Thank you? Sorry?

           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!