No Worse For Wear

        We had rainy days again this past week. My irises are finally blooming! Yay! 

        It seems like up here on the mountain everything takes a week or more longer to bloom than it does down in town. For instance, the black locust trees have bloomed and are dropping their petals already but up here on the mountain they are just now starting to bloom. (Pictures to come.)

         And since we are speaking of rain...

         It rained — and the sun came out. I thought there would be a rainbow so I went out to look — no rainbow. The rain stopped. A few hours later the rain started again. When the sun came back out I went to look for a rainbow again — still no rainbow and the rain stopped. A little while later I hear the pitter-patter of rain on the roof and don't you know, the sun came out again!

         Should I go out again and look? I debated with myself. I almost didn't go but ultimately, the thought of missing out on a rainbow compelled me to action. I grabbed my camera and out I went.

         As they say, third time's a charm. I got my rainbow shot, right over the top of our house.

         I have been working hard this past week making things for the car show, which is next Sunday, June eleventh. I've rented booth space to set up and sell glass suncatchers as well as a few of the other things I've been making these last couple of months. And this might be a good place to tell you that because of the aforementioned show, I have no idea if I'll get a letter blog out next week or not. But anyway, there I was, drilling holes in a few glass pieces for the Long Dangly I was making, and the high pitched squeal the diamond bit made as it cut its way through the first hole, or maybe it was the second, was more than my poor ears could stand.

         Silly! I admonished myself. Get your earplugs! I reached up, turned off my Dremel, and went in search of the earplugs, which didn't take long, I kinda knew where to look. On the way back to the drill press I glanced out the window and ran for my camera.

         Mike's attention went from the TV to me as I rushed into our apartment, "Mike! Do you see what this is right there?" I asked as I pointed to a dark spot steadily moving across the monitor mounted on the wall over the TV.

         "What?" he asked.

         "It's a snapper!"

         "Holy cow. It's a big one!"

         "I know right! I'm going to take his picture." I got my camera from the table and headed for the door.

         "Be careful, Peg!" he calls after me. "If he gets a hold of you he won't let go! And they can move fast!"

         I went out and took a few pictures from a distance then Mike comes out with the snow shovel and flips old Mr. Snapper over onto his back, and boy! did that piss him off! But it didn't take long for him to push his head back against the ground and right himself.

         With my eyes I traced a path in the direction he'd come from. "Did he come from Jon's pond?" I asked but of course there isn't any way for Mike to know the answer to that question. With my eyes I traced a path in the direction he was heading. "Is he heading for our pond?"

         "I don't know but I don't want him in our pond," Mike says. "You let Ginger chase frogs down there and if he gets a hold of her he could kill her."

         "What are you going to do with him?"

         "Let's take him down to the creek."

         "Okay.... How?" I asked and in the theater of my mind, an old movie started to unspool. Pop was a good storyteller but I don't remember anymore of the story than just the gist of it: My father, driving a car, happens upon a big old snapper in the road. Thinking he would take it home for... turtle soup maybe, put the snapper in the trunk of his car. By the time he'd gotten to wherever he was going, the turtle had ripped out all the wires in the trunk.

         "How about the live trap?" Mike asked.

         Another movie loaded up in this weird, quirky brain of mine. This time it was of Mike trying to put the snapper in the live trap and for the life of me, I couldn't see how he would get that done. The turtle was nearly as big as the opening of the trap and I didn't think he'd go in willingly.

         I headed out to do Mike's bidding and on the way I spied a large trashcan. "How about a trashcan?" I yelled across the yard.

         "That might be better," Mike yelled back and I breathed a sigh of relief. I was sure I was in danger of losing a finger as I held the live trap door open for him.

         I ripped the bag from the 30-gallon outdoor trashcan, threw it aside, and carried the can out to where Mike was standing guard over Mr. Snapper. Every time Mike tried to get behind the turtle, he'd turn around. Eventually my snapper-wrangler managed to wrangle the snapper into the trashcan and no one lost any fingers in the deal! I know right! It's always a good thing when no one looses any fingers!

