Don't Ask, Don't Tell

Since we had been putting the dogs outside during the day and their food in the pergola we had birds coming in there in the droves. So, I went to put up a shade across one section to keep them out. I was in the garage measuring the length when I saw 2 women and a guy in the street with a long crowbar trying to get one of the manhole covers off. So, I ventured out there to see what was going on. Seems that a dog had chased a baby plover down the drain. Now these are the most pesky birds on earth. They swoop at you continuously. I have stood on our front porch swinging a broom at them. So, the guy was lifting the manhole off to rescue this bird I hate. So, I regretfully said how can I help. The next thing I know he was down one manhole further down the street and I was down the other with my pool net. Now the storm drain isn't the most pleasant thing to be exploring especially for a 60 year old woman who isn't even wearing a bra. I know that last bit was too much information. "I can hear it" the guy kept saying "but it sounds like it is behind me". So up the next manhole he went. I climbed out of the one I was in and ventured to the one he just came out of. My first clue should have been when it was a bit smaller than the other I had just come out of. Oh well, down my fat ass went. The other women stood guard so that someone didn't run over us while we were down there. We kept hearing chirp chirp and momma bird was swooping all around. We then find that the little innocent baby bird, who by now I would like to kill myself, had run up to yet another manhole. So, I proceeded to put one foot on the rung to get out but because the manhole was so small there was no room for me to put the other foot on the rung. Thus a fat, no bra, 60 year old lady is stuck in the manhole. The 2 women are saying "We can lift you out". Right. Thank goodness along comes another guy from the street and the 2 men lifted me out. How embarrassing is that. Thank goodness I was not on the 6:00 news coming out of the drain. The next plot was to pour water in the drain to wash the bird down the drain into the net. I can tell you that I was worried about what else was going to get washed down with it. Oh well, I had decided I wasn't going back down there again. Then up the street to yet another drain the momma bird is going crazy. It was there we finally scouped the bird up in the pool net and back to his lunatic momma. My parting words were "This was definitely not on my bucket list" So I get back home to sleeping beauty who awakes to find me covered in a reddest brown dirt. Now here is the x rated part. "What the #&*@ where you thinking?" "There is god knows what down there" And, finally, "No telling what kind of germs you have on you." So the morale of the story is "Don't ask. Don't tell".

Sorry

Such a simple two syllable word but so complex in it's meaning and use. It can be worth millions or worthless as a counterfeit bill. I am sorry for all I have done but if it is not accepted it is useless, worthless. I am sorry I have hurt you but the hurt is done and sorry doesn't lessen your pain. I am sorry that I was not there for you and you will have lost trust. A trust that may never recover no matter what I say after saying sorry. I am sorry. It does not erase the past. It doesn't erase countless harsh words. I am sorry and the scar of my actions is forever stamped upon my soul. I am sorry for I am tormented night and day, with every breath, for this is my punishment. I am sorry's prisoner never to be unchained. I am sorry. I feel it strongly. It is heartfelt. Honest. Permanent. Will it ever be enough? I can be sorry person. I can wear sorry as though it were a coat hanging off my shoulders. I can live sorry day in and day out. I can choke on the word sorry like it were a bad cough. Sorry. It feels good to say. Like a weight is lifted from my body. Healing. Comforting. The word though needs someone to receive it. Take it to heart. Take it for all that it is worth. All that it cost. Take it from my heart. And accept it as truth. Be willing to move on. To rebuild. Forge a new beginning. The beginning of hope. We know not what the morrow brings. I for one believe my sorry has value, carries weight and in part I hope will give me peace.

Licking a Green Ants Butt

I know you must wonder about the title but I must first take you on a trip. A trip to North Queensland in Australia. We boarded a boat that ferried us down the river to enjoy the sights of birds and yes even crocs. Our first stop was a remote little area that was thankfully shaded by a large tin roof. We made our way thinking we would be served morning tea as it was not quite lunch yet. Our guide took us to a nearby tree on the edge of the rainforest where we noticed ants crawling everywhere on the tree. As a matter of fact, they were green ants or weaver ants as they are sometimes called. The guide encouraged us take a green ant by the head. And as their name says, they do have a green butt. I knew from experience that these little buggers have a heck of a sting so I was a bit reluctant. But being the adventurer I am I carefully picked up the ant waiting for my next instructions. He said “Now lick his butt.” I thought surely this guy doesn’t want me to get bit on my tongue. I bravely took a lick. I was wondrously surprised by the lemon taste. The aboriginals love these ants as they serve a lot of purposes for them. Come to find out these ants weave large nests forming a ball of leaves in trees by interlacing leaves together. The Yangga or green ants are used for medicinal purposes for coughs and colds and by dunking the entire nest in water they make a lemon drink. In fact, ants and insects of all kinds were used for everything from pigment in paintings, sweetener, and food, to anesthetics by the aboriginals. So, when you visit Australia be sure to lick a green ants butt.

