Fall on My Forearm

Other than a head shot of Hoyt Axton on my left deltoid and Natalie Wood on my right, I don't have any tattoos. Right now, however, it looks like I have a sleeve tattoo on my right arm. But it's a bruise; a huge and Furman purple bruise. And it's the best one I've ever had, including the one on my rib cage when I fell off a roof and had the fall broken by a brick wall a few years back in Georgia.

 

How bruised? We have a puppy. Her name is Lily. She is a rescue puppy. Her lineage is pit bull, gazelle, and sasquatch. She likes to go on what we call "tears," as in tearing across the meadow. It is a sight to behold when Lily goes on a tear; this beautiful, 30-pound puppy going full speed all over the place, purely for the joy of running fast.

 

Near the end of one of her tears last Sunday afternoon, she was finishing up and headed for the front porch. I put out my right arm so that she would stop. She did not. If I had known she was going to blast straight ahead, I would have set myself and tensed my arm. But I thought she would stop. She did not. As a result, she snapped through my arm.

 

The result of that plunge by the puppy resulted in what I would call "significant discomfort." My right arm made a funny, squishy sound as Lily barreled right on by. I thought my elbow was dislocated; but, when I looked at it, it looked normal. Then it occurred to me that I was going to pay a visit to the Emergency Room. I would rather memorize "The Song of Hiawatha" than see a doctor. But I could not bend my arm and the "significant discomfort" was growing. What to do? What to do?

 

My long-suffering wife, Lisa, came to the rescue. She got three Advil in me and packed my arm in ice at the point that seemed to be producing the most discomfort - at the base of my bicep and the top of my forearm.

 

Now, a few days later, I have full range of motion in my right arm, can push hard using triceps. Can not do much with that bicep, but it is getting better. I expect full recovery in a few days. The human body is "fearsomely and wonderfully made," the Bible says. When I look at my sleeve tat, I might add, "colorfully, too."

Lest not ye be judged...

Yesterday I was at the local laundromat. This because the Carenen Cottage is undergoing construction for an addition, which rendered our old laundry room nonexistent and the new laundry room not ready yet. It's a nice, clean, efficient laundromat with good machines that work. It costs around $15 to do our laundry. That's 60 quarters, enough to make me happy someone invented belts a few years ago. But I digress.

 

There was a frail, skinny, old man trying to do his laundry. He wore a baseball cap on his knobby head perched on a scrawny neck. His long-sleeved, faded shirt had a tear in the back exposing saggy skin. His pants were baggy and he wore scuffed, ratty shoes barely held together. He shuffled. I think he got there just before I did. He was fumbling with how the washing machines worked. I looked up and saw a lady come his way and I immediately went into my judgmental role. She was in her 30's, overweight, and spoke like a redneck and I judged her. There, it's out.

 

Then she pleasantly and kindly went about helping the man get his laundry done. Once the machines were going, she sat with him and struck up a conversation. I overheard him say that he was 90 years old, his wife had passed on, he was a World War II veteran, and he lived alone here in Travelers Rest. The two of them had a conversation while I read my James Lee Burke novel.

 

Time passed and the old man's laundry was washed and ready for the dryer. The lady kept helping, not doing, but helping. The old man was not incompetent. He was just very old, and the lady helped. I did nothing but watch and feel ashamed for not helping first, for letting someone else lead while I watched. Finally, the lady had to go, and an opportunity opened. When his clothes dried, I held two pillowcases open and we stuffed his clothes in. Finished, I put the two fat pillowcases in the back seat of his car and watched as the old man climbed behind the wheel of his rusty old gas guzzler and slowly drove away.

 

Then I went back to my book about the bayous, less ashamed than I had been, grateful for the guilt-driven opportunity to knock my self-centeredness back a notch or two. Appreciative for learning there's more to people than the way they look or talk. Uneasy about the next time something like that happens when I hope I can become more of a man.

Wildlife Warriors

I took a short stroll one recent morning to check the early-morning mail. Near the mailbox, I saw what I thought was an owl on the ground near the lane. It was not an owl. It was a hawk, and it appeared to be in some discomfort. My steel-trap mind seized on that assumption because the bird not only allowed me to approach closely, but it also showed no indication of flight.

