Tractors, Farming, Photography, and a Mystery Revealed

Things are happening fast and furious in a Southern New Hampshire sort of way. The weekend has flown by without much time to reflect, but yesterday I took my eldest aunt to Danbury, NH to look at a Massey Ferguson garden tractor.

We had a pleasant conversation and seeing the tractor was worth the trip. I plan to buy it. The lady selling the tractor is a sister-in-law to a local teacher, and my aunt empathetically listened as she explained that her husband is in a nursing home, thus the tractor sale.

Our ride home was fun, punctuated by a stop for lunch and numerous stops for me to make progress on a NH Flickr Group project to capture a photo from every town in the state. And I also captured another NH State Marker sign for our collection, too.

Rain hammered down overnight and the rain tent that I constructed for the chicks worked well enough, although like a surrogate mother hen, I interrupted my sleep by checking on the little girls every hour or so. One hen, Sisu, was a bit bound up on Friday night and early Saturday morning, so I gently washed her backside so she can freely do her duty once again.

At 5:30 AM or so, I drove to Milford to meet a few guys from the NH Flickr Group and we took photos at Tucker's Falls. As usual, the venue did not disappoint for photogenic opportunities.



After braving the chilly wetness and intermittent rain, Glen and I went to Santos Dumont Coffee House for a quick bite to eat. While there, the concept of a forgotten frontier popped into my thoughts for a future story here on my blog.

The forgotten frontier in our over-indulgent lifestyle is simply dawn. Who would have known that I would meet others who revel in waking early to capture photos? And dawn brings the benefit of the beauty, calmness, and a sense of daily renewal. Do we ever stop to think that we only have a finite number of mornings to experience? Yet the majority of us slumber through this forgotten frontier.

I returned home and settled on my recliner to upload my photos. I heard a rustling sound outside my windows and turn to see a turkey hen walking past my bird houses along the fence. And a second one.

Quickly, I disconnected my camera and tried to find a good angle to capture a photo of the birds. They moved through the long grass into my uncle's garden so I called him and he went out to scare them off. They flew a hundred yards or so into our neighbor's trees.

Later I joined him in his garden and we talked and suddenly, I realized that it was most likely turkeys that ate the tops of my pea plants. They stuck their necks through the larger fence and thankfully, haven't figured out that they could fly in and destroy the garden.

My uncle agreed with me. I saw the lettuce plants and marigold starts that I gave him were thriving. He offered me a squash plant that accidentally started from a composted squash and he pulled a start out to see how deep the root system is.

After he went inside, I returned with a shovel to dig a squash start. I transplanted the plant into my lower garden in the hopes that I grow some squash that the deer will favor come hunting season.

Chicks in the Summertime

I see sunshine cast through the trees that caresses the long grass in Edwin's field. The color is difficult to describe and nearly impossible to capture on film. But I should try. The color is equal parts grass and sunlight reflected in the dew and the result is vibrant, yet pale, milky green that shimmers in the midsummer breeze. I feel like I could look at it for hours.

Yesterday was a big day. My laying hen chicks arrived and I have to pick up the broiler chicks on Friday. I put the finishing touches on the brooder, I installed the heat lamp, and I marveled again and again at how beautiful and fragile young living things are.



Like their respective mother hens, I checked on them repeatedly, peeking in through the ventilation gaps in the brooder.

Oooh! A tiny hen planted her beak into the food and took a nap.

Another hen stretches and flops on her side.

Oh boy. What do we have here? A black, cross sex-link hen decides to bathe and walk in the watering tray, nearly wedging herself in!

A friend in the UK who is enthralled by my operation named one of the black chicks: Posh.

One of my co-workers told me that she was amazed that I would rearrange my schedule for chickens. I tried explaining that it was akin to her taking time off to bring her dog to the vet. She didn't buy it and I didn't push the topic too far.

The benefits to raising chickens are numerous. The emotional reward for cupping the chicks one-by-one in my hands, breathing on them to socialize them (I don't know if this works, but it's what I do), and directing them to their first sip of water fills me with indescribable good feeling.

And then worrying about them, watching them play tricks and do funny things is better than television. Speaking of television, I haven't turned mine on for over three weeks and I'm still standing.

