Tripping the chickens

Following is an excerpt from Marilyn’s autobiography, Splashes of Rainbows and Feathers.

The milking barn had been built many years before my parents bought our place. I loved the old barn, and spent many hours exploring the hayloft. The barn smelled of hay and milk, a smell I came to love.

In the summertime, the big door to the barn was left open. Mom’s setting hens would wander in there and make nests in the straw. Being a curious and sometimes-mischievous farm girl, I would wander in there, looking to see what fun I could stir up. When I saw those old hens sitting on their nests, I’d get ideas!

One particular day, Tim and I devised what we thought was a fun game with those hens!

Tim and I strung baling twine up and down the sides of the open door to the barn, one layer over another. When we were finished, the only way to get in or out of the door was to crawl under or over our twine trap!

I gave Tim an old broom and told him to go behind the hens and chase them off their nests! Tim went in slowly and the hens saw him. They hunkered down in their nests of straw and began to cluck softly. Tim pounded the straw behind them with the broom. They clucked and squawked and flew off their nests. Straw and dirt flew everywhere! The more the hens squawked and flew around, the harder Tim hit the straw. He soon had all the hens off their nests and tried to “herd” them toward the open barn door.

I stood outside the door and watched as the hens tried to fly over the twine we’d strung up! The air was filled with feathers, dirt and straw. The hens tried their hardest to fly over the layers of twine. The hens made an unbelievable racket when they either got hung up in the layers of twine or escaped, fleeing for their lives!

I laughed so hard I could hardly stand upright! Tim was laughing hysterically back in the barn! I can only imagine how this must have sounded from the house.

Of course our mother did not miss all this commotion and racket. She ran across the yard, yelling the entire time! Mom did not find our antics at all funny because these were her laying hens. She gave us quite a stern speech and threatened to have Dad tan our hides when he came home. After getting such a fright, the hens didn’t lay one solitary egg for days!

Patty the Pengoosatross

My wife left me [Steve] today. Though we live in the U.S. of A., she is headed for Argentina. She muttered something about the gauchos and walked out the door.

In truth, she is on a sojourn, not a rebellious abandonment. My wife, I call her Patty because that is what her parents always called her, was born in Argentina. She is returning to her place of birth, back to the old pampas stomping grounds.

Penguins trek back to their place of birth, too. Remember March of the Penguins
Every March, through an inborn instinct, the little penguins would start asking questions, like “Where am I from, Daddy? What is my purpose in life?” Of course, the answer to the second question was, “You have no purpose.” For the first question, though, the parents and aunts and uncles and next-door neighbors had an answer: “Here, let me show you.” So they all packed their fresh tuxedos and woolen mittens and took a long walk. They walked all month. This is what is known as The March of the Penguins.

You may think I have gone off track from the story. No. The point is that Patty is just like the penguin. Except for the nice suit. And except she is going in November instead of March.

Patty is also like the goose. How could this be? Because she is flying, not walking. Geese are forever migrating, always flying in that “V” formation. When the weather in the north gets cold, they fly south. By the time they get to their destination, it is so hot that they turn around and go back north.

Patty and her family, from various parts of the U.S. of A., will meet in Miami before their flight to Buenos Aires. Does this mean that Patty is like the flamingo? Well, she does love wearing pink. However, if she stands on one leg she tends to tip over. Thus, after due consideration, I have to conclude that Patty is not like the flamingo.

Patty will be going with her dad and her three brothers on this hiatus. Only Patty was born in Argentina, and thus only she is on this birthplace-sojourn thing. However, the family lived there for many years during the children’s formative years. Thus the inner child of all four siblings lives in Argentina. The inner child of Patty’s dad lives in Colorado, but a big part of his heart still lives in Argentina.

Patty’s mom has passed on to Heaven, but she will be so utterly close in heart and spirit, that she is truly traveling with them. Thus, the whole family will be sojourning to a very significant time in their lives, a place and time with so many memories that this beautiful family shares in such deep ways.