What to do, what to do? First, let me say it was a beautiful bird with piercing talons, piercing beak, and piercing eyes that helped me realize it was a hawk, not an owl. Also, it was of good size and presented a somewhat intimidating appearance. Finally, I was at a loss as to how I should proceed. I couldn't leave it damaged and defenseless on the ground for some four-legged predator to take.

After some thought, which I try to avoid on a daily basis, it occurred to me that there might be a local wildlife organization that could intervene, so I went to Google and found "Wildlife Rehab" and gave them a call. I was put in touch with a nice lady who said she and her husband would come and get the bird if we could capture it, suggesting we throw a sheet or towel over it because that calms them down. Those approaches seldom calm me down, but when my LSW expertly tossed a white sheet, the bird stayed put. After that, an upside down laundry basket and a chunk of concrete secured the capture.

An hour later the couple from Wildlife Rehab showed up. The man simply picked up the bird by the talons and examined it without any concern for damage the raptor might inflict with that beak or claws. A close examination revealed a wound, maybe a gunshot or damage from being hit by a car, in the bird's underside that had become infected.There were flies and necrotized tissue. The woman identified the bird as a juvenile red-tailed hawk. When they left, there was optimism that the bird could be rehabilitated and released back into the wild.

Lisa and I named him, guessing on gender, "Raymond the Red-Tailed Raptor." Seemed dignified, somehow, for a predator of his lofty demeanor and appearance.

Yesterday morning, as we were enjoying our cappuccino/coffee morning beverage, I saw from my sitting position in the living room, a turtle making its way across our driveway that leads up an incline to the mailbox. Springing to my feet lest the beast sprint away, I capture a young box turtle, took him in for Lisa to admire, then released him into the wild near our woodpile, the direction he was heading. A male, we have named him "Bernard the Box Turtle."

And that's my report from Lisa and me, conservatores of the natural environment.

Wait! Is that crying sound from deep in the woods behind the Carenen Cottage a rattlesnake needing rescue? I don't think so. Maybe something soft and fuzzy; a bear cub that needs cuddling. Maybe I could pick it up and bring it back to the cottage and nurse it back to health. Stay tuned. I'm going to jog out and take a look. Be right back.

Contented Carenens

Friday evening at the Travelers Rest outdoor amphitheater with the Blue Ridge in the distance, we settled in after joining friends who saved us a place to hear the talented and exuberant Jacob Johnson offer up a free concert. Soft summer breezes stirred the hair of Southern girls of all ages playing and flirting and leaning on boyfriends and husbands, citrusy perfumes wafting lightly in the air. Children rolled down the hill like living logs, and bigger boys tossed a football back and forth.

 

And I wondered how life could get much better on a June twilight with my bride at my side and Jacob on the stage; poet, singer, songwriter, and guitar virtuoso beyond anything I've ever heard or seen before. He loves to perform, and we love to be his audience. His enthusiasm and talent defined the evening as a very good one.

 

Later, when the show was over, we packed up our folding chairs and walked back to the car and drove home where a big glass of wine and a joyful puppy awaited us. Strolling up to the Carenen Cottage in the dark, we heard tree frogs and crickets providing background music, and a big bullfrog down by the pond sang solo, his bellows cracking through the darkness, making us smile.

 

Such a blessing to be content.

Carnage at the Carenen Cottage

And so it begins. The systematic renovation to the Carenen Cottage has launched with serious purpose. I took off the back deck, then the grader did his thing, footers were poured, cinderblock secured, temporary electrical hookup installed. This morning three men showed up to rip off the back of the cottage and prepare to do framing for the new. That meant we had to get everything out of the old laundry room and pantry this morning, something we thought would not be necessary for a couple of weeks.

 

But we are nothing if not flexible. I'm glad they're going at it. The additional space will be luxurious, at least to us, and the flexibility in hospitality will be wonderful. So the hammering, the ripping, the tearing, and the demolishing is going on, perfect background for my writing.

 

Oh, and the workers have deposited an orange port-a-potty out front, by the blueberry bushes. We're going to tell our friends that it's the second bathroom we always wanted. Beats the woods. Stay tuned for a brief report on how our two cats and puppy (Lily the Wonder Dog) are adapting. This might get ugly.

