Rosie, Rosie, Rosie!

          Rosie, Rosie, Rosie!

          Yes, my Miss Rosie! Now she's gone and done it.

          "Gone and done what?" you ask.

          She's gone and got herself into an accident.

          "Oh, no!"

          I know, right! But no worries, she's okay. Although her cute little blue putt-putt has sustained a few bumps and bruises,

          "What happened?" I know you wanna know.

          Mike gave the stone trucks permission to use our back driveway to turn around in. Then they can back down to the worksite and dump their load. Short of using our driveway or someone else's the trucks would have to back up almost a mile. Besides, our township and the neighboring township use the same place to turn their equipment around in all the time too. Because we're so close to the township line, Wilmot plows their snow or grades their roads, turns around in our back driveway, and goes back out. Terry plows or grades to the line, backs into our back driveway, turns around and goes back out.

          Miss Rosie had the unfortunate luck to be leaving just as a stone truck was turning around. Miss Rosie stopped near our concrete wall (a leftover from the days of being a lumber mill) and watched the truck back out onto the road. Then he started forward and Miss Rosie started to follow when the truck stopped. Miss Rosie stopped. And the truck backed up right into her.

          "I was laying on the horn but he hit me anyway. And if that wasn't bad enough," Miss Rosie went on to say, "he pulled forward and backed into me again and pushed me right into your wall."

          Poor Miss Rosie! She already doesn't like to drive much and this really shook her up. It took her a long time to stop shaking.

          I tried to lighten the mood a little. "Yeah? Well, who's going to pay for my wall?" I demanded.

          Rosie laughed. "I was just trying to paint it blue."

          Our wall is fine.

            Miss Rosie had a bit of a backache that day and the next she noticed her arms were aching. "That's probably from clutching the steering wheel so tight," she said.

          The truck lost a mud flap and I'm sure there's a driver who's in trouble.

       

  

          Mike and I were visiting with the Kipps one afternoon, sitting on the porch chatting, and I look at the profile of this tree and see a face complete with an eye and cute little button nose. See him? His ear reminds me of Shrek's ear.

          "A long time ago I took a picture of a shadow cast on a tree that looks like a mask," I told her. "Did you ever see it or was it before you started reading me?"

          "I don't remember it," Miss Rosie said.

          So I went looking for it. It was just luck, the right combination of sun and time of day. I took this picture seven years ago and it will never be repeated. Shortly after I took this picture the people who owned the property trimmed trees and built buildings.

          While looking for that picture I found this one from 2008.

           Here's the same house today. There's no hope left in it, is there.

  

       

          And this one. His teeth are falling out, I thought as we went past the other day but it's much worse than that.

          "Houses not lived in die," my oldest and much-adored sister Patti said to me.

          And this guy will soon collapse in on himself and disintegrate into a pile of dust.

          I was sure I had a picture of this house in its younger days — still old but not this far gone — but after two hours of looking, I gave up.

          I did, however, get to relive a lot of memories. Buying the mill, my oldest son's wedding, cats we used to have (they always seem to disappear when you live in the country) and pictures of when our daughter Kat and her fiancé Jesse came to visit us eleven years ago now.

         

          My last two Monarchs emerged this week.

          "Peg, you said you had three left," you say.

          I know, right! I did say that but one I'm pretty sure is dead. He should have emerged weeks ago. But anyway, by the time I saw this little girl her wings were already dry and she was ready to go. I got two pictures of her and she was gone.

          The last one still had really wet wings when I took him from the butterfly house so I found him a spot among the flowers in the sunshine. I kept an eye on him for a while but then he was gone too.

          I took this picture of a Monarch on the New England Asters and wondered if he was one of mine but of course, there's no way to tell. I wanted to show it to you anyway because that's how you can tell the difference between a boy and a girl Monarch.

          "The boys have stars?"

          No, silly. I put the star there. Males have a scent spot on the hind wing and I wanted to point it out to you. Females don't have them so that's how you know if it's a boy or girl Monarch.

          This guy was so busy munching on leaves that he let me get as close as I wanted. He's a Spur-throated Grasshopper and they can get up to two inches long.

          This guy! I'll tell you what! This is all the thanks I get for rescuing him off my porch (where I almost stepped on him) and returned him to the wild. He's reared up and is ready to box me!

          This caterpillar is covered with yellow setae, although it looks like fuzz. Setae are more like bristles than hair. When he's all grown up he'll be called an American Dagger Moth and he'll look like this (picture from the internet).

          I took Ginger to the pond this week and that's noteworthy because it seems like I don't have time to just go out and walk with her much anymore. I know she misses it because she'll pester me and nothing short of a walk will satisfy her.

          We have a rock that sits on the bank of the pond and I think of it as Ginger's Rock. She always heads for that rock and will stand there looking at the pond for a long time. And that's a good...

          "Wait! Wait, wait! Peg! How is Ginger?" you ask.