This will be an incredibly fantastic trip. First is the fact that the family will be on this adventure together. Secondly, the sites will be strikingly beautiful. Thirdly, they will be visiting with old friends who the sibs haven't seen in 37 years! (Dad visited them just 28 years ago, so it's just not going to be the same for him.)

One very beautiful place they will be is Patagonia, way down at the bottom of South America. It's further south than Australia or even New Zealand. For a few days they will be staying in Ushuaia. This is the southernmost city in the world! Now that’s really down under, mate.

In Patagonia they will see albatrosses. These birds have the longest wingspan among all birds! They soar gracefully through the sky as majestic as something — well, something very majestic. Is Patty like the albatross? You betcha. The emotions from the depth of her soul, from her inner child in fact, will be soaring like the albatross as she surveys the beauty all around her.

And guess who else lives in Patagonia. The penguins! Coincidence? I don’t think so.

So, to sum up, Patty is like the penguin. She is like the goose. And she is like the albatross. She is very much like the Pengoosatross.

Tortured Toy Story

We found the new Sid Phillips, the toy-torturing neighbor from Toy Story, when we went to Lucas, Kan., recently. Part of our tour included “The Garden of Isis”. This place would be creepy enough in the light, but we toured the place in the dark, the artist, Mri Pilar, leading the tour with a flashlight.

Artist said that Isis represented resurrection and recycling, so was an appropriate title for her work. I her creations made my skin crawl. Even though I love to recycle items myself, torturing what I find is not my style.

She had covered the walls of this house with silver fabric, furthering the eerie effect. I wanted only to escape the horrible, toy-haunted house, but couldn’t see a way to do it. I was trapped within the tour group and Hubby was game to keep going.

When we passed through the bathroom, artist pointed out a bathtub full of naked dolls. She said they were awaiting their transformation into art. I imagined them shivering and shaking in fear of what was about to happen to them. Poor things.

House previously belonged to Florence Deeble, who had created a rock garden outside. I would greatly have preferred to see the rock garden.

Not much protection

Next wind storm could well knock over this barn. I would not walk in this structure because I’m afraid it would fall over with me inside. Not a pretty picture.

When I walked to the other side, I burst out laughing when I saw the padlocked door. A few shakes would demolish this shed; why bother to lock it? As my father-in-law says, “Only honest people are deterred by locks.”

Living with a carnivore

Mr. Boo Kitty caught and killed a field mouse Saturday. I was amazed, but I shouldn’t have been. Boo has been declawed, but he doesn’t let that stop him. He still keeps his “claws” sharpened but has learned to defend his property from vermin without them. He pounces on the verminous creature and holds it down until his teeth can finish it off.

Of course, he never eats the creatures he kills. He just leaves them on the lawn for me to throw into the garden with my shovel. He’d rather eat cat food. Go figure. Mice are supposed to be the perfect kitty food, except for the icky diseases mice carry. Maybe that’s why he won’t eat them?

He definitely considers our house and yard as “his” property and he defends it. We had a stray appear occasionally for awhile. Stray earned the nickname “Beta Kitty” when Boo proved that he was Alpha Kitty. Boo would run at Beta, hissing and spitting, and Beta would run away. Soon, Beta would flee at the sight of Boo, whether Boo paid him any attention or not.

One day I came outside to find Boo preparing to fight off a German shepherd. This was not a battle I wanted my cat to fight. I got the hose and sprayed the dog until he fled. When dog departed, Boo strutted around, certain that he had defeated that dog all by himself.

Sometimes it’s hard to believe the purring creature sitting on my lap is such a lean, mean killing machine.

Eastern Hotel California

Years ago, my penchant for scary voices resulted in a permanent mark on my right hand.

In my first college semester, an acquaintance heard me do an impression of the Wicked Witch of the West. Her friend was looking for people to staff a haunted house for a night. Was I interested?

I was very interested.