From a long-term view and especially in light of our declining economy, preserving and sustaining a farming culture is important. We never know what will be necessary in the future.

I am grateful for periods of time like this. My rooster is crowing, my cats are relaxed and happy. My new chicks arrived. My gardens are doing well (although something, a deer maybe, ate only the tops of most of my pea plants), the weather is gorgeous. The sun is rising further and shining brightly now.

Life is good.

Cultural Exhange

'I feel like I am in a different country.' My eldest niece turns to me and says.

Last night, we sit in Gillette Stadium watching the Brazilian national soccer team play the Venezuelan national team. The stadium is nearly full of Brazilians of all shape and size wearing bright-yellow soccer jerseys and expressing their national pride.

Next to us sit four Latinos sans the Brazilian jerseys. The elder proudly wears cowboy clothes - boots, a brown leather vest, jeans, and a jacket. A strong man, he talks loud and proud in a mixture of Spanish and English. His Latino macho attitude is familiar to me.

At one point, he belly laughs when he rattles off some Spanish statement ending with 'Hugo Chavez! Hugo Chavez!' repeated apparently for good measure.

The Venezuelan team wins by a score of two to nil. The first goal is questionable as the Brazilians try to trap their offense offside, give up on the play amid vigorous protesting, while a Venezuelan approaches the keeper unopposed. Score!!!

The Venezuelan sitting next to me smiles and says softly, 'It is too easy.'

The second goal is brilliant and beautiful. During a rare Venezuelan attack, a player crosses the ball from the right corner of the 18 yard box, through traffic to land on the foot of a Venezuelan attacker - SCORE!!!

During the first half, the Brazilian crowd goes wild when #9 or #11 touches the ball, but in my impression, these players are too busy proudly being themselves to find a practical attack to exploit the Venezuelan defense. However, the sweeper for the Venezuelans is brilliant with his timing, risk taking, and execution.

He routinely thwarts the relentless advance of Brazil with some clever play that sets up an infrequent, but lethal attack by the Venezuelan offense.

One player, #5 on the Brazilian team plays like a thug.

Throughout the game, I vocalize many of my opinions, coaching my nieces who are enthralled by the game also. The dexterity and footwork of the players is breath-taking. Time and time again, the players use their skill to shield the defense and maneuver with graceful talent towards the goal.

My niece picks up on my analysis with her own, shouting frustrated at times like I am, 'Pass the ball cross-field!'

Our plan is to leave at an odd time to avoid the traffic, but my sister is reluctant and my nieces thankfully whine about going. This is the true mark that they enjoy their time.

We buy some Revolution T-shirts and linger for an hour or so in my sister's mini-van while we wait for traffic to ease up.

In my mind's eye, I reflect on the players footwork as they rolled the ball under their feet, swung circles around the ball, stutter stepped, and creatively touched the ball again and again.

Then it was an equal thrill to see my niece's eyes light up with similar eagerness for the soccer season to start once again this fall.

My Two Cents on Healthy Children

My brother and sister-in-law introduced a new Somero to the world today. His name is Jonathan Isaac Somero and he weighed 9 pounds, 12 ounces at birth and was 22 inches long.

Congratulations!

On a related note, you'll see a link to Bonnie Harris Connective Parenting below because I discovered her work a few years ago when I dated someone with a then five year old son. I felt strongly that I needed to learn how to make a positive influence in her son's life. Bonnie's work resonates with me and surprisingly, many of the points that she makes work very well in the workplace, too.

But I digress.

One of my co-workers is passionate about fatherhood of his twin sons. We rode to lunch today to meet a mutual friend and we discussed the effort in our society to 'Say No to Drugs!' and 'Don't Drink and Drive' messages that pervade our media.

This is all critical, effective messaging.

While we discussed these topics, we started seeing room for growth and it was clear in our dialog that we as individuals and we as a greater society can do more.

Our thoughts centered on why kids turn to drugs and alcohol and what we might do to alleviate the need to take drugs and drink to excess rather than simply stop the self-destructive behavior.

