Do
I say thank you or do I say I’m sorry?
“About what?” you ask.
I’m
obscenely proud to have made some of you cry during your reading of Whispering
Whiskers and thank you for letting me know. Sometimes you tell me when I
make you laugh but making you cry is something that’s harder to admit,
according to my beautiful younger sister Phyllis when I quizzed her on it.
“But
I cry every time I read a story about Kat,” Phyllis said. Cry? Read? Story? All
those words led my mind to the story I wrote about Kat after she died seven
years ago now. I know I made a bunch of you cry then and I really thought Phyllis
was going to tell me that she cries every time she re-reads it. She didn’t. In fact,
she once told me she couldn’t bear to read it again, so maybe she only ever
read it once. Phyllis loved Kat every bit as deeply as a mother could love her child.
Dying didn’t make Kat a saint. She was human, she was flawed, she made
mistakes, some of them bad, really bad mistakes, but nonetheless, we loved her.
I
guess the imagery of Kat welcoming Whiskers to heaven was what moved her.
“But when you
make someone cry, aren’t you supposed to be sorry?” you ask.
I guess I am
sorry for that. It’s just that to be able to stir such deep emotion in you with
my stories is extremely flattering. And even more so because I didn’t expect
it. I didn’t expect anyone else to shed a tear for this poor feral cat who came
to me for comfort during his dying days.
I was working on
the patio early this week when we hear what sounds like a turkey. Raini barks,
goes to the fence, and tries to see around the corner of the house to where the
sound is coming from. I hear it, but I’m not paying too much attention.
Raini comes
tearing past me, hits the pet door at ninety miles an hour, and when next I
hear her, she’s in the side kennel barking at this turkey.
His calls are so persistent
that I finally take notice. He must be right in the side yard, I think,
grab my camera and creep slowly around the house so I could get a picture before
he takes off. Only, he doesn’t take off, at least not from the ground, because
he’s not even on the ground. He’s in a tree. I know turkeys can fly short
distances and get in trees, but I thought the flight pattern of this one was unusual.
He came out, went up a little, then either flew through the tops of the trees
or went over them. I didn’t get a good look.
When Raini sees
me heading for the back yard, she goes in the cat-size pet door.
I’ve only ever seen
her from the inside once and saw how she pulls herself in with her front paws.
I don’t know how much longer she’ll keep
squeezing through.
Later that very
same day, Mike and I were doing some chores. We were on the golf cart heading
to the back of the house. “What is that?” I ask and point.
“Turkey?” Mike guesses.
We get closer and
see it’s not a turkey. Well, it sorta is. It has turkey in his name. It’s a
turkey vulture.
Before we can get any
closer, he takes off. I’m sure he was here for Whiskers.
That’s when I realize
what I mistook for a turkey in the tree was most likely a vulture. That would explain
the unusual flight pattern.
The next day, on
my morning wellness call to my neighbor, Sally asked, “Did you see any turkeys
over there yesterday?”
“I’ve seen turkeys
over here. Why?”
“I heard them
yesterday and thought they must be right in your front yard.”
“I think it might’ve
been a vulture,” I told her. “We have a dead cat over here.”
“Oh no,” Sally
said. “Which one?”
“The gray and
white one I called Whiskers.”
“That’s why I don’t
want any cats. My favorite ones always get hit on the road.”
I don’t think
Whiskers had been hit. I suspect he was just old and run-down because of worms,
but I didn’t tell her that.
Since we’re
talking about birds and Sally, here’s a picture of a Great Blue Heron coming in
for a landing at her pond.
>>>*<<<
“Table
saws are dangerous,” Mike told me when I asked about using one.
“Why?
Why are table saws dangerous?” I wanted to know.
“They
just are.”
That
is not an acceptable answer. I press further. “Because you don’t use a pusher
when you push it through and can cut your hand?”
“It
can grab and pull the material through,” Mike acknowledges, “but it’ll
kick your board back on you sometimes, too.”
“Well,
don’t you think you should teach me how to use it safely because once you’re
gone, I’m gonna use it anyway.” I play the ‘once your gone’ card from time to
time and even Mike plays the ‘once I’m gone’ card sometimes, but we both know
that I could go first.