The man in charge, Dave, had found an abandoned house in a valley. House was surrounded by creepy overgrown trees and weeds, a perfect setting for the night’s adventure. Some of the rooms were unsafe for entry, so no one was allowed to move without a guide carrying a flashlight.

I portrayed a demented prisoner who had escaped and been recaptured. A guard, armed with a (thankfully unloaded) shotgun, was posted to see that I would not escape. I was made up to look as if I had sustained a terrible beating during my recapture and I was wearing manacles and shackles. A belly chain was the only costume piece missing.

First two groups came through our room without incident. In between the second and third groups, I decided that clawing the wall would look very scary and demented. So I tried it.

Not only did clawing the wall look demented, it was demented. I scratched off some wallpaper one time before I caught my palm on a nail. I jerked it off and continued my act, although I avoided any more contact with the wall.

Once that group was gone, I sat down in the dark and gingerly assessed my injury. I could feel a big hunk of hand protruding out the hole and a trickle of blood oozing out of it.

I told the “guard” that she had better get some help. She panicked, but at last got word to someone to help us.

When Dave showed up, he shone flashlight on my hand. I am not particularly queasy, but the sight of that big protrusion unsettled my stomach. Dave was quite unsettled as well.

We had to climb over a barbed-wire fence to reach his van and, of course, my pant leg got caught. We had an awful time getting me unhooked. Since I only had use of one hand, I was little help in extricating myself.

He was near panic by the time he got me into his van.

Once we arrived hospital, Dave left and returned to haunted house.

The town was very small and the hospital had no doctor present. My makeup was too convincing. While I waited, the nurse kept trying to treat my facial cuts and bruises. I kept repeating that my hand was injured, not my face. She would not believe me; she seemed to think that I was delirious. She said I had to have been in a motorcycle accident. I must have suffered a head injury, because I obviously didn’t know what I was talking about.

By this time, my hand was seriously throbbing and hurting. Nurse insisted upon washing off my makeup, but did nothing to treat my hand. No painkillers, no cleaning of the wound, nothing. Once the makeup was removed, she stopped insisting that I was a motorcycle accident victim. At least we were making some progress.

Finally, the doctor showed up. He looked at my hand and shook his head. “What did you do that for?” he asked.

How was I supposed to answer that?

“We’ve got to stitch this,” he said. “A couple stitches is no big deal; you don’t need any painkiller for this.”

Obviously he wasn’t working on his own hand.

The stitches weren’t particularly painful, but the feeling of thread going through flesh was indescribably disgusting. At least I didn’t look so much like a freak with the blob now reduced to relative smoothness.

He ordered the nurse to give me a tetanus shot, then left. I think Nurse missed the nursing school lesson on how to give shots. I asked her to inject my injured right arm. I wanted to have just one hurting arm instead of two. She refused. “Our protocol says we must inject the left arm.”

I said, “I’ll never tell if you inject my right arm!”

She gave me a very dirty look, then proceeded to stick me several times with the same needle in my left deltoid. She didn’t even swab injection site with alcohol. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t just get it over with. Instead, she poked me repeatedly before finally driving home the needle.

A few minutes later, the rest of the haunted house staff arrived. We were 1½ hours from home and were all quite ready to leave. Unfortunately, I had no way to heat the injection site or cool the nail print site. Hospital gave me no painkillers or antibiotics.

By the time we arrived home, after one of the longest trips of my life, I was feverish and had little use of either arm. Both my right hand and my left shoulder were inflamed and infected. I couldn’t lift my left arm or close my right hand without extreme pain. I spent the next two days on my back in the campus infirmary while they pumped antibiotics into my system and tried to reduce the inflammation.

That haunted house continues to haunt me. Nearly 30 years later, the scar I received there still aches, usually for no apparent reason.

Apparently, that building was an eastern version of The Hotel California, where “you can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”

Halloween bunny

This rabbit posed patiently for me while I took several photos. When I downloaded this one, I burst out laughing.

Mr. Red-Eyed Rabbit is not one I’d want to meet on Halloween night! He appears to be possessed.

