Monday Musings.

Isn't it interesting how one misspelled word - or one missing punctuation mark - can change the entire meaning of something?  As in:  Let's eat Grandma. vs. Let's eat, Grandma.  Or:  Benny's Best fried doe vs. Benny's Best fried dough.  Hmmm.  Maybe Benny MEANT doe on the last one.  There were a lot of pickup trucks with rifle racks in the parking lot.  I wasn't in the mood to hang around and ask, as I was trying to take an 'artful' shot off Hog Back Mountain while keeping one eye on the Lincoln.

One of the joys of cooler weather, is that the stand of pines that is in the front of the house bursts into full pine-y-ness.  They give off the most wonderful, pungent pine scent.  It's so wonderful that almost everyone that walks down the road will stop and sniff the air.  I like to go stand in the middle of it and just inhale.  I wish that I could replicate that exact scent in a candle, or in perfume.  But the only pine scented candles I can find are sort of syrupy piney something.  And what gives with most vanilla candles?  That ain't no vanilla, baby.  That is chem-nilla.  I wonder if I rubbed myself all over with the pine needles I could pass it off as perfume....

Cats are totally perverse.  I will sit at the computer with Kramer clamoring to be held.  He drapes across my left shoulder, purring loudly and, after a few minutes of a warm, purring body in close proximity, my eyes start to close, I relax and breath deeply.  Then he digs his talons into my shoulder and launches.  And I fall for it every. single. time.

I really enjoy watching the poultry scene from my bedroom window - I can watch them without their being aware of me.  Because, if they catch sight of me, they all lift their fluffy bloomers and come running.  Not all of my chickens have names.  I only name the ones with distinct personalities.  Good thing, too, as sometimes remembering my own name is a challenge.
There is Marie-Claire, a Cuckoo Maran who was rescued from her life in a large plastic tub in someones living room.  She lays an egg every once in a great while, is around 5 y/o, and is my best surrogate mother.  Because of her upbringing, she has a funny kind of skipping, pigeon-toed gait.

And there is Kees "Big Daddy" Roo, my Barnevelder rooster.  We are presently just referring to him as "Daddy" since he lost his major tail feathers to molting.  He pulls his best Elvis routine on the girls who, more often than not, give him the cold shoulder.  This does not dampen his ardor, but he is respectful and not too hard on the girls.

Then there is Rosie's Girl, an Austerlorp with large, lustrous dark eyes.  She is also an oldster by hen standards.  And let's not forget $40 Freddie (aka Freddie the Bearded Lady), who has recovered quite nicely from her bumblefoot with just a trace of a limp.  And Big Sally and Big Betty, the new girls.  When they come running, the ground shakes!  And there is dear E-Claire, surrogate daughter of Marie-Claire, daughter of the old roo, Junior.  And Violet, the Blue Andalusian, who lived through her narrow escape from Bernie.

Now I also get to enjoy watching the posse of Pearlies, a constantly moving speckled clump of burbling prehistoric wonders.  LOUD prehistoric wonders.  So far, only one of the posse has made himself stand out.  Lonesome George.

Who needs television?