I
was at the computer, Mike watching TV, when he must’ve been thinking about it. “Peg!”
he calls and puts the footrest down on the recliner. “You wanna go down to the barn
with me?”
“No.” My standard answer. “Why?” Which
always follows my no.
“Let’s
get that one saw out.”
I’m
up and out of my chair so fast! I don’t even need any boards ripped at the
moment but if Mike’s willing to give me a lesson, I’m willing to learn.
The saw he chose was one of the two we
had before he bought the new old one. The one that had a fence. It hasn’t been
run in at least ten years but ran when we plugged it in. The only problem we
had was not being able to raise the blade. It took some canned spray grease, Mike’s
job, and some elbow grease, my job. I’d work the handle back and forth while
Mike sprayed it and eventually we got it working.
“Don’t
stand directly behind or in front of the blade,” Mike instructs. “Hold down
firmly and if it’s less than three inches, always use a pusher. Don’t ever try
to cut warped or twisted boards and the edge against the fence needs to be
straight. Never reach across the blade and always, always, always shut
it off before you clear a jam!”
He
didn’t mention eye or hearing protection but I’m smart enough to put those on
first anyway.
Mike
found a couple of pieces of scrap and made thin strips for the sign making kick
I’m on.
He’s
a good husband. And I may be sufficiently scared to ever use a table saw on my
own.
Speaking
of Mike, he said to me, “Did you see those purple flowers in the yard? I saw
them when I was mowing and didn’t mow them over.”
I grinned. Not mowing over wildflowers
is his way of saying I love you. “No, I didn’t.”
We
were on the golf cart at the time so he took me to see them.
“Bull
thistle,” I said.
“Oh.
I’ll mow ‘em over then.”
“It’s
Finch food!” But all he heard was thistle. Even thorny weeds can be pretty and
useful.
We went on up the hill toward the
upper barn and came upon a doe and her twins. Mama jumped into the weeds and
was gone when we got close. The youngins just watched. Mike stopped when we saw
them and since he didn’t want to scare ‘em, we backed down the hill and went
the other way.
Check
this guy out!
“What
is it?” you wanna know. Maybe you don’t but I sure did.
And
the answer is, I’m not sure. I think he’s an Ichneumon but don’t know if he’s a
true Ichneumon Wasp or a faker look-alike Ichneumon Fly. I suspect he’s the
fly.
But if you really
want to see strange then I bet you never saw anything like this.
“What is it‽” my beautiful West Virginia
gal asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
Strange as it may
sound, my first instinct was to say, “I think it’s a moth.” I was on my phone
at the time and couldn’t really get a good look at it. When I got on my
computer and got a good look, I started to doubt myself.
“Peg! Where did
you ever see anything that looks like that?” you wanna know.
And that’s the
thing. Through the years I’ve spent so much time Googling critters that I’m positive
I’ve seen this guy before. And just because he is so odd looking is the reason
it’s stuck with me. Looking at him on my ‘puter I can see he has no wings,
unless they’re cleverly camouflaged. I went to work and Googled him — and found
out what he is in less than three minutes.
“Don’t keep us in
suspense!” you say. “What is that thing‽”
This, my dears,
is a Hag Moth caterpillar. Does that mean I was right? He may not be a moth
right now, but he will be!
The Hag Moth Caterpillar is also called a Monkey
Slug Caterpillar. These caterpillars have suckers and ambulate (move about)
like slugs.
They’re found all
over Eastern North America and into the Midwest. They feed on leaves of trees
like ash, apple, cherry, birch, dogwood, chestnut, oak, hickory, walnut,
willow, and persimmon.
“Don’t touch him,”
I warned Trish. “I think he might sting.”
My search turns
up that he does indeed sting but it isn’t deadly or serious. There are glands
at the base of the spines that release a toxin and cause a burning, itching
sensation, as well as redness and inflammation, similar to a bee sting. And
just treat it like you would a bee sting. An ice pack, baking soda paste, vinegar,
or cold water.