I could use Photoshop’s red-eye removal feature, but I like the “possessed-rabbit” picture.

Years ago, we covered a football game involving the Jackrabbits. At halftime’s end, ‘Rabbit fans formed a lane for their players’ return to the field. As the players ran through the lane, fans chanted, “Rabbits! Rabbits! Rabbits!” The chant sounded more like “Rabids! Rabids! Rabids!”

Maybe this rabbit was the rabid rabbit they were chanting about.

Teacher 0, Sleeper 1

I had to persistently work on keeping one of my students awake in yesterday’s first hour. Every time I’d get him to sit up, he’d have his head back on the desk in moments.

He sat in the exact same place in the room as did a student in my first-hour class years ago when I student taught. And he was doing the same activity as that student.

Every morning, that student from long ago would come in and immediately drop his head to the desk and instantly fall asleep. I was greatly annoyed by this behavior. It set a very bad example for other students and, truthfully, it was very discouraging to me.

Finally, I requested advice from the other teachers. They told me to stand next to him and drop the largest book I could find.

I located the biggest teacher’s edition the classroom had and set it on the corner of my desk. I was primed to give him a big wake-up call. My mind lingered on the delicious sight of him jumping several inches out of his chair, perhaps even to the point of carrying his desk with him. Oh, it was a glorious picture. Teacher 1, Sleeper 0.

The next morning, the student came in and actually stayed awake. He sat up in his desk and participated in class. Any other day, I would have been delighted. But on this day, my reaction was more like “Darn!”

My student teaching time was nearly up and I never had the opportunity to drop the book again. What an anticlimax. My lovely picture burst just like a soap bubble.

Teacher 0, Sleeper 1. Sort of.

"It's Mom!"

Friend Cali recently visited a funeral home as part of her nursing training. In consequence, the conversation last night became rather “funereal”.

At one point, we started talking about whether burial or cremation were the better option. Is cremation really cheaper?

Amber said she would like to be cremated and have a jewel made from her ashes. I had never heard of such a thing. (It’s true.) We talked about this for a bit.

Cali said, “Can you imagine having someone compliment you on the stone in your ring and answering, ‘Yeah, it’s Mom!’”

We agreed that such a conversation would rate highly on the “Ewww factor” scale.

Great Fall of 2008

Early October. Indian summer. Leaves changing colors with each stroke of God’s brush. All is well with the world. I [Steve] tuck myself into bed after a glorious day.

Midnight alert. I am hungry; I am thirsty. Out of bed. Upstairs for food and drink. Going back downstairs. Lose balance. The Great Fall of 2008.

My wife, Patty, heard a loud thumping noise at midnight and came running. To her horror, she saw that I had fallen down the stairs yet again. There I was at the bottom of the stairs. I had fallen from about the fifth stair from the bottom. With gravity and physics being what they are, the fall’s effect was magnified 10 times.

My wife and I are continually suffering accidents. We’re not those extreme sports people who are expected to have extreme injuries. We are simply trying to make our way through life. People will tell you we are terrific wimps. Don’t believe them. We are true Victims of Pain.

I was transporting my beverage in a large insulated cup. The really hard, brittle plastic type. Not the soft squish-as-you-wish plastic. Upon impact the cup shattered into devilish shards which slashed long bloody scratches into my abdomen. I landed hard on the right side of my ribcage, the cage which God had the foresight to create to protect one’s heart. My knees had multiple layers of skin burned off
(i.e., they were scraped). The tip of one finger was painfully smashed. But most dramatic of all was the fork event. I had been carrying a fork which complemented the consumption of food. The seemingly-innocent eating instrument I had been carrying showed its true nature and embedded itself into my chin. I released my hand from it, but it remained in my chin. A little tug and it decided to come out under such physical duress. Its departure was followed by copious amounts of blood.

I am not making up any part of this Great Fall. The fork incident may have been the strangest, grossest thing that has ever happened to me. Ironically, it was the only injury which never caused me pain.

