In early June, during a televised soccer match between Finland and Belgium, and after about 15 minutes of the start of the game, a huge Eagle Owl flew onto the field and landed on one of the goal posts. The game was stopped for seven minutes because the owl was sitting on the field and eventually on both goal posts. It also gently cruised around the field, as you can see on the posted video-clip. Apparently, the owl had a nest somewhere in the stadium. The video is in Finnish, and the audience is heard shouting, “Huuhkaja! Huuhkaja,”meaning “Eagle Owl, Eagle Owl,” as the owl is sitting on the crossbars goal.

pesky godson has updated his blog.

Just sent this to Adam and thought why not post it too. Seeing how it’s Tuesday and all.

 

If you’ve slept in a tent more than once you know that you never leave the rainfly off. If you’re pitching the goddamn thing in the middle of the Gobi Desert or on the moon or in New Hampshire with a forecast of clear skies on into eternity, you still drape your tent with the rainfly. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.

Last night I left mine off. At 11:30 I was awakened from a sleep so deep there were no detectable brain waves by the patter of rain. Leaf litter, I prayed. My imagination, I hoped. No, simple rain drops.

In my underwear, I scrambled from my dark tent into the featureless outside, and shuffled in the direction of my nearby truck. I willed myself to move slowly in spite of the cold rain so I wouldn’t collide with the tailgate where I prayed Matt had placed the rainfly pole. I grabbed the pole and the fly and lurched back to where my tent should have been, but it had disappeared. The flashlights I’d bought at Walmart on my way up were still at Walmart. I’d remembered to lift from the carrousel the bags with the coffee, the paper towels and the water, but not the nifty new super-powerful lights.

As the rain pelted down, I made it back to the truck, fired it up, and turned the lights on, but the headlights illuminated bushes and trees  away from the tent, and I had neither the time nor the space to turn the truck around. I jammed the shift into reverse to engage my backup lights and yanked on the emergency brake. The same hand brake I’d repaired myself in order to pass my last inspection. Oh lordy, I thought. Here I am –  blurry of mind, wet, worrying about a soggy sleeping bag, and now I’m about to turn my back on my two ton idling truck while I try to find the right side of the fly, the right end of the tent, and the five plastic catches to secure it all.

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Small group this time. Robby, Joe, Matt and Kyle arrived on Friday, and I drove up Saturday as Joe returned for a family trip to Cirque De Soleil.

Rak, there is the most amazing mouse nest in your wood stove. Also, the hinge on the door broke so it’ll have to be repaired before another winter’s fire.

 

 

If you’ve slept in a tent more than once you know that you never leave the rainfly off. If you’re pitching the goddamn thing in the middle of the Gobi Desert or on the moon or in New Hampshire with a forecast of clear skies on into eternity, you still drape your tent with the rainfly. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.

Last night I left mine off. At 11:30 I was awakened from a sleep so deep there were no detectable brain waves by the patter of rain. Leaf litter, I prayed. My imagination, I hoped. No, simple rain drops.

In my underwear, I scrambled from my dark tent into the featureless outside, and shuffled in the direction of my nearby truck. I willed myself to move slowly in spite of the cold rain so I wouldn’t collide with the tailgate where I prayed Matt had placed the rainfly pole. I grabbed the pole and the fly and lurched back to where my tent should have been, but it had disappeared. The flashlights I’d bought at Walmart on my way up were still at Walmart. I’d remembered to lift from the carrousel the bags with the coffee, the paper towels and the water, but not the nifty new super-powerful lights.

As the rain pelted down, I made it back to the truck, fired it up, and turned the lights on, but the headlights illuminated bushes and trees  away from the tent, and I had neither the time nor the space to turn the truck around. I jammed the shift into reverse to engage my backup lights and yanked on the emergency brake. The same hand brake I’d repaired myself in order to pass my last inspection. Oh lordy, I thought. Here I am –  blurry of mind, wet, worrying about a soggy sleeping bag, and now I’m about to turn my back on my two ton idling truck while I try to find the right side of the fly, the right end of the tent, and the five plastic catches to secure it all.

*****************

Small group this time. Robby, Joe, Matt and Kyle arrived on Friday, and I drove up Saturday as Joe returned for a family trip to Cirque De Soleil.

Rak, there is the most amazing mouse nest in your wood stove. Also, the hinge on the door broke so it’ll have to be repaired before another winter’s fire.

 

Diane and I stopped at Concord Teacakes for coffee this morning and I caught this guy on a shelf in the window, and standing right next to him were these glasses.

They could be two of my most useless photos, but I’m posting them because that’s all I’ve got.

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We stopped in on Flo tonight to deliver her pills, milk and to say hello. She complained that she had trouble kneeling for any length of time. She’s thirty-four years older than I am and I bet she can kneel painlessly longer than I.

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Matt and friends are at Ed’s place in NH tonight using the brand new eight person tent I bought at Costco for only a hundred bucks. If they stay over Saturday I may join them as it’s a perfect time of year given the dry weather means no skeets.

Some photos of the almost finished house before the final photos of the finished house.

Diane’s father tenderly cared for many varities of roses which he would then cut and display on their piano. I didn’t see it first hand; Diane told me many years ago. Because of that history I tried to imitate her father, and lord know I tried hard, or atleast I shelled out many dollars at K-Mart for small plants. But I never got them to winter over, or I’d forget where I planted them and mow then down the following spring. Anyway, I’m a better photographer of roses than grower, and this one, my most recent, is for Diane. You see, I forgot about our anniversary on the 23rd of this month and truth to tell, she might have too had pesky godson’s parents not sent us a card which arrived a day early.

While I’m rambling on, we hired a pianist to sing Bette Midler’s rendition of The Rose at our wedding back in 1984. It’s a good song, worth listening to even if you don’t like The Divine Miss M.

You don’t normally see downed power lines on fire – Central St. a couple blocks from our house.

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