          Well, the vet called and said the radiologist confirmed her diagnosis that it's just a fatty tumor. It's on the tail or neck (I forget which end) of her spleen. Now I know I told some of you it was on her gall bladder but that's cause I mixed up my internal organs. It's on her spleen.

          "You'll have to consider her age when you consider treatments," several of you have said.

          "Yorkies can live a long time," I responded. That was maybe more hope than actual knowledge on my part. A Google search says the average for a Yorkie is 13.5 years but can live as long as 15. Females live an average of 1.5 years longer than a male. But we'll wait to have a consultation with the vet before we make a decision.

          As I was saying, it's a good thing Ginger likes to hang out on the rock because I can spend a long time taking pictures if something captures my attention and this day the dragonflies were busy flying around and chasing each other. The big ones never sat down but this one did. This is a Red Meadowhawk.

          Speaking of red...

          This is a Red-spotted Newt. He won't be red when he grows up. At this terrestrial stage in his life, he's called a Red Eft.

          "Peg what's the difference between a newt and a salamander?" you wonder.

          Great question. The simple answer is nothing. A newt is simply a specific kind of salamander. In other words, all newts are salamanders but not all salamanders are newts.

          Now you know. You're welcome.

          An early morning shot shows three deer bedded down at our pond. I suspect this is a mother and pair of twins. The youngins will stay with their mother for about a year.

          These bright red berries stick out like a sore thumb. I'm almost certain they're Bush Honeysuckle.

          My Bittersweet is starting to change color.

          And I just can't get enough of these beautiful New England Asters.

          While out on my walkabout with Ginger, I saw galls on both the Goldenrod and on the leaves of the willows.

          "I'd just take my knife and cut 'em open to see what's inside," my beautiful Momma told me once, but I can't do that. I'll just take 'em home, put 'em in my butterfly house, and see what comes out.

          Galls form on specific plants from specific insects so my willow leaf gall will likely produce a Redgall Sawfly, a type of primitive wasp.

          "Peg, why is it called 'Redgall" when it's green?" you ask.

          It's just early yet. They'll turn red yet this fall, then, when the wasp comes out he'll drop to the ground and overwinter in a cocoon in the leaf litter.

          My Goldenrod gall is likely a Goldenrod Gall Fly. Hmmm. No imagination in that name is there. There are several predators to the Goldenrod gall. The Black-capped Chickadee and the Downy Woodpecker both target these galls, breaking them open and eating the larva inside. There are also parasitic wasps that look for these to lay their babies in. I found the article on this interesting as it goes on to say that the galls that are not so small as to be easy targets for wasps but not so large they attract the birds have a fitness advantage. Survival of the fittest? Either way, I'm going to have a long wait on this one as the fly won't emerge until spring. Even then my butterfly house has several large cracks where the roof joins the house so I may never see either the wasp or the fly anyway.

          I'd picked a cattail to keep my Chinese Lanterns company. I knew from experience that once picked the cattail will continue to mature and fluff out. I Googled it — don't 'cha just love Google! — and it said I could use spray lacquer to keep it from fluffing out (I don't have any of that) or hair spray. I have that. I gave it several really heavy coats but I see some fluff is coming out anyway.

          Fall color is starting to come on although we are still two weeks from peek. This picture is along the edge of a cow pasture. 

           And here's a cow. I was going out for Bible Study and came across this guy — girl — I don't know. There was someone there to get her back in. I stopped the Jeep in the middle of the dirt road and made sure she didn't go past the gate as the guy shooed her my way.

          "How'd she get out?" I asked the guy.

          "I don't know," was all he said then thanked me for my help.

          "Peg, how's the bridge coming?" you ask.

          First thing Monday they brought us the load of cut stones.

          "Do you see the 1899 stone any place?" I asked Mike and we walked around the pile.

          "No. Do you?"

          "Nope. It must be in the middle of the pile."

          Imagine our surprise when we talk with one of the guys later. "I've got that 1899 stone down there yet. I think either you or the Kipps should find a place to put it. It'd be a shame to bury it." 

          He was surprised when I said, "I thought we were going to get the 1899 stone."

          "You want it?" he asks.

          "Yeah. We want it."

          "I'll have Matt set it up on top then you can get it with your tractor or I'll bring it up later when I bring the backhoe from the other side."

          Mike had a hard time getting it in the bucket of his tractor...

...but he finally managed and brought it home. 

            They also gave Mike an old iron fence post they found. Both of these things are now sitting out front of our mountain home and will stay there unless we find someplace else to put them.

          "Wait a minute, Peg," you say. "Shouldn't the Kipps have the 1899 stone? After all, they've lived there at the bridge for more than 40 years."

          I know, right! As cool as we think the stone is and as much as we want to possess it, you are absolutely right. They should get the stone.

          "Do you guys want the stone?" Mike and I made a special trip down to their house to ask.

          "No. What would we do with it?" Miss Rosie and Lamar both said.