         Catching critters in one area and relocating them to another is illegal. I know that and you know that. But we didn't take Mr. Snapper out of the area, we just moved him past our pond and down to the creek.

         I have, since then, learned many interesting things about snappers and the most interesting thing is this: snappers aren't a bad thing to have in your pond! They eat any dead fish you may have, in which case he would starve in our pond! We don't have any fish. Do you know how I know? Last year the pond was completely dried up (sad face emoji). They will eat frogs and water plants, worms, snakes, snails, bugs, and an occasional baby duck. They mostly can't catch a healthy fish.

         I found out that there is a wrong way and several right ways to handle a snapper. The wrong way? By the tail! Their tail is a part of their vertebral column and it's highly possible you can dislocate or even worse yet, break it, thereby causing him to die.

         The right way, or one right way, is to slide both hands under the hind end of the shell, letting the turtle’s tail dangle between them and grab him there. They have almost natural handles there on the carapace. You can turn him around and pull him off the road — but don't forget to turn him back around and you should always take him in the direction he was heading.

         "If he gets a hold of you, he won't let go!" Mike warned.

         During the course of my investigation, I stumbled on a You Tube video by a man named Coyote Peterson who took on a snapper. He wanted to test out three ways to get a snapper to release its hold on you. Coyote went through the three ways: pour water on him, completely submerge him, or as a last resort use rubbing alcohol. "It won't hurt them, but they don't like the taste and they'll spit you out." They glued a piece of dowel rod to the side of his hand and he teased the snapper into biting him. The snapper missed the dowel rod and got all flesh. Coyote yelled. "It's incredibly painful," he said through gritted teeth. His buddy tried pouring water on the turtle but it just made him bite down harder. Coyote stifled another cry of agony. "You know what? We're going right to the alcohol." He had his buddy pour a little rubbing alcohol onto his hand and it ran down into the snappers mouth and sure enough — he let go! And spit out a fountain of rubbing alcohol.

         Here's the link if you're interested enough to go look.

         https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F57z6ya-rnA

         In May I showed you what a baby dragonfly looked like. Like a true ugly duckling, these 'bugs' have turned into beautiful winged dragonflies.

         This one is called a Twelve-spotted Skimmer.

         "Why's that?" I hear you ask.

         I know right! I wondered the same thing! I count way more than twelve spots! Let's see...

         Three black and two white spots on each of four wings...

         Yeah! My math might be rusty but that's way more than twelve!

         Well! Don'tcha know, the spots are brown, not black, and they don't count the white ones because only the males have white spots.

         I got two different dragonflies in this shot, the Twelve-spotted is sitting on the twig behind another dragonfly, and I don't know what his name is.

         Here's another photo of my Spatterdock, a pond lily.

         Let's move on to pictures from a recent ride-about.

         Another barn quilt.

          The neighbor's shed, after a tree fell on the roof.

          The fallen-in front porch of an old house.

          Daisies!

         I love the daisies!

         And this is my current desktop photo.

         Another neighbor's barn.

         These pretty little yellow flowers are called Celandine and they are in the poppy family, sometimes even being called Wood Poppy.

          "Peg! Can I mow under your clothesline?" Mike asked.

         "NO!"

         I know the grass is getting tall and you can't really tell by my picture but the Meadow Hawkweed is so pretty.

          "Looks like a dandelion to me," Mike grumbled. 

         A couple of three nights ago, in the early evening hours, I was standing outside with my girls Itsy and Ginger and I heard a high-pitched scream that sounded vaguely bird-like. Across the yard came Spitfire and even though I couldn't see that he had something — dang these Cadillac eyes! — there's nothing wrong with my hearing.

         "What'cha got there Buddy?" I asked when I got close. I call him Buddy more than I do Spitfire. He dropped it. It was a baby rabbit and I took it away from him.

         I know! I know! Don't judge. I've always said, "If they catch it, they can have it," but finding a nest of baby bunnies isn't the same thing as hunting. I carried the baby in the house and showed it to Mike.

         "Let the cat have it!" Mike said, unmoved by its cuteness.