Patty got me to bed, cleaned up the blood, patched up my knees, and stuck cotton balls into the holes in my chin. (I am exaggerating here.) She gave me a peck on the forehead and said, in a sweet little voice, “Remember, Honey, it’s through pain by which we grow.” (Oh, I guess she said this after the visit to the doctor. What do I know what she said that night? I was nearly comatose from shock and pain.)

Though she said this, Patty and I are actually both very sensitive people, and the Witness of Pain suffers just as much the Victim of Pain.

Anyway, four full days passed with incredibly painful ribs and knees. Actually the ribs didn’t hurt too much if I kept my body perfectly still in certain positions to which my ribs did not object. Any movement, though, was knife-stabbing pain.

On the fifth day my ribs suddenly started feeling much better. I would not have gone to the doctor except I had already made the appointment.

I went to the doctor’s office. After they did much poking and prodding around my ribs, I have returned to my original pain level. I hate when they push down somewhere and you nearly jump through the ceiling. They push down again and casually ask, “Is this where it hurts?” Push. Another jump. “Right there, eh?”

In writing this, I am not looking for sympathy, though greatly earned. I also did not fall in order to have a blog entry on Roxie’s site. I am writing about the Great Fall of 2008 simply to help you, the reader. I want to use my pain for your benefit. If you should ever fracture or bruise a rib, follow these instructions:

1. Don’t move.

2. Don’t see a doctor. Other than inducing further pain, a doctor can do nothing to treat your injury.

3. Take sleeping pills and avoid wakefulness at all costs.

4. For pain, take two aspirin with Coca-Cola while listening to rock-n-roll or popular jazz. WARNING: This is not an FDA-approved treatment. Avoid heavy machinery, sharp objects and stairways during use of this treatment. Possible side effects may include, but are not limited to, runny nose, stinging eyes, systemic rash, migraine
headaches, rib pain, heart failure or death.

5. Never cough, sneeze, or hiccup. Boy, does that hurt.

By the way, I am currently pricing in-home elevators.

Oh the horror!

Bayou Renaissance Man’s horror story about his toilet reminded me of a couple of our own.

At one of the newspapers we formerly owned, a lady asked to use the toilet. She was a larger, larger lady. After she left, I went to the bathroom. When I sat down, the toilet bucked me off. I didn’t know that toilets could be bucking broncos, but this one certainly was. Until we could get a repairman, we had to approach the “throne” very gingerly.

Several years later, I noticed that our bathroom toilet was loose. Sitting on it gave its occupant an uneasy feeling, a new definition for rock and roll. Hubby called a plumber, but he arrived too late to save us from disaster.

House’s previous occupants had installed shag carpet throughout most of the house, including the bathroom. The toilet leaked all over this shag carpet. The floorboards were sopping wet as well. The stench was indescribable. Carpet and flooring had to go!

I had longed to rid our house of the awful carpet for several years. That calamity got it out of our bathroom. We had to install a new toilet and new linoleum.

That was the first step in a complete carpet removal project. Sometimes bad circumstances result in good outcomes.

Drinking apple cider

I miss Virginia in the spring and fall. I can do without Virginia summers and winters, but every year I long to see the flowering trees in the spring and the colorful leaves in the fall.

Every year I lived in Virginia, I made sure to travel the Blue Ridge Parkway at least once in October. I loved the winding roads and mountain views drenched in gorgeous fall colors.

One fine October day, Irene and I took that drive. We basked in the scenery, stopping to walk several trails. The day turned quite warm and we became quite thirsty.

Virginia’s Piedmont and Blue Ridge regions are dotted with produce stands. One stand had a large hand-lettered sign reading “APPLE CIDER”. We thought fresh apple cider sounded heavenly, the perfect thirst quencher.

We stopped and bought some, then drank it in gulps as we drove along. We were so parched that sipping was out of the question.

After awhile, the road began to look a bit hazy and fuzzy. Neither of us were sure which lane was which and we were very groggy.