          "You could put it there on the corner by the driveway then everyone going past can see it." I was trying to be helpful. Then inspiration struck. "You could put a flower pot on top!"

          "Yeah. Right. Like I need one more thing to take care of," Miss Rosie says.

          "If we put it there, it would just sink out of sight. It's pretty wet there," Lamar said.

          "Well, think about it." I left the door open.

          The next day Rosie told me that they didn't want the stone so we've got it. Do you think we should or shouldn't paint the 1899 to make it stand out more?

          "Peg, I thought you said the 1899 stone was broken," you say.

          I know, right! That's what Dewayne told us. Oh, wait, I have to tell you that I've been using the wrong spelling for Dewayne's name. He spells his name Duane. Anyway, Duane said it was broken and the piece is triangle shape and not square but Mike's looked it over and thinks it's always been a triangle shape. He doesn't see evidence that the breaks are fresh. At any rate, it's not broken at the date. 

          This week we watched them drive the pylons. But first, they had to prepare them. Mike and I watched and could only guess what they were doing. Then Matt made his way to our side of the creek to work on putting stones on our side of the weed barrier and we talked to him for a little while.

          "What do they have to do to prepare the pylons?" I asked.

          "They have to weld ears on them so they can pick them up."

          "What do you call that thing that puts them into the ground? A driver or a hammer?"

          "A driver," Matt answered.

          "What makes it run?" Mike wanted to know.

          "It's a single piston and cylinder," Matt said. "The crane picks up the block and drops it two or three times until it starts then it runs on its own."

          "Gas?" I asked.

          "Diesel," Matt answered.

          "You run a line up to it?" I wanted to know.

          "No. It's got a tank on it."

          "How long will it last?"

          "All day. It doesn't use that much."

          "How do you know when they're deep enough?" I could see that they were driven in to different depths.

          "They (the inspectors) want us to go at least 22 feet but we're deeper than that. They're 46 feet long. They count how many strikes it takes to drive it an inch. If it doesn't go an inch in twenty strikes than it's deep enough."

          During this whole conversation, I called them pylons and Matt never told me any different. But through a Google search I found out pylons are towers, these are piles. Piles are deep-lying structural foundations driven into the earth, hence the term 'pile drivers'. The web page also refers to them as hammers so I guess it boils down to preference.

          Diesel pile drivers are 'the most common worldwide because they're relatively cheap to operate and features a deceptively simple design,' the website says. 'It is, however, the most noisy and polluting, and for every cycle, smoke and exhaust fumes are released into the atmosphere post-drive.'

          There will be six piles driven in on each side of the creek. Once the piles are hoisted into the cradle, someone has to climb up and center it under the hammer.

          "That's a job I'd like to do," Mike jests. He hates heights.

          We didn't watch them drive all six, but I figure the process will be the same for each.

          Mike went down on his own one day and turns around and comes back to get me. "Peg, they're using the crane to swing the pylons over to our side," he excitedly said. "Grab your camera and come on."

          What could I do? I grabbed my camera and got on the cart.

          They were swinging two over at a time and Matt used a guide rope to place them where he wanted them. Then he'd unhook the chain and send it back until they had all six over here.

          You can barely see the tops of the pylons... err piles sticking above the riprap. I didn't get to see them cutting 'em off. But after they were done with the piles a couple of guys got down in the hole where the piles were driven and were hooking something up; what, we couldn't tell.

          "The pieces they cut off?" Mike guessed.

          After everyone was out of the way, the crane went to work and we could hear metal striking metal. Eventually up came this form (for lack of a better word).

          "Is that like a guide to tell them where to put the pylons?" I asked Mike cause I didn't know they were called piles and maybe it doesn't make any difference.

          "I don't know for sure but that's what it looks like. See? It's got six holes in it."

          Come Monday (tomorrow) they want to have the crane moved to our side.

         

          I've taken a few odds and ends pictures of our back road detour.

          Someone's grave marker for a pet, maybe?

          Watching the progress as this barn goes up.

          "Peg, what have you been making this week?"

          Well, I really hate to show you because they're so primitive but I'll show you anyway. Last time I showed you the suncatchers made of clear glue and glass gobs. Then I thought to use some of my glass scraps along with the gobs but in the big open areas where there's neither, the glue doesn't set quite right.

           So I got out my mosaic nippers and decided to fill all the space with little bits of glass and ended up with this.

          The clear glue is a cheap substitute for resin and would probably be a cute project to do with kids because you can use all kinds of stuff in your suncatchers and it won't be that expensive. Bottle caps, washers from daddy's garage, pennies, beads. But I'm thinking I'd like to try something a little more professional looking. I'm thinking of buying some resin. We shall see. It's not like I don't have anything else to do.

          I have to show you this picture my handsome brother David took of a Red-tailed Hawk fishing in his driveway. He still has water from the recent floods.

          Let's end with a sunrise picture (or two) I took this week and we'll call this one done!