Magical Night

It was pitch black outside, just me and the stars. No flashlights, no headlights, no light from your cell phones were allowed. Not seeing well in the dark, I could only imagine and was terrified of just what I might step on. I could hear the guide talking and since I walked slow I was in the back of the pack. And, trying to watch my steps for heaven knows what was slowing me down. And the most amazing sky full of stars. It looked as though hands full of them had been scattered across the night sky. You could see every star so clearly. No clouds to block your view. No city lights to distract from the beauty. The guide lead us to an area roped off where there was a bit of light shining to show you the wonder you were about to behold. The sand on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world began to move, from underneath. Then another roped off area began to move. Out of the night sand popped a head and then legs. Then another and another. I was witnessing the hatching of the endangered baby loggerhead turtles. The loggerhead turtle has been on the threatened species list since 1978 due to pollution, shrimp trawling and development in their nesting areas. Adults grow to nearly 3 foot in length and weigh on average 300 pounds but they can grow up to 1,000 pounds. They lay only 4 eggs in the period of 2-3 years and have a lifespan of about 45-65 years. These beautiful little creatures are drawn to light when they are born. Thus no lights were allowed to distract them from their journey to the ocean. The moonlight bouncing off the ocean is their beacon. Their long journey to the water imprints on them where to return to lay their own eggs when they become an adult. So it is imperative not to interfere with that journey. The reality is though that most become dinner for the predators lurking in the water beyond or on the shore. Although the loggerheads have many nesting sites throughout the world, I was able to witness the Pacific turtles hatch in Northern Australia along the coast near where the Great Barrier Reef begins. Watching them struggle from the sand then make the trek into the ocean will forever be my most magical night ever experienced.

Excerpt from Chapter 1 - Deadly Feud

“Grandpa! Grandpa!” Mark hollered. No answer and he could see the tractor sitting idle in the field. Knowing his grandfather must be nearby, Mark made his way to the old red rusted tractor. The key wasn’t in the ignition. Nothing. Nowhere to be found. Where could he be thought Mark. Darkness was coming fast as the sunset dipped behind the horizon. He continued to call his grandfather. Still nothing. Well, maybe he went back to the stock shed. Mark strode back across the field towards the stock shed where the feed supplies and tack was kept. Surely, he couldn’t be far away, after all its getting dark. He reached the stock shed. Barely able to see, he ducked through the doorway. The crunch under foot to the stock shed meant the pecan trees were dropping pecans. Something else to add to his list to do. He couldn’t be bothered trying to avoid them, he couldn’t see a thing. The next step proved to be the one that would change his life forever. He tripped and nearly went flying through the back of the shed. He had tripped over something, not sure just what. He grabbed the flash light his grandad kept on the ledge just inside the doorway. As soon as the light came on, his eyes froze on the lifeless body that lie in front of him, his grandfather. He felt as though his breath had been instantly sucked from his chest. He couldn’t really fathom what had happened. Maybe a heart attack, a stroke, some kind of accident. He knelt down to check for a pulse. He was gone. He felt sick and wanted to throw up. The sound that came from his throat wasn’t even a cry, it was much deeper than that. Someone he loved more than life was dead in front of him, his eyes wide open. He was dazed, not sure what to do next. Finally, after what seemed forever, he dialed 911 from his cell phone.

Prologue The killer watched and listened everything transpire from the shadows of the backyard of the Hansen farm. He had snuck in the house earlier when Ms. Hansen had gone to town. He couldn’t find where Old man Hansen had hidden his Will or the bank account number he so desperately wanted. Mostly he needed to find those letters. Letters from the old country, their beloved Germany where the Hansen’s’ were born. Where the killer had lived in a neighboring town. Where he had first killed. Hansen never saw him coming. He was busy grabbing a rope off the hook on the wall and never knew he was hiding in the corner. The light had faded. Darkness would not too far away. He was reaching for the rope when the killer struck. That was easy. The killer’s heart was pumping and he actually became a bit light headed from the rush killing had given him. He had forgotten how that felt. He had finally started his plan in motion after all these years. The plan had to move forward quickly if he was to realize his fortune. He will have to be cautious of their grandson Mark though. Being the only grandson of the Hansen’s, he would stand to inherit quite a bit. He must find those damn letters. Hansen would not have destroyed them, after all, they were the only thing standing between the killer’s downfall and the money that he believes he is entitled to. His thoughts were interrupted by voices. He had to laugh under his breath listening to their conversation inside the house. “Grandma. You in there?” In an apologetic tone, Mark hollered from the front verandah. “I’m here. Sorry I’m late.” He could make out the grandmother making her way to the door dressed in her cotton dress. He had never seen her in anything but print cotton dresses with pockets. “Well, Hi there. Thought you changed your mind.” He heard her respond. “I’m in the middle of dinner. Guess you must have smelled it and come a running.” He heard Mark ask his grandmother where he grandfather was. She replied “In the pasture. He is trying to get the last of the field tilled before dark. Could you go see what’s keeping him? He works till dark and by the time he comes in for dinner its stone cold.” She added with frustration. He must hurry, the killer thought. Mark will go out the back door and be in the chickenyard before he can get out through the neighbor’s field and out of sight. He rushed through the back field and into the neighbors’ property. He had left his motorcycle in the far end of their property. It will be dark before he gets back to it and driving without lights will pose a challenge. He would come back for the papers. Maybe while they were at the funeral, before they start digging through everything themselves.

Canvas of Faded Colors

From the canvas the colors shown so bright. Each feature, with such detail, all seemed just right. Hung proudly above the mantel to withstand the test of time. My hand touched the frame and I marveled it was mine. As days passed the silhouette began to vanish as if again by the stroke of an artist brush. Once distinct, each feature faded with an eerie rush. Although many paintings had adorned the barren walls. With elegant beauty this one had surpassed them all. Saddened by the emptiness of a painting I cannot touch or see. Still the memories of beautiful colors will forever remain with me.