 

Bruised and Broken (deck)

I am proud to report that I have finished completely tearing down our 2,564 square foot back deck. At least it seemed to be about that size. It took me a week or so, maybe it was a month, I get mixed up. Anyway, it's done, the deconstruction slowed by a couple of rainy days that just broke my heart and allowed me to recover flat on my back with a handful of Advil and a cold beer. But it's gone now, a memory fading about as slowly as the multiple bruises I incurred in the process that was done solo.

 

I'm a very delicate guy, so I am used to having bruises show up and not know how I got them. Lisa will say, "Jeez, John, how did you get that awful bruise?" And I'll have to say I have no idea. Most of the time. But the ones from the deck-clearing can all be traced to, well, the deck-clearing. Hard to say where they all came from, but the one on my left shoulder was a direct result of my experience with gravity when one of the railings I was leaning on decided to give way. Fortunately, a 2 x 8 anchored in concrete broke my fall.

 

It's important to be able to say I took down the deck with my little hammer. Partly true. In addition to my little hammer, I used a  claw hammer, a pinch bar, a 4-lb. sledge hammer, a 10-lb. sledge, a five-foot crowbar, several vivid Anglo-Saxon expletives, and a banana (just kidding about the banana). I also used a hand towel to wipe down the wet stuff that accumulated on my skin while working in the 90-degree sun. Whatever that was. Slimy. Ick. Never felt that before. Creepy.

 

Now that the back is cleared of deck, the contractors will be showing up on the 1st. I believe I'll enjoy watching them work. Might be worth writing about.

Deckwrecker Man

Years ago I wrote a column for Reader's Digest recounting my experience as "Jackhammer Man!," when I rented a jackhammer to dig out some concrete around our home in Roanoke, Virginia. As a little kid in my home town of Clinton, Iowa, I had watched a bunch of jackhammer men tear up the street in front of our house. They struck me as the ultimate in manhood and I always wanted to see what it was like to run a jackhammer. So I got my wish that summer day in Virginia. It took me about a week before my hands worked normally again. Now I have taken on a new role - "Deckwrecker Man!" In preparation for an addition being added on to the back of the Carenen Cottage, our extensive rear deck needed to be removed. I volunteered to do it to save money. A knowledgeable friend helped out with several tools unique to the task. The most prominent was five feet long with two prongs at the end, the width between them perfect for accommodating a joist. The idea was to insert the prongs under the deck planks and, with the base situated on the joist, leverage the planks up so they could be removed. The tool was called a "Deckwrecker," and it worked, along with other, smaller tools that, altogether, reminded me of my dentist.

It wasn't fast work, but it was steady, especially after I bought a 4-pound sledge hammer to assist in removing certain stubborn pieces not suitable for the Deckwrecker. Anyway, I got all the planks off last week despite losing time due to rain. Starting today, I'm going after the multiple 2x8 joists and other underpinnings. Problem is, there is no special tool, outside of explosives, to remove those significant elements. I also lack a strategy for taking on the big pieces.

Maybe I'll call my dentist. Stay tuned.

The Best Dog

This is a sad and lonely morning in the Carenen Cottage. We had to put our dog to sleep. Degenerative bone disease had rendered her a cripple in pain, and she was getting worse fast. I can tell you this about her. She was intelligent, playful, obedient, sweet-natured (never bit anything but her food), and a good snorer. She had a large vocabulary that included the usual "squirrel,' and many others. She knew "eat," "dog," "out," "come," "sit," "stay" and "pterodactyl." She also knew "night-night" and "bath," but she pretended she didn't know "bath," but I know she did because when I said it, she tried to disappear. Not easy for a 79-pound Zimbabwean Cattle Retriever - Crested (actually, she was a blend of Golden Retriever, German Shepherd, and several other breeds, including "Mushpot").

She was always good and generally happy, her tail wagging all the time, even when the vet was giving her the injections.

She was our friend and companion, greeter, and confidant. We miss her already.

Her name was "Roxie."