When not moving,
this brown insect could easily be mistaken for a dead leaf. When it’s slowly
making its way from one point to another, and its arms are waving around a bit,
it could be mistaken for a tarantula. Both are adaptations to avoid predation
by birds.
The underside of a
Hag Moth Caterpillar is just as interesting as its top. For one thing, they
have a transparent abdomen, and you can see their open circulatory system in
action. Although it uses its suckers to move itself around, the Hag Moth
Caterpillar still has its true legs (as do all Slug Moth Caterpillars) up near
its head and under its thorax. These legs are used primarily to hold onto
things. With careful observation of the underside, you can find the little
bitty legs of this caterpillar and the clusters of white spines hiding under
the hair.
“What’s he going to
look like when he’s all grown up?” I know you wanna know, I did, too.
Kinda purdy, ain't
he?
Another critter I
got a picture of this week is this Daddy Longlegs, or Harvestmen Spider.
I’ve talked about
these guys before. They’re a suborder of arachnid called Opiliones. They have
very week pincers and feed mostly on dead and decaying plant and animal matter
— and they’re not poisonous.
Mike loaded
concrete bags into the front of his tractor bucket, busted them open with his
shovel, and dumped the concrete.
Ooops! One got away
from him. But it wasn’t wasted. He just had to shovel it back into the bucket.
Mike mixed while
I squirted the water in. That’s how I found the Daddy Longlegs. He was sitting near
where the hose nozzle hung.
Mike positioned the
tractor bucket over his monolith, stone pile, driveway entrance pillar.
Climbed the
ladder and put a cap on.
“It’ll keep the
water from going down inside, freezing and busting the rocks out,” he told me.
My only job at this
point was to take pictures and call an ambulance should he fall.
“Would you back
the tractor up out of the way?” Mike asked.
With his excellent
directions I moved the tractor back this far! And didn’t hit anything!
Another job Mike
did this week was to burn the giant brush pile. He burns on a giant concrete
pad at the back of the mill. Since we’ve had some rain and the surrounding grass,
trees, and weeds weren’t so dry, and since it was a relatively wind-free day,
he thought it a good day to get this job done.
“Is Mike putting gas
on that!” you exclaim horrified.
I know, right!
Fire scares me, too! And you’d have to be an idiot to pour gas on a fire. It
explodes and will trail back to whatever container you’re tossing it from. But
no, it’s not gas. It’s diesel fuel which doesn’t have the explosive fumes like
gas does. Mike is confident and experienced in using it to burn our brush.
Another job we did
was to make the dog runs bigger. Mike had the idea to enclose the back alcove
to give the girls more room. Frankly, since I’m in charge of mowing the dog
runs, I think it was to give him less to mow, especially in the tight area
around the gas tanks and old chute, and me more!
The girls couldn’t
be out while we were working on it so I kenneled Raini and locked Bondi in the
house. Boy, did Raini ever complain!
We had to take a
section from the existing fence line so there’s a gate for the gas man to get
in and fill the tanks.
“We need some
strong wire,” Mike said.
In my mind’s eye, I
see an old piece of fence in the metal scrap pile next to my burn barrel. I see
long pieces of wire, like tentacles, hanging from where the fence was broken,
reaching out to snag me when I’m not paying attention to where I’m going.
“I know where
there’s some!” And I went to get it along with a pair of wire cutters. This
small piece of old fence gave us plenty of strong wire to work with and didn’t
cost us anything. Wire is expensive to buy.
Once this section
was done, we moved to the other side.
The girls will
have all this extra room to run in.
Once we finished, I
let the dogs out.
The girls eagerly
ran through the new part of the fenced-in yard thinking they were free, until
they came to the fence on the other end. They stopped short and sniffed all
along the bottom edge, then came running back.
“We have a leftover
section. Let’s add it to the side run,” Mike said.
The side run
stopped here. From the pole it went to the corner of the house.
Mike’s idea was
to open it up and extend it to the end of the newly enclosed patio.
We were one section
of fence short.
“We could just
use that old green fence between two of these sections of fence,” I suggested.
“They’ll just
push out from underneath it,” Mike said.
“We’ve got some
old pipes in the wayback, we could wire one of those on.”