Then the reality of our situation dawned on us: We had just purchased hard apple cider. We were both far too tipsy to continue driving.

Instead of continuing our journey, we had to stop at an abandoned gas station to sleep it off.

We were very cautious afterward to make sure which kind of cider we purchased.

One more sign that I'm not as young as I used to be

One of my students held up a Razr phone yesterday. She asked me, “Can you hear this?”

“No.”

She tried again. I still couldn’t hear her phone.

Another student asked, “Is that why you have your phone set to that awful high-pitched tone?”

“Yes, people over 25 can’t hear it.“

He said, “Mrs. V can hear it and she’s definitely over 25. But then, she can hear everything. You’d better not say anything in her classroom that you don’t want her to hear.”

Is that “teacher’s hearing?” If so, I definitely could use it.

The candle burned up my homework

Thursday I was an English teacher. One of the students was not journaling. When reprimanded, he said, “I don’t have a pencil.”

I said, “That is a lame excuse! You need to become more creative.”

Suddenly, my mind was back in my eighth-grade English class.

When we were seventh graders, Mrs. Redman had told us that she’d been teaching for over 30 years and was just a couple years from retirement.

“If you can give me an original excuse for not finishing your homework, I’ll give you an A for the day. But if you give me one I have not heard before, you’ll receive an F.”

We tried a few times to get by with excuses, but never found one she had not already heard.

In our eighth-grade year, we had a very bad snowstorm that knocked out power for a week, even for those of us who lived in town. Those who lived on farms were without power even longer.

When school resumed, Andy said that he hadn’t finished his homework because “I was working on it with a candle. The candle fell over and burned it up!”

Mrs. Redman burst out laughing. “I’ve never heard that one before! You get an A for the day.”

He said, “Can I get two A’s for the day? I really did my homework and was just joking.”

He got the second A.

On safari

We were in the middle of nowhere on our Sunday outing. Hubby decided he would dress in his safari hat. I’m not sure where he thought the lions were, but he looks like the big game hunter in this hat.

We were more likely to see a rattler than any kind of big cat. Fortunately, no snakes made their appearance.

We were walking in a ravine when he stepped into a side gulch and told me to snap this photo.

This hat was ironically a gag gift in a game of “Dirty Santa” at Christmas 2005. He wasn’t supposed to like it, but he certainly does. He had chances to take away other people’s gifts, which I thought were a better choice, but he would have nothing to do with anything but this hat.

Do all men have a “big game hunter” hidden deep inside?

Broken arm equals found pet

I [Steve] grew up in a town of about 3,000 people in Northern California. Town was a major destination for Bay-Area tourists because we had a large lake that welcomed fishermen and water skiers. My dad (now retired) was a family doctor there for about 35 years.

One summer my brother, about 16 years old at that time, had a job at a gas station. Are you old enough to remember the days when they pumped your gas for you, washed the windshield, and checked the oil? That’s what my brother did. One day a lonely dog showed up at the station. Dog had no tags and he knew of no way to find the owners unless they showed up looking for their dog. When no one showed up by day’s end, he brought the dog home.

Later that same summer, my dad was relaxing at home when the telephone rang. The phone rings a lot when your father is a small-town doctor who literally goes on house calls or to the hospital any time of the day, any day of the week. This call was from the hospital saying they had a boy with a broken arm.

As Dad was setting the arm, he talked to the boy to try to keep him as distracted as possible from the pain. During the conversation, he learned the family was from San Francisco enjoying a summer vacation.

“We brought my dog, too,” the boy said sadly. ”But he got lost and we can’t find him anywhere.”

My dad asked him to describe his dog.

Well, you can guess the end of the story: “The dog is at my house!” my dad exclaimed.

That’s a small town for you. And can you imagine that a boy breaking his arm was his good fortune?

Several years later the same thing happened to my sister when she went to college and was working at her job. She ended up bringing that dog home as well. I think our family must have some odor about us that dogs like.