A Meeting of the Minds

Last Saturday morning a local writers group, The Write Minds, met at the Carenen Cottage, as they do on the first Saturday of each month, and the third Wednesday evening. There were ten of us there with a broad spectrum of ages, two of the three sexes, and a variety of genres. Represented that morning were published and unpublished novelists, published and unpublished poets, a man writing a book on personal finance, and a lady who writes haiku. What a group! But I'm writing this just to say that it was a terrific morning, aided somewhat by not only the congenial atmosphere, but Dunkin Doughnuts, coffee (with Bailey's Irish Creme available to improve the beverage), and a variety of teas. So we all sat around and took turns sharing what we wrote, receiving constructive feedback taking into account excellent work and work that isn't excellent just yet. In short, we helped each other

We enjoyed ourselves from 9:30 until shortly after 12 Noon, and the time just whisper-jetted away. It was beautiful outside and inside. And I loved it. We were enjoying ourselves and looking forward already to the next gathering.

A fine morning, indeed. That's all I wanted to share, dear reader - that is, a good thing that made every one of us happy. A simple thing. A gift.

Southern Snow Storm

As most of you are aware, I am from Iowa. I grew up there. I know about cold weather. I know about blizzards. I live in the South, now, Upstate South Carolina in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. In fact, we have a mountain right up against the back of our property. We are in the midst of a terrific snowstorm, but it is important to understand that "Southern Snow" is fundamentally different from "Northern Snow." You can look it up.

It is wetter. It is slippier. It is less expected. It can kill because its unique characteristics surprise and blindside people. It is a liar, it is deceptive, it lures people to their deaths. It looks lovely and unique, but it hates people, cars, trucks, children who just want to play.

That's why, when the grizzled weatherman on the local TV station says, "Stay inside" and the slightly-pudgy Highway Patrol Lance Corporal says, "Stay inside," we do. I have walked to school in -20 weather (we didn't have "wind chill" readings back then; couldn't afford thelm), and I have had to go out windows to get to the front door and remove the snow so we could go outside, and I have had conversations freeze outside so that we had to wait for Spring to know what we said. But that was "Northern Snow."

"Southern Snow" is different. Ignore that fact at your own peril. It wants to kill you, even if you are from Vermont or Michigan or South Dakota. Or Iowa. It doesn't care. It is humorless. Beware.

Not my kind of suds...

After decades of dormancy, it emerged again, fangs and claws ripping into my memory, long dormant. "It" is shampoo.What's scary about shampoo? Here's the history.

A while back, when our daughters were teenagers, I was sent to the supermarket to pick up a few things, one of which was shampoo. Fine. But once I got to the supermarket, and sauntered down the aisle marked "SHAMPOO," panic began to well up in me. My girls had not told me what kind of shampoo they wanted, and I didn't have a cell phone to find out. So, up and down I went, learning about shampoo. There was beer shampoo, wheat shampoo, honey shampoo and wheat germ shampoo. I had never before thought of shampoo as food.

Finally I just stood there, staring, a bit of spittle beginning to slide down my chin. After about an hour, maybe two, I took a deep breath and made a choice. I mean, shampoo is shampoo, right? How could I go wrong?

Back home, I presented the shampoo to the girls. "You got us Flintstones Shampoo!" they wailed in unison, that followed by a long, drawn-out "Daaaaaaad!"

Since then, I have always asked for specifics when I do the shopping. What kind of flour? How many eggs? How many baking potatoes? But three days ago I grabbed the grocery list without checking with Lisa, and off I went. I picked up the things I needed, methodically checking items off the list. Milk, almonds in the little round can with the red plastic lid, marshmallows for Roxie the Wonder Dog, frozen pizza, and vegetable broth. And then I came to the one word that sent chilled earthworms through my innards. "Shampoo."

I quickly recovered from the shock, selected a very expensive shampoo, and took it home. Lisa was pleased. If she had said, "But I prefer Flintstones," a discussion might have ensued.