Aside - I worked at IBM with a native Hawaiian who taught me a phrase 'nana i ke kumu' that means 'look to the source'. Sadly, Bob passed away from brain cancer during my tenure at IBM, but I'll always remember him imploring me, 'Always look to the source for the root of the problem, Tim. Nana i ke kumu. Don't stop until you find the source.'

As my co-worker and I talked, a few general concepts became clear. When emotionally and physically depleted, all humans are susceptible to self-destructive behavior. And if we human suffered chronic neglect, abuse, or stress in the past, that too, could lead someone to self-destructive behavior.

Our simplistic approach to extend 'Say No to Drugs!' would be to put children's needs first and foremost. Start with satisfying physical needs - nutrition, exercise, sleep - and move into satisfying emotional needs - comfort, affection, consistent and fair discipline, love.

Identify and satisfy the child's needs while the opportunity exists during the natural co-dependency of a child on adults. The desired long-term outcome is a removal of the pre-conditions that lead to taking drugs and drinking to excess. We produce healthier children.

But most importantly, we protect and preserve our greatest American natural resource - ourselves and our children.

The Delight of Flight

I stand in the oil-worn floor at my auto mechanic's shop. He slowly types information in for my car inspection. I stare idly at the clutter and gradually realize that I'm looking at three model airplanes.

When he's done, Dan hands me my papers and breaks the silence.

'You're on Old Tenney. Who owns the ABC building? I need a place to fly my planes.'

I answer with what knowledge that I have and he talks about his model airplanes. One has a cracked fuselage. He hasn't flown the other one.

But most importantly, he needs a place to fly the planes because there are too many wires at the school up the road.

We finish talking and I leave.

Last night, I walk Old Tenney Road towards sunset with my camera. On my return, I have a fleeting idea that I could capture the reflection of the sunset off Furnace Brook by the old pump house. So I walk towards the ABC building where the pump house is.

I hear the sound first. The buzzing of model airplanes and I look over the ABC building to see planes buzzing, lifting, and rolling in their flight.

I walk the driveway, or should I say tarmac, and watch as one plane spirals down into the brook! The little crowd at the far end of the runway laughs! Apparently, the wing broke in mid flight and the young man returns with the plane, one foot drenched by the brook and muck that the plane landed in.



A young woman smiles and says, 'Dad wired the pilot in this plane to look either left or right depending on where you turn the plane.'

Dan beams!

I laugh as he prepares the plane for its first flight.



Eventually, Dan warms the plane up with a taxi down the runway and eases the plane, motor screaming, for its first ever flight into the cool late afternoon air.



The little crowd is enthralled as Dan guides the plane higher, farther, swaying large circles around us and buzzing the parking lot for photo opportunity.

He calls one of his daughters over to see the controls and the girl laughs and refuses to try and fly it.

The plane soars, glides, rolls, and eases through the air. He makes a low pass over the field and begins another ascent.

'Oh no! Oh no!' Dan yells. 'This isn't good!' We watch stunned as the plane surges and the sound from the motor stutters.

'Oh no!'

The plane clips a small false olive tree and crashes into a patch of cat tails in the swampy channel that the Furnace Brook flows through.

Dan scurries along and I follow to see the wreck. We look into the swampy mess and predict where the brook runs. Dan walks to the far side of the brook and since I wear sandals, I decide to move in.

There's enough firm ground that I reach the plane at the same time Dan touches the edge of the brook on the far side.

'How's it look?'

'Good. There's fuel under the plane body.'

'That's ok.'

I feel a sting in my fingertip where I balance the plane off the hot exhaust system. Ouch!

I find a better place to carry the plane, I emerge from the muck to set the plane down on the pavement.

Dan's back and asks again, 'How does it look?'

'There is a little tape unfurled here.'

'It was like that before. She looks pretty good. Not a bad place to crash, I guess.'

I nod and smile. I said goodbye to the crowd and I walked home, listening to the buzzing of airplane motors as the crowd enjoyed the delight of flight.

The Basketball Question

Gravel pops under my tires as I slowly ease the car past the basketball court. My eyes, and Erik, Troy, and Edwin's are all glued on the pack of young high school boys who are playing a game under the single hoop. More boys sit at a picnic table at the edge of the court.

Privately, we each debate if we should join them. Or challenge them. My thoughts sway between staying or leaving because for some reason I am strangely intimidated by the boys.