         "No. But if he found the nest, he'll get them all."

         By the time I'd gotten back outside I heard the screams of another baby and Spitfire came trotting in with a second baby rabbit. He dropped it for me and I took it away from him. 

             He headed back out and I followed. He'd found the nest in the tall weeds by the upper barn. It took him a little while but about twenty minutes later, just as I was getting ready to call it a night and head back in the house, I heard the screams of a terrified baby rabbit.

          Have you ever heard a baby rabbit scream? It tugs on the strings of a mother's heart, that's for sure.

         I made my way, as quickly as I could, through the weeds to where he was but one of the other cats, attracted by the screams, got there before me. Spitfire growled a warning and bit down harder on the baby. I made Spitfire turn him loose and I scooped him up and put him in my shirt with the two other babies.

         When I got back to the house and saw the third baby was mortally wounded, I gave him to Sugar and Callie. The others were still up on the hill, looking for more babies, I presume. I don't know which one got him, but I never heard a peep out of him as they didn't fool around and finished it off quickly.

         I wasn't mad. The cats are just being cats and it's what they do, and they can do it all day long to mice as far as I'm concerned. Big mice, little mice, adult mice or baby mice, I don't care. And honestly, as far as rabbits go, it probably wouldn't hurt the population one bit the few they're gonna get. I just wish they wouldn't torment them before they kill them.

         And my cats are not hungry.

         I put the babies in a box and contacted Angie Colarusso at the Second Chance Wildlife Rehab Center. "If their eyes are open they need minimal care. Just solid food like romaine lettuce or leaf lettuce," she told me. "Then release in a day or so."

         The next morning, I'm once again outside with Itsy and Ginger and I hear the now all too familiar screams of a baby rabbit. I headed for the upper barn and Feisty came trotting down. She started to head away from me and I called her, her head dipped then she turned and came to me. By the time I could see if she had anything in her mouth, she didn't. I stood and watched for a moment. Feisty went back to the spot where her head had dipped then came away, then went back again. I went to investigate and that's when I found the baby, right where she'd dropped it. This one was older and likely already out of the nest.

         The two young rabbits didn't make it past the afternoon. Stress kills them. The older rabbit Mike and I took up into the field and let go.

          This is a kind of butterfly called a Small Skipper.

         Although the Multiflora Rose is an invasive plant, and I personally think they're evil, they still smell so sweet.

         I don't know what this one is.

          This little guy sang me the sweetest song!

         A piece of farm equipment called a disc or disk harrow.

         Just a barn and a pretty blue sky.

         Yesterday, Mike and I got a distress call from one of our neighbors.

         "Need help," the text read.

         Mike jumped on the golf cart and went to see how he could help Jon Robinson. "I had to go in the barn for something and I didn't want to get my feet wet going through the tall grass," Jon told me. "So I drove up under the awning.

         The awning came down and thank goodness for the roll bar on his tractor. It saved Jon from being hurt but he needed Mike to help him get the tractor out.

         Mike brought the golf cart back up to the house and got his tractor to lift the awning from Jon's.

         As Jon and I sat there talking there was a crash and the awning came down.

         "Want me to help?" Mike offered.

         "Naw, I'll finish knocking it down later," Jon told him.

         And as if that wasn't quite enough excitement for one day, I'm sitting here, in front of my computer, sorting photographs for today's blog, when Mike comes walking in the door. He'd been out mowing.
            Funny, I thought, I didn't hear him come back with the mower.

         He walked in, shut the door behind him, put his hands on his hips, stood there, and looked at me.

         "What's wrong?" I asked.

         "I need your help."

         "What did you do?" But I already kinda knew.

         "I put the mower in the ditch," he stated flatly.

         We got on the golf cart and as we headed out I asked, "How did you do that?"

         "Well, I was mowing the weeds by the driveway and it was muddy where they dug the ditch out. It was slippery so I was going slow, and I thought I could get a little closer but the wheels started to slip and it was like slow motion — and I slid down into the ditch."

         Mike used the golf cart to pull it out and it's no worse for wear.

         Let's call this one done!