while sitting here...

... merrily typing away: I looked out the window and saw three deer. About thirty feet from the house. When I look out through the glass, I am also looking through the screening on a porch that is about ten feet wide, then a narrow flower bed filled with ferns, hydrangeas and leaf mulch. A wide swath of lawn, maybe twenty feet across. Then trees: pine, magnolia, oak, sweet gum - pretty thickly wooded, though through the trees I can view a thousand cars daily traveling to and from work and shopping. A very busy thoroughfare, though I doubt those hundreds of travelers can see my house as they roll along.

I was sitting here typing, and looked up to see a deer. Easily noticed as she was standing in front of a dark green magnolia tree about forty feet tall. Then I noticed a young still-spotted fawn standing there, nursing. I pulled my camera out of my pocket, but missed the shot of the fawn having breakfast. And did not realize until the mother walked away, that there were two youngsters. Wow.

I've seen hoof prints in the back yard, inside a four foot high chain link fence, so I know they have/can come in the yard. Other evidence is hydrangea plants that have never, ever bloomed, as the deer come along and nip all the tender leaves and buds off.  I have noticed several deer at a time out in the thick woods just past that magnolia, where they apparently feel safe enough to roam looking for browsing material. Just across the street is a public golf course, where I have heard there are many deer, protected, with enough trees and undergrowth to hide. The groundskeeper reports that they eat everything they use for landscaping - even azaleas, with fuzzy leaves, they would normally not find attractive.

Even though they are not discriminating and eat things I plant to enjoy the blooms, it is amazing to see them, so I will keep planting and they will keep eating. I will try to remember that I am the one who is doing something abnormal, and the wildlife is doing what they were designed to do.

skunk story...

... my boss told yesterday. I don't know how we got started on the topic of unbearably unpleasant odors, but he had a couple of amusing/distressing stories to tell. Funny in a disgusting way, meaning only if it did not happen to you, plus distressing: as thankful you were not present, though you can imagine how awful it would be if you have ever in your life encountered the aroma of an angry skunk. That skunky smell is unique, penetrating and memorable. I cannot even begin to guess why God would give that particular stomach churning smell to an animal as a defensive mechanism, but it is so pungent, your olfactory receptors will always identify that aroma. Once you have the experience it will never be forgotten.

The boss told the story of a friend who went with someone on a hunting trip. I don't think he even said what sort of animal the group was interested in chasing, catching/killing. He did not even get to the place where he could relate if the venture was considered a success, only telling the part related to a skunk encounter. One of the hunters brought beagle dogs he was training. I know they can be loud, aggressive and actually pretty good at running down prey. When the dogs returned to the group of men out in the woods, the guys noticed one of the canines was being avoided by the remainder of the pack. When they got close enough, thinking this dog might be injured, they discovered he had been sprayed by a skunk. Making both man and beast keep their distance as much as possible. The story I heard had the owner washing the dog a dozen times trying to get rid of the pungent aroma of skunk. I've heard washing dogs in tomato juice will counteract the repulsive smell, but have fortunately never had the opportunity to test that out.

The other story: He said when he was a teenager, driving down a dark, deserted dirt road late one night, he had a flat tire. In order to change it, he left the doors open to give light for the process of jacking, loosening, replacing. When he was finished and went to get back in his car, closing the doors in order to start the vehicle and get back to town - there was a skunk, apparently wandering in while he was otherwise occupied, taking care of the flat replacement. Holy cow! I would have been tempted to walk back to town to avoid a close encounter!

My co-workers who were lending an ear to this story left at this point, so I am not sure how he was able to invite the skunk to depart. Just thinking about this disaster narrowly averted makes me queasy. I made myself as scarce as if that small animal was turning around to aim his noxious fumes at me!

As I have traveled the highways between middle and south Georgia many times over the years, I will occasionally notice 'evidence', ie: the redolent aroma, where a skunk has been hit and killed by a vehicle on the road. That scent, even days after the demise is pungent enough to make you gag. It is also an indicator of the fact that this little animal is making a comeback. For many years I do not recall noticing the lingering evidence of skunk encounters with wheeled opponents, but I'd say in the past ten or fifteen years I have begun to realize they are out there again. Assuming that niche in the food chain continues to be replenished, with Mr. and Mrs. Skunk meeting often enough to raise a family.

it has been a mess...

...but fortunately not in the house. We have been in 'minor turmoil' for several weeks while these doofus guys have been working on the carport. Not precisely a remodel, as it will look like it did before they got started, only newer. Nothing is actually changing, but it will look brand spanking new when they get done. If I don't hurt them and leave bloodstains all over the floor. Which will cause us to have to find a new crew to pressure wash the floor we have already hired the doofus crew to do.