In our stoic Finnish way, we vocalize a decision to play. I stop the car and turn off the motor. Erik and Troy spring out and approach the boys. I reach behind the seat for my indoor soccer shoes in exchange for my sandals.

I join the trio and the current game wraps up. We pass Erik's worn ball around and I wait to see what we'll do.

From under a mop of shaggy, blond hair, one of the young men looks at us. 'Game to 11. Four on four.'

Out of pity, we old men get the ball first. Troy is the pup at 26. I'm 37. Erik 38. And Edwin's 70.

Oh boy.

Game on.

Surprisingly, I seem tall against the other team so I start at the baseline. Erik and I used to have a telepathic basketball connection and I wonder idly if we still do.

I move up and set a pick. Troy whizzes by, floating, and dipsy-dos a layup.

King's court and we keep the ball.

Troy snaps a pass to Erik. I move again from the low post. The ball bounces into my hands and I flip the ball to Troy who cuts strong to the hoop.

Score.

Easy layup.

Erik's on top. Gives a pass to Troy and receives the ball as he goes to the hoop. Short jumper. Score.

Troy shoots, miss. I spring for the rebound and score on the putback!

'What's the score?' I ask, grinning a little.

'Five nothing.' Soon the huddle of boys sitting on the table takes keen interest in the game; calling out.

'Oh man! You got schooled! Oh, that hurts! Are you in the NBA? Can you dunk?'

The game finds its momentum and some of the young men hit a couple of outside shots. Swish. We counter with five or six fundamental plays. Pick and rolls. Give and gos. Outside shots. Dipsy-do layups.

The boys try to get our attention by cursing.

Erik and Troy say simply, 'No cussing boys. No cussing.'

King's court so they stop.

But they continue, 'I thought that we were good!'

Game one ends 11-3. Game two 11-5.

We split teams for our final game by a shoot-around for teams. This turned into comedy as everyone went cold and clang after clang off the rim.

Finally, I ended up with three boys playing Troy and Erik and two other boys.

Troy and Erik's team wins, but not before I school Erik a few times with some clever defense. The boys, I learn, are talented, but quite lazy. So more importantly than our talent, we out hustle and outwork the youngsters.

Between games, the onlookers shuffle off the picnic table to shoot. The players call out, 'Hey dork, I thought that you said that you weren't going to play. You stink!' The shooter isn't athletic is show-boating while shooting. Clang! The rim vibrates after he shoots.

And in a flash of insight, I see what is happening. We earned the respect of these young men by playing hard, setting standards, and winning with dignity. They crave interaction with positive male role models. So the show boating boy is asking for his share.

The games end and the four of us walk to my car. The boys are enthralled by Troy's ability so they ask, 'How old are you?'

He laughs, '26.'

I put my two cents in and say, '37! And he's 70!!!'

Everyone laughs and we drive back to the campsite. The four of us are laughing and happy for the simple thrill of playing a fundamentally sound game and the delight of winning so unexpectedly.

'We walk up to them, and they're like to themselves, 'Yeah, lets just play them and get it over with. Whatever.''

'Did you hear what they were saying?'

'Are you guys in the NBA?'

Not by far.

But we all briefly restored our glory years and definitively answered the basketball question.

A Simple Visual Tour

Today's entry is a simple visual tour of the beauty of New Hampshire.

Boom! You ok?

Boom!

The striker kicks the ball into my lunging left foot, I feel sudden, sharp pain in my leg, yet I turn to see the ball squirt safely past the endline.

I smile.

'You ok?' The striker asks, worried that his kick hurt me.

'Yeah. I'm fine. I just pulled my hamstring again.' As I jog away happy to have defended the goal.

As you might guess, soccer is one of my passions. In childhood, a neighbor said, 'Everyone can play soccer and it's inexpensive. All that you need is a ball and you can play in your band shoes.' (Whatever band shoes are.)

Speaking of wearing band shoes, this reminds me of last summer when I watched the locals play soccer in Sunset Park in Brooklyn, NY.

Look at these shoes...



The boys apparently could not afford two sets of soccer shoes, so they shared. One spiked shoe to each boy.