I went for the
pipe, Mike went for the old green wire fence. We worked hard cutting pieces of
wire and wiring it on. We put it in place and I took a long piece of wire and
started weaving the two sections together. (Sorry, no pictures here.) I get to
the bottom and see the cross wires are broken for at least two feet near the
bottom edge. I’d have to fix them or the dogs could just push out between them.
“Wait a minute Peg,”
Mike said from his seat on the golf cart. “Before you go any further, why don’t
we use this around the apple tree and take one of those panels for here?”
“That’s a great idea!” I told
him relieved I wouldn’t be spending the next hour trying to put the fence back
together. “It’ll look better and the deer aren’t going to push through the
broken fence down here.”
And the side run
now extends to the front of the house and the dogs have tons more room than
they had before.
Although the
fence is up, although it’s stable and strong enough, it needs more support in a
few places.
“We’ll have to
buy a few fence posts,” Mike said. We used what we had but he figures we’re
about three short.
“Maybe you could
use something else?” I tried to get him to think outside the box.
“Wood would just
rot, plus you have to dig a hole. I’d rather just buy a few posts.”
“Is there any way
to use those old conduit pipes?” I wanted to know. “Could you drive them into
the ground?”
“No. They won’t
work.”
Usually when he
doesn’t like my ideas, I make him show me they won’t work. Sometimes he’s
wrong. This time, I didn’t.
“Maybe there’s
some in the Robinsons' old barn,” I suggested.
We stopped at the
old machine shed but there wasn’t any there. We went up to the old barn with no
luck there either. I didn’t really think there was but I didn’t think it would
hurt to look.
Later that
afternoon I get a text from Jon Robinson.
“Were
you in the barn?”
I knew the neighbor lady was
sitting on the porch when we explored the barn. I knew she told Jon. That’s a
good thing. Neighbors should watch out for neighbors.
“Yep.
Just looking to see if there were any old fence posts in there. We’re adding on
the dog run and are a few short.”
Well,
don’cha know, that kind, sweet, handsome, big-hearted Jon Robinson did have some
old fence posts up at his house and he brought us some!
What
fantabulous neighbors we are so blessed to have! And because of his generosity,
our project didn’t cost us anything but our time.
It may not be the
best-looking fence in the world, it may not be to everyone’s liking, but it
works for us, our girls will have more room to run and they’ll be safe.
I have to tell
you a story on myself. I hope it makes you laugh but likely as not, you’ll just
shake your head.
Most of the
elements to put the new section of fence up were stored in the upper barn. Also
in the upper barn is a bunch of junk left by a previous tenant. Poking around
up there a long, long time ago, I found a box of spice jars. I set them aside.
Just this week, I
was working on crafts and needed a small jar for paint. When we’d gone up for
the fence sections, I remembered that, went into the back, and brought one of
the jars out.
“Sweet Marjoram.”
I read the handwritten label on my way back to the golf cart. I unscrewed the
top and smelled the mostly full bottle.
“What does
marjoram smell like?” you ask.
Dust. That’s what.
It just smells like dust. I dumped it out into the grass.
Looking at the
label again, I see it has something else written on it. I got my new eyes to
focus. “Good for rabbits.”
“Peg! It doesn’t
say that!”
Well, maybe not,
but that’s what I read. And the funny part? I wondered how you feed it to your
rabbits. Sprinkle a little over their food maybe? This bottle wouldn’t go very
far if you had very many rabbits at all. I got on the golf cart and waited for
Mike to put the lock back on the barn door when it hit me! Duh! It’s for
you to put on a rabbit you’re cooking! It’d gone completely out of my head that
people eat rabbits — not me people, but other people who used to live here
before me people.
I mowed the dog
run this week. Raini is usually terrified of the mower whereas Bondi gets in
front of it and barks.
This time,
watching Bondi bark at the mower before I even started it, Raini decided not to
run. At least not right away. I started the mower and she got in the chair with
Bondi for a while, but soon her nerve broke and she ran into the house.
And the next two
photos were taken while I was on the kitchen patio working on a porch sign.
My feet got hot.