Range on the home

Hubby and I went on an all-day outing with our friend Tonya yesterday. On our return, I saw this shed. The pattern of the roof’s shadow on the side of the building attracted me and I pulled off.

“My wife is attracted to these old buildings,” Hubby explained, “and is always having to stop to take pictures of them.” When we pulled into the drive, we found that the shed’s door was blocked by a range. Strange.

Oh, well. I’ve seen lots of strange objects in abandoned buildings.

I got out to take the pictures I desired. As I circled the building, he yelled out the window, “You could call this picture ‘Range on the Home’!”

Of course, that called for a song:

Oh, give me a range
Where the buffaloes are strange
And the deer are all deranged
Where often is heard
A tune with new words
And your ears are not safe,
No way.

Range, range on the home
Where the deer are all alone
Where often is heard
A tune with new words
And your ears are not safe,
No way.

Hubby said that this was awful doggerel, but he was laughing so hard that he could hardly read it.

A Sunday drive in the country

My Soul Brother and friend Steve writes his first guest post. His wife is Marilyn’s cousin, whom I referred to in the new profile picture post.

Sunday afternoon was beautiful this week on the Front Range, so I told my wife I’d like to take her on a 15-minute drive over to the new hospital to see the finished product. “When we get back, I’ll put some chicken on the barbie,” I said.

Patty liked the idea.

After we saw the hospital, it was too nice to go home. Instead, we went exploring for a while. We decided to drive out east of town and enjoy the countryside. Although not our intent, we were soon completely lost.

We eventually found a road going “sorta west” in the direction of home. It was a beautiful drive, so who cared if it was taking a while? Eventually, though, the question came: “Shouldn’t we be there by now?” Suddenly, literally without warning, the paved road turned into gravel. Oh, dear.

However, the street did have a name, and it seemed familiar. That street turned onto County Line Road. Apparently we were still in some county. Then we came to Cowpoke Road and knew we might be in trouble.

So we’re driving on this gravel road DIRECTLY into the sun, blinded. Too far right, we’re stuck in the deep gravel and some soft sand. Too far left, we could be driving into a head-on with a flatbed. Well, carry on.

“I’m sure the road we want is up here in this direction,” said Patty.

Then she exclaimed, “Is that a cow standing in the road up ahead?!”

How did I know? I couldn’t see. Pretty soon, though, I turned to her and commented, “There appears to be a cow standing in the road up ahead.” The biggest cow I had ever seen was standing directly in the center of the road. I slowed down and eventually stopped, looking at the cow. Bessie thought about it, then slowly sauntered off the road. I drove by, staring at the cow. Then she turned and looked straight at us, with menace in her eyes. I wasted no time getting out of there, seeing as Bessie wanted her road-spot back. I chose not to point out to her that the grass was “over there.”

It was evident we were getting nowhere. We’d stop at a farmhouse and make some inquiries. As we had been traveling what seemed like days, maybe we could also get some water and food and go to the bathroom. Nobody was at the first house except a big dog with a very mean bark. I drove down a long driveway to the next house. Upon arrival, five very yippy-yappy little dogs swarmed the car. I immediately turned around, while trying not to squash the yap out of one of the dogs with my front tire.

We finally decided to call it a loss and drive all the way back from whence we came. Along the way I had to stop and make water in a deserted spot on the road (well, all the spots were deserted along that stretch, come to think of it). Further on, we met old Bessie again. She had reclaimed her place smack-dab in the middle of the road. This time she refused to budge. We had no hay to give her. The appeal of our car horn landed on deaf ears. With barely enough road on the side, we carefully and fearfully drove around her. She still had the evil eye.

A pickup emerged on the horizon parked at the side of the road. Just when I thought I’d stop (who says real men don’t ask for directions?), I saw three guys wearing hunting caps. Did they hear me honk at Bessie? I kept going.