The thought still brings tears to my eyes.

Practical Science: Fruit Tree Pollination

I am a clear amateur at numerous things, and fruit tree pollination is high on my list.



My cousin planted a few apple trees over a decade before I bought the property and due to my interest in farming, I started researching information on growing fruit.

I am learning that there is a global crisis in the lack of bees and my uncle and I often talk about whether we've seen bees on our trees. We discuss type of bees, frequency, nests, and so on.

We'll even discuss the viability of keeping bees on our property. (This is quite low on the ambition list.)

The bee problem is simply that there are far less bees today than there were in years past. Scientists are studying the decline and trying to determine simple, clear reasons why.

From the little that I read, there are no conclusive answers yet.

During my research into fruit trees, I found a self-described short course on Effective Pollination, by Richard Norton with additions by David Green.

The information suits my learning style because of the practical, succinct, and thorough scope of the document.

The messages that I retained are:
Apple trees do not generally self-pollinate.
Crab apple trees are the best pollinators.
Touching crab apple blossoms to apple blossoms is only slightly effective.
An apple blossom is only ready for pollination for a short amount of time.

My uncle and I pored over the document and we devised a scheme where I cut down flowering branches from his large crab apple trees and plant them in buckets of water near my apple trees.

I did this last weekend next to my large apple tree.

Then I worry.

'Will the bees jump from the crab apple blossoms to the apple blossoms? Will the wind be too strong? Will the rain stop the bees? Is there anything more that I can do?'

I also encourage every crab apple tree to grow on my property. In fact, I learned on the same Website that if you grow a tree from a store bought apple, you get a crab apple tree.

I routinely toss apple cores out of my house that resulted in at least two crab apple trees near my driveway.

Last year from these accidentally grown trees, I picked some of the crab apples for jelly and I laughed.

The crab apples from these trees look like my favorite, but mini, Fuji apples!

Skid Row

My sister and brother-in-law leave my nieces at my house for the evening and I walk with them around my property.

I say, 'I made that birdhouse and some birds fight over it every day.'


I sense their eyes lighting up before they enthusiastically bubble, 'Could we make some more bird houses?'

'Sure, later.' I smile.

We walk through the rest of my yard, seeing my meager gardens, the brook, some Jack in the Pulpit flowers and I take them inside.





Sliding pencils and drawing paper on the table, I say, 'You guys draw pictures of what you want your birdhouses to be like and I'm going to work on the barbecue grill.'

Before our picnic, I get as far as cutting out the wood from some rough-cut pine.



The New Ipswich Memorial Day parades are going on now, but I don't feel like going. So I cut some more flowering crab apple branches to place near my apple trees and I finish the bird houses.



I install the ramshackle row houses on the posts for my split rail fence before I return inside to sit on my recliner.

Something catches my eye.

Oh boy.

A little bird flies to the center of a fence rail. It sidles across, furtively. The bird darts to the fence post and then flies up to the base of the birdhouse!

Oh my.



Then it flies to sit on the perch and peeks inside!

Another bird flies along and lands near the first.

The first bird goes inside the house!

I watch and the birds are simply the neighboring nesters who apparently were seeing if they should upgrade their position on skid row.

Eventually, the bird peeks into each birdhouse.

Release Relief

I clearly picture in my mind's eye how my nieces would respond if I said to them.

'I'm so glad this release is done!'

Little Finnish eyebrows furrow, 'Huh?'

As you may know, I work as a technical writer and I write books and information for computer users. But the users that I write for are not the average users. These users are the brains behind things like operating equipment that enables the Internet. And in my case, the information that I write helps them secure the Internet from viruses, intruders, and so on.

Today, I turned my books in for the upcoming release of a new product.

In early April, my manager says simply, 'You might want to adjust your work-flow so that there isn't a crisis at the release.'

So we do.

Waking at sunrise, working late, and the effort pays off for the most part and I can enjoy my lunch today and write a few words on my blog.

Yeah, imagine that. I write for a living, yet I write to unwind? *laughing*

We technical writers do not have by lines. (For anyone out there who was confused by the phrase 'by line' like I was for decades, it means a reference to the author like 'By Tim Somero'.) So we labor largely anonymous to the general public.