I've not been on the scene while they have been working: so not much in the know as how this project has been inching along. Seems like it has taken much longer than anyone (including the doofus team) expected. They were supposed to scrape the stipple effect off the ceiling and repaint everything. That removal process turned out to be much more complicated than anyone could envision. Man- what a mess. Dust and more dust. I should be happy it did not happen in  my house - or there would most certainly be bodies to be unearthed, hidden in shallow graves in the woods.

The one I have seen shows up around 10:30 several days a week, waiting until mid-morning when the day is as miserably, stinking, steamy hot as possible to get started. Working in a room with virtually no ventilation: closed on three sides and hot as Hades by mid-day. The first day I actually saw him, he wanted to have a conversation, explaining why he was so late getting to work? All about his family drama, with a dad in nursing care who refused to cooperate with staff who wanted to help him with PT, OT, mobility. Demanding to go  home, but unable to manage independently. Mom refusing to help a man who refused to help himself. Much more info. than he should be sharing with a total stranger. As well as 'way more info. than I wanted to know, with all the drama I have in my own personal life.

When I got home from a long stressful day on Tuesday, I commented to The Man Who Lives Here that his carport looks really good. It appears the doofus team has finished the work, even though they left some tools. That carport looks so good, I am reluctant to put all the flotsam and jetsam back that had to be relocated for them to patch, replace, spackle, sand and paint. When I told The Man how impressed I was, noticing that the D-team even painted the three doors leading out of the carport (but not cleaning the windows that are covered with sheet rock dust), I wondered about getting rid of all that excess stuff. Suggesting I could just throw in a lit match, start a fire out there: avoiding having to haul it to the thrift store or up the driveway for the trash truck.

another drive ...

...across south Georgia on Tuesday. Got up at 5 a.m., to shower and get on the road for Valdosta at 6 o'clock. The auntie had a doctor appointment mid-afternoon, and I had plans for several stops before getting her to the follow-up office visit at 3:00. I have spent a good bit of time trying to get paperwork in order, documentation assembled to provide report for probate court that has to be submitted on an annual basis. I had no idea this undertaking was going to be so complicated and laborious.

Having no math skills, as well as no hesitation in admitting I am hopelessly math-impaired, much of the effort has been put forth by friend P. who continually amazes me. She can do math in her head that I am not sure I could complete with a calculator in hand. I know that we all have different gifts, skill-sets and abilities. Continually thankful that we are not all clones, and each of us have individual traits that complement others. Just thankful that there is someone in my life who is not intimidated by numbers, willing to pitch in to help me understand and accomplish what is expected as Guardian for the auntie!

After making two trips to Office Depot to use the copier, make duplicates of all the paperwork we have completed, as well as many copies of all the statements and financial documents received over the past twelve months, I thought I had it all together. Consulted P. and we went over all the paperwork to be sure I had everything, assembled in the proper sequence, and filled out with a gazillion numbers. Expecting to get to downtown Valdosta in time to go to the government building and deliver all my paperwork to the Probate office, I was up early on Tuesday. More than ready to get all this tedious stuff out of my life. It has been very educational: I am already thinking of ways to make the process easier and less daunting for next June.

I forgot the entire packet of papers. I was so busy trying to put everything in my car: purchases for the auntie, reading material I wanted to take to her, info. for the doctor's appointment, a gas fill-up, a chair to be repaired. I failed to put the bag I was using to corral folders in the car. About eight o'clock, two hours in to the three hour drive, I began to think: what did I do with her checkbook? I knew she would have a co-pay at the doctor's office, and I could not remember putting the check book in the car. When I stopped, and looked in the back: I said several bad words. Actually one bad word, several times.

And considered, for about three seconds, turning around to go back and get the folders and checkbook. But did not want to make the six hour trip into a ten hour drive. So... will just put everything in the mail tomorrow. I wanted to go to the Probate office - just for them to see my face, and remember me. As in how: you never go into the bank building any more, either banking on line, or whizzing through drive-in tellers.  Then, when you need to do business, no one knows who you are. Maybe next June...

book review: "The Boat Runner"...

... written by Devin Murphy, published in 2017 by Harper Collins. After the title page, there is a quote by Vladimir Nabokov: "Our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness." This fictional story is set at the beginning of World War II in Belgium. Jacob and his brother Edwin are teen aged sons of the Koopman family, their mother a musician, and their father an inventor/factory owner who manufactured light bulbs. Koopmans are highly respected, as the business is the largest employer in their small village.

The two sons are sent to a camp by their father, who is not aware the summer event is proselytizing and promoting Nazis and their political agenda. The boys are trained in war games: fighting, target practice, map reading, out door skills, indoctrinated by speeches and films from German officers. As the political situation devolves over weeks and months, the Nazis invade Poland, and gradually claim other areas in Europe. The Koopman family business is taken over by the army, where Jacob and his mother are forced to work in order to receive ration cards. His father has vanished, disappeared in an effort to avoid being captured, questioned by the Nazis after he sabotaged the assembly line in his factory.