About two hours into our 15-minute drive, we found the road back to civilization. At this point, Patty took over the decision-making. “Go directly to Wendy’s,” she said. “I’m starving, I have to pee, and I’m not waiting for any gol-dang barbecue to cook up some chicken. I’m eating me a cow.”

That radiant glow

Until I used this photo in an illustration, I did not notice that the leaves glow. I swear that I did not do some special tricks in Photoshop to make that happen. I don’t know that much about Photoshop! And even if I did, I doubt I’d have the patience to draw glowing areas around each leaf.

The glow is just some natural lighting effect, God’s gift to this photographer.

Or maybe the sunflower is radioactive and I’ve received some as yet undiscovered supernatural powers from exposure to this thing?

KO'd in badminton

In front of Kansas City’s shuttlecock sculpture in 2004, about as close as I’ve ever gotten to badminton since I stopped taking PE.

I started substitute teaching again this week.

Thursday I was a PE teacher. I hated PE throughout school. I was almost always the slowest, clumsiest student and nearly always the last one chosen for any game requiring physical skill. Math was not my strong suit academically, but at least academic issues could often be hidden. Failures in PE were public. Very public.

I could empathize with those students who hung back and did not want to participate. I certainly didn’t when I was in their shoes.

As they attempted to play tennis, I thought of an incident during my school years.

My best friend Jean had about the same physical skill level that I did. We were usually partners for friendship’s sake, but also because we didn’t embarrass each other with our lack of athletic prowess.

We paired as a doubles team during a badminton unit and actually did reasonably well, climbing to the middle of our class tournament’s chart. I usually played in the forecourt while she took the back court.

Did I mention that I’m accident prone, that things happen to me?

During one match, a high serve came over the net. I leaped to make an overhead smash. When I connected on these (a hit-or-miss proposition), I usually scored. This time, Jean had much the same idea. I didn’t usually call for the shot because I was never sure I’d actually hit it.

Well, I did hit it. And she hit me right below the crown of my head. The next thing I knew, I was on the floor with my partner and the teacher standing over me.

I have never met anyone else who was KO’d by a badminton racket.

The photographer needs knee pads

The next time I take pictures in a field, I’m going to add knee pads to my attire, the kind with hard plastic on them. Kneeling on a goathead patch is very hard on the knees.

My feet are very calloused. I hate shoes and wouldn’t wear them if they weren’t a necessity. Even those hard feet don’t protect me from those sharp goathead thorns. My knees have tender skin. Thorns hurt!

The photographer wears a ball cap

The photographer wears work boots on her feet and a cap on her head. The cap keeps my hair out of my eyes and away from my lens.

Monday morning, I was trying to shoot a picture of a bashful sunflower, one with its head pointing toward the ground. Because I was holding the camera parallel to the ground, lens facing upward, I couldn’t see what I was shooting. When I looked at my screen after taking this picture, I laughed. Apparently, my cap thought that Monday morning was time for its close-up.

Where’s Cecil DeMille when you need him?

'Tartuffe' and 'The Full Monty'

For some reason, I thought of my college friend Lynn the other day. Every time I think of her, I remember the theater appreciation class we took together. The professor was a prim, stuffy old maid. Most class periods we saw videos of whatever play we were studying. Prof sat in the front row to deal with any technical difficulties.

One day, we watched “Tartuffe”. Actually, we heard all of it, but only saw part of it.

At some point in the play, a naked man appeared on screen. Immediately, Prof leaped up with a sheet of paper to cover his nakedness. She peered over the top of the paper to see when he would go away. He was on stage for some time. She would become engrossed in the video and the paper would slip downward, exposing the naked man.

“Ooh, ooh,” she said. “Oh, that’s disgusting! Why doesn’t he put on some clothes!”

When she would realize that she was no longer covering the nakedness, she would jump and jerk the paper upwards.

We were nearly rolling in the aisles, except that we couldn’t laugh outwardly. We knew that laughing out loud would break the spell, so we choked on it. Tears were streaming down our faces from the effort of suppressing belly laughs. Thankfully, all the lights were off so s