But even then, would you really understand (or care to read?) about the inner-workings of a computer?

I worked with a seasoned and accomplished technical writer at IBM and he told me a great technical writer's story.

Dennis says in his quiet, methodical voice, 'I went to my 40th high school reunion last weekend.'

I smile, 'Sounds like fun. How was it?'

He smiles and says, 'I had a great time. People asked me what I do for work. I lied. I told them that I am a science fiction writer. People said to me, 'Is that so? I never read any of your work.''

I grin seeing where he is going with this.

'So I said, 'Oh don't worry. No one else has either.''

New Ipswich Library: Ice Cream Social

'Who does this belong to?' Mikko showed the handle of his ice cream scoop to someone. The word 'Minun!' was there on masking tape wrapped tightly around the handle.

'Mine!'

'You're right! What better than the Finnish word for 'mine' on my ice cream scoop?'



Mikko and I are Co-Presidents for the New Ipswich Library Trustees. The library hosted an Ice Cream Social last night and at one point, the library was elbow to elbow with men, women, and children.

In the children's section, youngsters were working on an art project. In the main area, adults were sitting or standing. And in the back, Mikko and I labored to scoop ice cream.

'Vanilla or strawberry?'

When my Finnish relatives walked in, Mikko and I reeled off some words like jäätelö (ice-cream) or the proper way to say hello and goodbye.

We started with 100 ice cream cups and 40 ice cream cones. We ended with less than a dozen empty cups and a dozen or so cones.

When we planned the event, our pessimistic prediction was 20, but we had more than 100 guests!

Thank you to everyone in the New Ipswich community for coming to the open house and we hope to see you return to use the library services.

Never Enough Attention for the First Fish

'Edwin.' I whispered, while I was a small child. 'Edwin. The bobber. It's jumping.'

'Not now!' He scowled. His attention consumed, focused into a ball of tangled fishing line and a problematic fishing reel.

'But there's a fish...' And there was! Despite the stress of repairing the faulty reel, I was proud to catch the fish. And even prouder when Edwin took my brother and I to the White Mountains and we caught trout.

Or when I caught a 28-inch Northern Pike in Wisconsin when I was casting idly from the dock.

Or when my cousin caught a 45+ inch Lake Trout on Lake Superior and we jumped like girls after hauling the monster into the boat.

But I caught my first fish in the swimming hole that I now own. Someone cut a sapling and tied a string and hook to it to use as a pole. The fish was a 3-inch long hornpout. My Dad helped me.

We brought the thing home and let it rest in the grass.

'Don't touch it!' I shied away after hearing Dad's warning. 'These things can sting.'

So we looked eyes-wide at the hornpout.

I take my local nieces fishing and in my opinion, there can never be enough attention given to a child who catches their first fish. Her big sisters before her, she was ready, trained, and educated by the older girls.

She was also bugging her mom, my sister, so I knew that it was time.

I ask into the handset, 'Are you free to go fishing?'

'Let me ask. Mom!? Am I free to go fishing?'

I talk to my sister and she agrees to drop her off at the Greenville Pond on their way back from shopping. I visit at my parent's house until I get the call, ready with tackle, poles, worms, and excitement.

The call arrives. I leave and get ready at the edge of the pond. My sister's family arrives in their mini-van.

My youngest niece smiles from the depths of the van. 'Hi.'

She walks out and hugs everyone in her family, jumping, and smiling from ear to ear. I give her some ground rules about only being able to cast twice (for my safety more than anything). I ask her to pick out a worm and my sister, smiling also from ear to ear takes some photos with my camera.



After final, final hugs, my sister's family leaves my youngest niece and I at the fishing hole. Her bobber listing in the gentle breeze, bobbing on the incidental waves.

My line in the water: tap, tap. I set the hook. 'Ready for your first fish?'

She reels in a small perch, jumping! Her line continues to list in the pond.

I take my camera as she looks wide-eyed at the fish. Ask her to pose with the wriggling perch.

Snap.

Snap.

I take the hook from the perch and release it and we turn to her pole.

'Reel it in.' She starts working the reel and I guide the line away from the edge of the pond so it doesn't snag. The bobber travels towards the center of the pond. I smile.