The interesting aspect of the book, the thing that continues to stick in my head: the story was written from the viewpoint of a young man, so thoroughly brain-washed by the joy of summer camp, experiences of learning to handle explosives and weapons, the manliness of army officers in shiny boots and immaculate uniforms, he believes their agenda. As someone who has read a considerable number of non-fiction books about that era, all from the perspective of the Allies, it was interesting to consider how citizens of Europe could be convinced of the rightness of German philosophy. The desire, sparked by one charismatic man, to join all of those people in one state. With little consideration for many different cultures, and individuals who would be purged in the process. Plus the fact that the  military had total, complete, unquestioned control: you do not disagree with a man who is holding a gun to your head.

I would recommend the book to anyone interested in history of that era. The story, through the thoughts and eyes of a young man, of the age to be very impressed with the glory of the rise of Nazism, is very well written. Gives pause, making you realize how easily anyone can be deceived: hearts can be changed, minds can be beguiled and deluded. Though we look back and are horrified by the genocide that occurred in the 1940's while the conscience of the world was hoodwinked, the story shows how easily we are coerced by fear, ignorance and doubt into believing the unbelievable.

while thinking ...

... of breakfast, it is time to tell a funny remembrance about my dad. I never ever fail to think of him when I slice a banana on a bowl of cereal. Due to seeing him do it one morning,. nearly thirty years ago.  My parents were at the beach, spending a few days with daughters and myself in Florida. When they were young, girls and I would go every summer to the Gulf coast for a couple of weeks, and would occasionally persuade Mema and Papa to join us. A fairly short drive from south GA. Plus not nearly as exhausting as traveling five hours, with two children securely fastened in the back seat, or fifty monkeys screeching to be released from confinement.

I think the Grandparents might have been there when we arrived enjoying the tranquility with the plan to stay on for a couple of days to enjoy the fifty monkeys/children. On the last day of their visit, when the elders likely had all the fun two senior citizens could stand, they were hoping for an early start home. They got up with plans to eat a light breakfast and load up, head out. There was only one single banana left in the house, and three people with bowls of cereal. My dad, with amazing precise skills, managed to slice that one banana to make it appear all three adults had generous, equal portions. The kind of slices you could read a newspaper through. But still - we all had banana with our cereal and milk.

Now, every time I have a bowl of dry cereal for breakfast (or dinner), and there is a banana to be had, I think of him as I slice my fruit paper-thin, pour on the milk and enjoy. Another skill I learned from the expert. Added bonus: you get a slice in every bite! Admittedly it does not take a tremendous amount of practice to slice wafer thin rounds of banana - but I will always remember him being so diligent and meticulous to be equitable in his sharing of the fruit. Almost feel like that little speckled yellow fruit turned into the loaves and fishes from the Biblical parable....

most every morning...

... when I get up one of the things I do is go to the kitchen to get food. Even if I have to be at work at 5:00 a.m., and barely conscious at 4:15, I know I need to eat, put in some fuel to start the day. When I was still living at home, in my high school years, my mom demanded that I eat before going out the door. Not that I ever did what she wanted me to... you know how they are, right?

The nature of teenagers: what ever you tell them to do - they don't. She thought I needed a substantial meal in my person to head out for a day of using my brain.  All these years later, I will admit that I agree, believe it is true that breakfast is the most important meal of the day. But then - not so much. Probably the standard, usual, obstreperous teenager, who was disagreeable on general principle.

Our compromise was drinking a sort-of milkshake. A semi-nutritious drink that was probably chugged as I charged out, combing my unruly hair, tucking my shirt tail into my skirt (long before the era of wearing pants/jeans to school), tugging up my socks. The company, Carnation Milk I think, that makes 'Instant Breakfast' packets you add to milk in the blender: Instant Nutrition! A brand-new, novelty item that had just come out as a highly touted, well advertised supplement. Pretty much the only option available for adding to milk other than Nestle Quik or the Carnation product that turned white milk into chocolate.

All this is a confession that results from my surprising realization that I am back to Square One.I make a shake/smoothie each morning before groggily making my departure for work at 4:45 a.m. It is not the original version, from long ago school daze (as well as not being loaded with sugar!) but I am cranking up the blender most mornings to churn together a drink that will keep me going until a lunch break around 11:00. Now it is a cup of Almond milk, a ripe banana, a scoop of oatmeal, a spoon full of powdered peanut butter protein and a bit of flax seed. I try to drink it before I leave the house, as I have discovered it turns into concrete if I leave the dirty blender container/canister in my car to sit all day. Which should make me wonder what goes on within my digestive tract when I consume my homemade version of smoothie.