World's Most Wonderful Wife

I heard about a Big Remodeling & Additions Expo being held in the convention center downtown. Lisa didn't know about, but I did, and then I told her and asked if she wanted to go, even though I hate shopping. H-A-T-E. I was confident that my sacrifice would put me in the running for Husband of the Year. The Expo wasn't a hard sell, kind of like offering bratwurst to a weakened vegan. I made several observations. The first was that approximately 37% of all the displays were for hot tubs. I am not a fan of hot tubs. They look great but, from my experience, they are nothing more than expensive disappointments. You get in. You get wet. You get warm. You drink wine. I can get warm and drink wine in front of the fireplace at the cottage, and save money, too, although we both kind of liked the one that appeared to be carved out of stone. Classy. Even had two glasses of wine nearby.

Another observation was this: half the men and a third of the women were morbidly obese, especially the ones selling dietary supplements and hair care products. I am not making this up. What do those things have to do with Remodeling? Or Additions? That's what I thought.

We lingered at a display specializing in showers. Our expansion plan includes a second bathroom. I told Lisa we already had the woods for a backup. She always gives me a tolerant, long-suffering look when I mention that. "Maybe for you," she says. But it was good information. We did not commit to buying a shower. Lisa asked questions and picked up a business card and two brochures. And measurements.

Even though a hot dog stand was highly appealing, we left without buying anything. I think that vaults Lisa into the lead for Wife of the Year. In my book, she's already there.

In Support of Defenestration

After a Christmas Eve service at our church, we invited people over to our cottage for food and conversation and general conviviality. My long-suffering wife, Lisa, and I were talking about something and she used the term "non sequitur," which is Latin for "it does not follow." An example would be this: "Life is life and fun is fun, but it's all so quiet when the goldfish die." A friend, not only well-educated but smart in addition, asked simply, "What does that mean?" So we told him and he was fine going forward.

Later, we got to talking about how Bryan was confident enough to ask the question. And I felt a tad bit convicted because sometimes when someone is using a term or reference I don't know, I'll just nod my head and go along without having the guts to admit my ignorance.

I decided right then to suck it up and ask the question from now on. Like, what do you mean when you use that term, or reference a written work, or talk about some occurrence about which I know nothing? Instead of acting like I know what's being said, I will just go ahead and ask the question. What a startling concept! Self-education at it's finest!

And that's how I learned what "defenestration" means. And it's a word I WILL use.

Cozy Consolidation

We are now living full time in our country cottage up against the mountain, woods all around, a lovely meadow out the front door, and nice neighbors halfway up Paris Mountain who fire weapons on Saturday afternoons. In other words, bliss. The condo we're about to put on the market has about 1,800 square feet. The cottage has 1,030. In other words, for you math majors out there, we have 770 less square feet, which makes us truly appreciate the 30 in our 1,030. We have learned a great deal about efficiency, and these truths have set us free, in a sense.

We have learned to be efficient with space. My long suffering wife, Lisa, is an expert when it comes to making good use of space. She amazes me how she can create useful storage out of nothing. Take closets, for example. We have three, the largest just big enough to hold two cats at once. However, I have learned that one clothes hanger can support three pair of slacks, four shirts, five neckties, and a belt. Who knew?

And a tiny utility room that housed one shelf and the electric control panel has been transformed into an efficient little pantry that contains enough food to last through the end of the year, two bins of pet food (one feline, one canine, interchangeable), a trampoline, a life-sized stuffed American Bison, and a wine cellar.

I suspect we will learn more about consolidation of available space. For example, Lisa looked at me the other day and asked, "Dear, do you think you could learn to sleep standing up?"

Just think how much room that would save.

A Dry Sense of Humor

Now that we're fully moved into our "mountain cottage," we have a few adjustments to make, most of which will cost money. For instance, we have a clothes washer. We do not have a dryer. Well, in a sense we have a dryer because there's one at our condo, which we are about to put on the market, and the appliances all stay. In an emergency, we can dry our clothes there. But that's a one hour round trip, and when the condo sells, it might be considered tacky for us to drop in on the new owners and ask if we can dry our clothes. Maybe we could put that in the contract. Or, maybe not.

So, when we have freshly-washed clothes to dry, we wait until it's sunny outside and hang our laundry on a clothes line. With clothes pins. The old-fashioned way. With a long, forked stick to hold up the line when the load gets heavy. There's nothing like the fresh smell of clothes dried in the sun on a line. Brings back memories of my childhood. The clothes are a little stiff because they haven't been fluffed in a dryer. I tried to make that work outdoors by clipping a few of those softener sheets between undies, but it didn't seem to help. The clothes were still pretty stiff. I used one of my socks to tap a nail in the wall where my long-suffering wife, Lisa, wanted to hang a picture.

