Diane sent me off to Roche Bros. with a shopping list for our vacation on Narraganset Bay (Thanks  to Mark and Ginger who rented a house big enough to accommodate all of us : Adam, Tricia, Dan and Linda too.) I couldn’t read the second item to the right of low sodium (sorry, it now has a line through it), so I turned to the woman next to me and asked,

“Can you help me?”

 “Of course,” she answered and quite warmly, I must say. 

 “What does this say?” and I pointed to what looked to me like “unclean butz.”

 “Chicken broth,” she said without hesitation,  “And it’s in the second to the last aisle with the canned soups.”

 

Over here.

Over here.

Skipping Stone

Like the good old days, Goose helped me work at the condos up the street. Here he is doing the heavy lifting while I play with my camera. He asked me what I was going to take photos of and I said something about finding a good view from the rooftop. However, I couldn’t find anything of interest ( like snow covered Rocky Mountains) so Goose said, “How about the clouds?”

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.

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

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.