'I think you got one.'

Her eyes widen. 'Really?'

'Yes.' I smile.

A little sunfish emerges from the water.

Her own fish!!!

A fisherman further down hears the whooping and hollering so he comes over to congratulate her. She's beaming from ear to ear. We talk and the fisherman says 'Great job!'

She takes the line and the sunfish is wriggling about. She poses for several photos.



The fish swallowed the hook so I cut the line explaining to her, 'The water is going to make the fishhook disappear in a few days.' She blinks a little, but doesn't seem interested, different than her sisters who needed to know everything.

We watch the fish swim away.

I reflect for a moment when I fished with my uncle, captivated by mechanical things, a forgotten line catching a sunfish like my niece did today.

After we finish, we meet her family at my parent's house. She finds mom and shyly buries her face into her mother's tummy. Unable to tell the story. So I captivate a houseful of people with the story of the first fish.

There is never enough attention given when a child catches a first fish.

Hot Property: Bird Fights and Bumblebees

I listed a property the other day.

I razed a wreck full of miscreant thugs and I put the ugliest looking house in its place overlooking my property. I waited for the right moment when the thugs were sleeping or dazed, and I wrenched their dwelling down and replace it with a homemade ramshackle birdhouse.

Edwin said weeks ago after I built the birdhouse, 'It's a little late for birds to use it. Really should go up in March.'



Learning that, I didn't secure the house to the post. I just balanced it on top.

This morning shortly after sunrise, movement catches my eye. A bird? I turn to see a small bird moving from the house to the forsythia bushes. Back and forth.

Wow.

I watch enthralled. I made a perch from a maple stick. The bird uses it. I drilled a hole for the entrance. The bird passes through in and out. I made a ventilation opening at the top, the bird uses that, too.

Wow.

A breeze kicks up. The birdhouse sways.

Nuts!

I should have secured it.

The bird flies inside the house. It wobbles. The bird emerges and preens on the roof, chirping. It is though he announces to the world: 'This is my property. Mine! You got it all you dumb birds, bees, ants, and whatever else might get some ill-fated ideas about moving in. M, I, N, E; mine!'

He flies off, the birdhouse wobbles. It could fall over!

Double nuts!

The bird flies back and forth carrying a new stick or twig with each pass.

Later around mid-day, I see other birds, bigger birds patrolling around my newly listed property. The little bird repeats his vocal performance but immediately flies off as the blue-backed birds swoop in.

Ah, I know what this is! It's an inspection! The blue-backed bird sit on the perch and peers in through the hole.

'Nuts.' I think to myself. 'I have to do something about the wobble.'

My attention changes to other tasks around the house.

If I were feeling better, I would be building a brooder for chicks, but instead I use hammer and chisel to remove a concrete block thing that my cousin built years before. The chisel isn't working. I need more.

I go inside the house to get the solid-metal, triangular splitting maul.

Crack!

The cement block cracks in its mortar.

Crack!

I see something and think of a soccer statement of all things, 'Bumblebees can't fly. They can't fly! But look at that slow kid moving his way through everyone again and again, scoring, scoring! Bumblebees can't fly!'

My knowlege of things apiary must lack, cause I swear that there's a bumblebee flying angry around me.

I ignore it.

Crack!

The heavy bee flies by again.

Crack!

My eyes narrow in a battle of wills with this winged patroller. 'Fine.' I think. 'Have what you want.'

The bumblebee calms down and hovers where I stood and finally lands, nestling in the grass.

Nuts! I stood on the entrance to its hive!

This isn't going well, so I stand up on the concrete blocks and resume my ruination.

Crack!

The bee hovers angry.

Crack! A block falls to the ground. Thump.

The bee lunges at me so I retreat over the rubble.

'Fine.' I think. 'I'll do something else.'

I walk to the shed to get the longest nails I can find and walk to the new birdhouse. I see a yellow and black striped wasp on the birdhouse roof. I knock it off with the hammer.

'Dang.' I think to myself. 'These are the wasps that took over the last birdhouse here. Who wins?' I wonder. 'The birds or the wasps?'

I hammer two long nails through the platform into the post.

'That should do it.'

I try not to touch the platform, but I test it.

It feels secure.