I guess one of the bigger adjustments came when we realized that, on occasion, while our clothes were drying on the line, insects would take up residence in our jeans and t-shirts. For instance, Lisa had a big, black spider emerge from her unmentionables one morning. I was in Newberry, but I heard her rather salty commentary.

And for me, I must say I discovered something that works better than caffeine in the morning. A katydid in my Fruit of the Looms worked way better than coffee.

We're researching dryers.

Heading Home

A friend of mine recently blogged that he and his family had been living in the same place for something like nine or ten years now, and it seems like home. I know what he means. Lisa and I are in the process of moving into our little cottage from our condo half an hour south. We realized we'd lived in the condo for nearly nine years. That kind of stability is a rare thing for us.

My long-suffering wife was an Air Force brat and survived multiple moves, including giving up her senior year in Florida in order to be an outsider in Massachusetts when her father was transferred. Not fun at all. Marrying me seemed like it would be a time of living in a couple-three places until we were out of school, then settling down.

But no, I am not a stable person, and our itinerary of living places is now up to eighteen (18). Every time the Criminal Records Check showed up at my job, it would be time to shove off again. Although this move is just across town, it is still a move. And we like our new place a lot. And we're not inclined to move any more. And we aren't going to, either, unless God tells us to, and presents three forms of photo I.D. as well. One can't be too whimsical.

We both feel confident that we can call the Carenen Cottage home. It just feels like it. Of course, there is that nice, wooded lot up on the mountain with the fantastic view stretching out below. And sometimes we think about driving by just to see if it's been sold yet (It hasn't). And, well, never mind. We're staying. After all, the dog and two cats like it just fine where we are, and that's final.

I'm a Lumberjack, Part 2

Being a lumberjack is more than a hearty breakfast and a brief nap to be prepared to function at top shape. It is also about the proper attire and the proper skill set. I have both. Attire includes an old pair of jeans, preferably with bloodstains on them. I have such a pair; a good bit frayed at the cuffs, bloodstains on the right thigh, threadbare in several places. One also needs an old, long-sleeved flannel shirt to protect the arms from scratches, gouges, and dismemberment. Bloodstains are good for the shirt, too. But in the summer, I usually just wear a t-shirt, valuing comfort over safety. Heavy work boots are ideal. I have a pair that, together, weigh about 37 pounds and take 17 minutes each to put on. They once saved two states from a huge forest fire in North Carolina, but that's another story. Gloves are good, too, but not critical.

As for skill set, I have that, too. But I must say it is in a constant state of sharpening. Just as it is key to have a sharpened set of teeth on the chainsaw, it is critical to be constantly improving one's skills. Chainsaws really can be fun, and I'm happy to say that I've discovered that anew this summer. But having fun with chainsaws should take a back seat to being talented with a chainsaw. Finally, when one is bringing down a big tree, and I took down several this summer, one should know how to make sure the tree falls exactly where one wants it to fall. To that end, I dropped two 30-footers at the exact spot where I wanted them. Then I proceeded to cut them up into firewood and fencing. On the other hand, to be candid, I was not so successful with two others. I notched them in the direction I wanted them to fall, then proceeded to cut until I heard the distinct sound of wood cracking, yelled "TIMBER!", and stood back to watch them land where I wanted. And then sprinted away as quickly as my lead feet could carry me because the trees decided to fall 180 degrees from where I planned. Had I stood in place very long, the tree would have hammered me into the ground like a tent stake.

That can be humbling because, once that tree is down, everyone can see that I screwed up. On the other hand, it inspires me to set to work quickly to cut up the evidence.

