, and decided to go to dinner before the brittle won all of my attention. As fate would have it, I ended up going to a completely different restaurant than I had planned, although it was still a Vietnamese restaurant. The food was great and low, low calorie, so I felt no guilt by finishing the evening with a couple bars of pistachio and hazelnut brittle. Almond will have to wait until tomorrow. Maybe.
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Friday, September 04, 2009
No-Iron Man
Autumn swept into town last night. Actually, it did not have to do much sweeping because summer never really showed up here this year. It was the mildest summer I have ever experienced. There were a few days when the temp reached the upper 80s, but the nights always cooled down enough that I needed to sleep under a blanket or two.
So I wore a long-sleeve shirt all summer, just in case the weather dropped down into the 70s or 60s while I was at work or someplace else, and that did indeed happen. So that gave me good reason to wear all those shirts that I bought back in June.
Of course, long-sleeve dress shirts do have a severe downside: You have to iron them!
But I took the easy way out and took them to the cleaner down the street. I handed them 17 shirts on a Monday and picked them up on a Friday. It was so wonderful. They were all starchy clean and professionally pressed. And they only charged me one euro per shirt, a special price given only to those who bring in 10 or more shirts at a time.
What a magnificent system! Quick, painless, high-quality and unbelievably reasonable prices. Government should learn to work this way.
So I wore a long-sleeve shirt all summer, just in case the weather dropped down into the 70s or 60s while I was at work or someplace else, and that did indeed happen. So that gave me good reason to wear all those shirts that I bought back in June.
Of course, long-sleeve dress shirts do have a severe downside: You have to iron them!
But I took the easy way out and took them to the cleaner down the street. I handed them 17 shirts on a Monday and picked them up on a Friday. It was so wonderful. They were all starchy clean and professionally pressed. And they only charged me one euro per shirt, a special price given only to those who bring in 10 or more shirts at a time.
What a magnificent system! Quick, painless, high-quality and unbelievably reasonable prices. Government should learn to work this way.
Thursday, September 03, 2009
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Well Dell
So back to the word world for a while. I just unpacked and got my spiffy new Dell computer set up and running. To be honest, it has been sitting in the middle of the floor for a month, just waiting for me to get around to it. I had the time, but not the courage. All the wires that must be hooked up and software installed is menacing, menacing to me.
But, to my surprise, everything worked smoothly on my first try. I found all the right connectors for the wires and all the software programs let themselves be installed error-free on my first attempt.
But I have not let this go to my head. In reality, I know that Dell has simply gotten so good at eliminating those nagging little headaches that even an amateur like me can succeed. So kudos to Dell (and that may be the one and only time that I ever praise a computer company).
But, to my surprise, everything worked smoothly on my first try. I found all the right connectors for the wires and all the software programs let themselves be installed error-free on my first attempt.
But I have not let this go to my head. In reality, I know that Dell has simply gotten so good at eliminating those nagging little headaches that even an amateur like me can succeed. So kudos to Dell (and that may be the one and only time that I ever praise a computer company).
Monday, August 31, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Friday, August 21, 2009
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
This is a picture of the very, very, very expensive glass pig that I bought in Venice. I don't know why I bought him, but I liked him and bought him. Just that simple. So now he resides in the middle of my desk at work, where I can consult him about troubling issues. He doesn't talk (or grunt) much, but he is an extraordinarily good listener. I get the sense that my fellow co-workers find all of this a little unusual, because the pig has been sitting there for more than a month now, and not a one of them has asked about him or even commented. Just plain, simple, beautiful silence.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Dig Cam
I finally bought a digital camera. Now I'm trying to figure out how and when all of the tiny little buttons have to be pushed correctly. So here is a picture of one of my most recent paintings.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
A-hunting we shall go!
It seems like 90% of the entries in this blog are about food, and here's another one:
One activity that I really enjoy is eating pistachios. Yes, they taste great, but that's not the only reason. There's a non-nutritional aspect that is just as satisfying about it all.
If you want to be a truly efficient pistachio eater, the proper way to go about it is to pour the bag of pistachios into one bowl and then use a second, empty bowl to throw the shells into after you get the nut out.
But I prefer the way that makes you work a bit: Just use one bowl, i.e. throw the empty shells back into the same bowl that the uneaten nuts are still in. Sooner or later, you are going to reach a point where finding the uneaten nuts among the empty shells becomes a challenge.
That's the part I really enjoy. As the number of empty shells overtakes the uneaten nuts, I am forced to hunt through the hulls until I find another uneaten nut. The longer this goes on, the harder the task becomes, yet the more I enjoy it. Finding just one more pistachios becomes my one and only objective in life. I search and search, and, oh great joy!, I find yet one more.
Ultimately, of course, all of this has to come to an end. There reaches a point where you do indeed find the very last pistachio. Yes, there is a slight sense of disappointment that comes with it, but, on the other hand, I feel like I have accomplished something -- something important! And the hunt was so much fun!
One activity that I really enjoy is eating pistachios. Yes, they taste great, but that's not the only reason. There's a non-nutritional aspect that is just as satisfying about it all.
If you want to be a truly efficient pistachio eater, the proper way to go about it is to pour the bag of pistachios into one bowl and then use a second, empty bowl to throw the shells into after you get the nut out.
But I prefer the way that makes you work a bit: Just use one bowl, i.e. throw the empty shells back into the same bowl that the uneaten nuts are still in. Sooner or later, you are going to reach a point where finding the uneaten nuts among the empty shells becomes a challenge.
That's the part I really enjoy. As the number of empty shells overtakes the uneaten nuts, I am forced to hunt through the hulls until I find another uneaten nut. The longer this goes on, the harder the task becomes, yet the more I enjoy it. Finding just one more pistachios becomes my one and only objective in life. I search and search, and, oh great joy!, I find yet one more.
Ultimately, of course, all of this has to come to an end. There reaches a point where you do indeed find the very last pistachio. Yes, there is a slight sense of disappointment that comes with it, but, on the other hand, I feel like I have accomplished something -- something important! And the hunt was so much fun!
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