I used the heel of one socked foot to pinch the toe of the other sock to floor while
I wiggled my foot out. With my naked foot, I hooked my big toe in the top of the
other sock and slipped my other foot free. Then breathed a sigh of relief because
it felt so good to be barefoot in the sunshine.
I didn’t bother
to pick my socks up. I left ‘em lay where they landed. I’d get ‘em when I got
up to go in. I had to laugh when I saw Raini was snoozing while holding one of
my dirty old socks in her mouth. Not chewing it, just holding it.
“You silly girl!” I
told her.
She rolled onto
her back and grinned at me.
Bondi was in the
chair with Blackie and Blackie was grooming her. I think she likes it.
“You made another
porch sign?” you say.
I did. This one
for a lady at my church.
After I finished
it, I went to work playing.
I only have a few
boards with ‘character’ in them, then I’d have to start using new boards. And
because there are only a few of them, they’re ‘special.’ I wanted to save them
for when I made signs for special people.
Mike has been offering me one of his rough-sawn
one-by-tens to use for sign making. I took him up on his offer and he cut me
two forty-inch lengths for signs with a sixteen-inch piece left over. “I can
use that for a different kind of sign,” I said.
Then the play
began. I sanded it down —
“Did you break
another belt on the belt sander?” you ask.
Don’t ask!
I broke another
belt on the belt sander.
But, I swear!
This time it wasn’t my fault! I was only going in the direction of the grain. I
was mindful that my belt stayed centered. Could I help if it snagged a little splinter
and pulled up a big ol’ honkin’ piece of wood!
I didn’t want to
stain my board per se, but I didn’t want it to look like a new piece of wood
either.
“Can I thin the
stain and use it like a wash?” I asked Mike.
“You should be
able to,” he said.
I got a cup, a
little stain, a little water and stirred it together. I’m dabbing it on and
soon notice the stain has separated from the water.
Must not be water
base, I realized a little too late.
I pulled my phone
out. “Google, what do you thin stain with?” I asked.
“Depending on
what kind of stain it is, you can use water, mineral spirits, or lacquer
thinner,” the female voice answered.
I had lacquer
thinner. I dumped what was left of the watered thinner, got the lacquer thinner,
and tried again. It didn’t work any better. I did a little more research and
discovered only lacquer-based stains can be thinned with lacquer thinner. Other
oil base stains need to be thinned using mineral spirits. I didn’t have that.
Between my two
mistakes, then just plain using a very small amount of stain and rubbing it out
really well, I ended up with this.
Not bad, huh?
On another board
I tried another experiment. What if I stain it first and sand it second,
I wondered. Which is the exact opposite of what I did the first time. I stained
it here and there and let it dry.
I sanded it and hated the look. It’s too dark.
Way too dark.
“Well,” Me says to
Myself. “This is a good time to try distress painting.
One video tutorial uses
Vaseline smeared here and there, paint on top, then scrape the paint. Where the
Vaseline was, the paint won’t be.
I hated it! I had
long streaks which I know is totally my fault because of how I applied the
Vaseline.
I made a whitewash
and went over the whole board.
Now I don’t hate
it so much.
“I could do the
same thing without Vaseline,” Myself said to Me.
I’m anxious to
see if my vinyl will stick to this and if it does stick, will it pull the paint
off when I take it off?
Those are
questions yet to be answered.
But speaking of porch
signs…
I delivered one
and got an order for another!
Something else I did this week was
finish up the stained-glass pieces I’d been working on. The bunny butts got
tails, the birds got wires and hair, beaks and eyes, the gnome got eyes and
nose and LOVE and the angel got chimes. You can’t see them though cause they’re
in the part of the picture I chopped off. You’ll have to trust me when I say
they’re there.
Life with a dog who
loves you and wants to protect you can be a bit of a challenge at times.
Blackie brought a
bat in. Raini and I both heard the pet door flap and the cries of the bat as
Blackie came in from the side kennel, which, by the way, comes into the bedroom
closet from outside. I don’t think I was asleep yet. I was either still reading
or had just put the Kindle Fire down.