Now, sadly, there are no more trees to cut down. The property is as my long-suffering wife, Lisa, wants it. BUT, on a recent trip to Connecticut to see our older daughter and her husband, we learned they are seriously considering buying several acres of land and just might need an experienced lumberjack to help them clear out a tree or two. One can only hope

I'm a lumberjack and I'm okay... (Part 1)

Before I get too far into my joys as a lumberjack, let me give credit where credit is due. The chain saw was invented by two Scottish doctors back in the late 18th century, Dr. Chain and his partner, Dr. Saw. Actually, I am kidding about that. They invented the chain saw as a means of generating more clients through grisly accidents caused by their invention. Of course I’m kidding about that, too. Actually, it was invented for the purpose of excision of diseased bone. So, there you have your brief trip down memory lane.

I have a chainsaw, and it’s fun. The property we recently purchased had several big trees that shaded a section of meadow where my long-suffering wife, Lisa, planned to create several garden beds. The trees had to go because they were going to keep sunlight away from the garden. So I bought a chainsaw and prepared to begin the fun of cutting down trees, yelling “TIMBER!” at the top of my lungs, hearing the snap of wood as the trees began to topple, then running for safety, usually directly under where the tree wasn’t supposed to go. Three weeks later, I still have a knot on the side of my right calf where one of those stupid trees failed to follow my instructions.

Moving on to the preparation phase of lumberjacking, it is essential to have a lumberjack breakfast before one begins working as a lumberjack. Food is fuel, just as chainsaws need gasoline to operate, and I need plenty of fuel to work efficiently and well. For me, that means (several) scrambled eggs with cheese and a little onion mixed in, lots of sausage patties, homemade bread with butter, milk, coffee, bacon, and if possible, hash browns.

Once breakfast is consumed, it is time to allow the food to settle. This requires a brief nap of about forty-five minutes, followed by stretching, starting up the chainsaw, and walking to the lumberjacking site while the saw warms up.

My next blog will go into more details about the joy of lumberjacking. Stay tuned.

SNAKE! Revisted

My friend Mike, a noted snakeologist, came by Sunday afternoon to check out the dead monster snake's carcass. Mike brought his snake directory with him. My adversary was not listed. I repeat: It was not listed!

None of the 3,426 snake pictures (in color) looked like the vicious, aggressive monster I had dispatched. Mike did tell me, after careful examination of the snake's head, that it was not venomous, which provided some comfort.

And so, I remain in the dark. Had I killed the last of a previously-thought extinct species? Could I sell it on Ebay? Did it have a mate that would come looking for me, seeking revenge, striking suddenly from the cover of a rose bush?

In a bit of a mental health exercise, I have decided to just forget about SNAKE. I had gone decades without meeting its like, and mathematically, I would probably never see another. That's why, when I take short strolls around the cottage, I carry a stout walking stick. And a taser. And a shovel with a twelve-foot handle. And a shotgun. Taken together, those tools help me forget about SNAKE.

Mental health can have many faces.

SNAKE!!!!

SNAKE! Of course, that one word grabs everyone's attention. On Saturday afternoon I was reclining on the sofa, at least the part my Zimbabwean Cattle Retriever - Crested dog, Roxie would allow me to enjoy. Then I heard my long-suffering wife call from outside, "John, come quickly!" So I did. She was looking over the edge of the front porch, pointing down into our flower garden. It was a SNAKE! It slithered back into the bushes.

I hate snakes.

Lisa went inside. I peeked over the railing and there it was again, enormous, farther out in the yard. SNAKE! My heart went pitty-pat. My body went to the out building for a shovel. I came back. It was still there. Defending my family and territory, I drove the shovel down and nearly cut it in half. Still, it slithered away around the courner when I pulled the shovel back. It's guts were emerging, yet it was still alive.

I pursued but could not find it. I poked around with the shovel, wishing it had a longer handle, and the SNAKE emerged, weaving back and forth. I nailed it again, shouting ancient Irish epithets and channeling St. Patrick. It would not die, striking again and again at the shovel. Creepy.

Finally, I finished it off, separating the head from the body, then went inside to Google its identity. I knew if it had been a black snake I would have left it alone, even though I think I mentioned that I hate snakes.

It is dead now, dumped on the dry bird feeder so our friend Mike, an expert, can identify what I killed. Lisa is sad. She is more of a naturalist than I. Google confirmed my suspicions that it was either a King Cobra or a Green Mamba. Mike's coming over tomorrow after church. He'll know.

Stay tuned, dear reader.