Raini took off at
a dead run, mouth going full speed and full volume at the same time. I jump
outta bed, grab the flashlight from the headboard, and when I caught up with Blackie,
Raini had him cornered in the kitchen by the baker’s rack.
“Raini STOP!” I
yell.
“I caught it! It’s
mine!” Blackie was growling, bat clamped firmly in his jaws, wings spread out
on either side of his mouth.
I grabbed Raini
and locked her in her kennel. Bondi is small enough I can keep her out of my
way. When I get back to the corner, I see Blackie had turned loose of his bat.
I pulled the thirty-gallon-birdseed-holder trash can out of the way. It has to
live in the house since the bear found it on the patio last year. When I got
down to see where the bat was, he was flapping his way out from under the bottom
shelf. I grabbed the first thing I see, which is the cover for the dog door,
and slap it down over the bat.
It was instinct.
I didn’t think about it. I just didn’t want him flying around the house in the
middle of the night. Luckily for the bat it’s not a flat lid. And I know bats
squeeze into small spaces, so as long as I could keep the Blackie and Bondi
from walking on top of it and crushing it down, he’d be okay.
Now I needed a
way to get him out of the house. I thought to slide a piece of cardboard under
the cover but thought it might be too fat and I’d pinch the bat. I thought of
my Cricut mat. It’s big enough and slim enough. I went to the other side of the
table, got the mat, got down on my hands and knees, and gently slipped the mat
under the cover.
I realized the
error of my ways when I tried to pick it up. The mat was flexible. Thinking
about it now, I could’ve slid the cardboard under that. But I didn’t. I got a
different hold on the mat and got it outside. I set it on the scrap pan that
lives right outside the door, the center of the mat sagged a little, and went
back in for the camera. Porch light on, camera at the ready, I flipped the top
off the mat and no bat. It was empty.
I
was really hoping he got away when the mat sagged on top of the scrap pan and
not in the house. Nonetheless, I looked all over the kitchen and didn’t see
him. I kept a lookout for him for several days and since he’s not inside, he
must be out.
What
a night.
“I
never want that to happen again!” I told Mike. “I’m going to shut the pet doors
and whoever’s out can stay out until the morning!”
Well!
Let me tell you! The first night of that ingenious plan didn’t go all that well.
Blackie was out and Blackie wanted in. Every time he rattled the pet door,
Raini barked. Every. Stinkin’. Time!
Mike
got up and let Blackie in.
Blackie
wasn’t happy being in now that he was in and before long, he was doing
something — I don’t know what — but that something was making a noise and Raini
barks at noises.
I got up and put
Blackie in the garage.
Blackie wasn’t
happy in the garage and was jumping off stuff and knocking stuff over and
meowing at the door — and making noises and Raini barks at noises!
Did I tell you
all of this is happening at night, when we’re trying to sleep?
I get up again
and this time toss Blackie outside and put Raini in her kennel. Maybe she’d
settle down.
Raini spent the
next couple of nights in her kennel.
“I don’t think it’s
fair the cats can’t come in when they want to come in,” Mike says surprising
me. He’s a bigger grump at being woken up than I am.
“I don’t want
them bringing things in at night. At least during the day I can deal with it
better.”
“It happened,
what? Once every few months?”
The doors are
once again left open at night.
>>>*<<<
“I
saw three concrete trucks go past the house,” Mike said. We were on the golf
cart, going to check the mail. “I wonder where they’re going?”
The
mail wasn’t here yet. “Wanna go see if we can see where they went?” I asked.
And
that is how we ended up going for a nice ride on our country dirt back road.
The
Walker Farm.
The chickens’ll
scratch through the cow poo looking for undigested seeds and bugs.
Four Sandhill
Cranes! I never saw four before.
Mike pulls the golf
cart to the side of the road.
“There’s
a concrete truck coming up behind us now,” he said.
He passed and we
followed — at a distance.
The truck gets to
the blacktop, turns right and keeps on going. We never did see where they were going
to.
The old dead tree
in front of the old dead house.
Mike waited while I took
a few pictures.
Fall means
asters, y’all!
The big pretty purple
New England kind.
As well as the tiny Calicos.
Let’s call this
one done!
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