Eventually I work on my garden, planting and watering it. I shut the water off next to a blueberry bush in bloom and his brother, another stinking bumblebee buzzes me!

'Ok, ok. This is enough.' I retreat quickly running a little towards my uncle's house to talk with him in the garden.

I approach already forgotten the bees at my house, 'Guess what is sprouting in my lower garden?'

He shrugs.

'Beans. You keep telling me that the soil is too cold, but I surely have beans sprouting down there.'

We talk.

Eventually I hear an angry argument over my new property. The little bird again stakes his claim. Blue-back birds fly around. Back and forth.

I tell the birdhouse story to my uncle and I ask, 'Who wins between the wasps and the birds?'

'I don't know how they figure that out.' He shrugs.

He continues to tell me that the male house wren will make a variety of nests for the female to choose one. And that he doesn't see bluebirds in his birdhouses, but my cousin who preceded me here did.

Russian to Soccer

'Change of plans.' My co-worker says to me, 'The Russian brothers are going. We're riding with them and they parked in the front.'

I bound up the stairs with my bag, my spikes, and my sport goggles and I follow my British co-worker. I often tease him by using the British terms and ask, 'Would you like to play some football on the pitch?'

We walk towards the front parking lot, join one of the Russian brothers, and wander to locate his mini-van. We approach and he uses the ear-bud for his phone and starts talking in Russian.

I pile into the front seat and the Brit somehow gets the keys, 'I'm driving.'

Side door open, we circle the parking lot to find the lost brother. The Russian stands in the open doorway while we drive, looking. Laughing, we pass the receptionist and a secretary out for a walk. Everyone laughs at the sight of our slow circle, one guy standing in the open doorway.

Finally, we find him. He jumps in, 'Let's go!'

We arrive at the game, and people reacquaint themselves and someone briefly introduces me. Game on!

I worry about my hamstrings and a third of the way through, my left hamstring tightens, but I play on. A right wing crosses the ball in front of the net. I put my foot on the ball, GOALLL!!!!

Later someone says, 'Three goals to win!' So we play, tired now, until someone mercifully passes the ball through the goal to end the match.

We shake hands and walk towards the van.

One of the Russian brothers drives now, I sit in the front. He opens the windows driving swiftly, pushing buttons on his GPS map in the console. Traffic signs are suggestions and I smile to myself because I know other Russians who drive like this.

We take a circumspect way to the office and I wonder if I should suggest a shorter route. I stay quiet. Finally, we turn onto a familiar road and there's a slow car in front of us, inching along.

Now it's time to obey trafic laws and we laugh and giggle as the car takes several seconds to slowly turn right into a driveway.

I think about work. Idly wondering what I have to jump into when I return to the office.

Right blinker.

I wonder, 'Huh? Now where? The Russian's house?'

The road ends at a lake. Two mothers and their kids are playing on the beach. He parks. I look and the Russians and my British co-worker are taking their shirts off and digging out towels.

I laugh to myself and take off my sweaty t-shirt, and hobble down to the beach. I ask, 'Swimming?'

The Russian's bright eyes smile, 'Yes. Of course.'

The Russians dive right in, I wade in and plunge into the brisk water. We turn and see the Brit toeing the water. Finally he joins us as we walk out, dripping.

The mothers and children are no where to be found.

I dry off, planning to sit on my towel in the van. I look into the back and one of the Russians is changing! I blink. I look at the Brit and the other Russian and they have towels wrapped tight around their waist, changing.

Thinking to myself, 'Hmm...well...' so I wrap my towel, also and strip and put on dry clothes.

Everyone ready, the other Russian hops in the driver's seat. I blink. Odd.

We ask aloud, 'Where did the kids go?'

'We scared them!' We all laugh imagining them running away from us.

The Brit explains, 'We often swim after soccer, but later in the season the beaches are pay to swim. But this one is best because they can park and sneak into the water.' I laugh.

While riding along, the Brit asks, 'I wonder how many meetings I missed?'

I reply, 'I missed one, but they know that I did.'

The Russian driver says as we approach the office, 'There will be more meetings. Meetings today. Meetings tomorrow.'

Pizza Bait

I write into an IM window, 'Do you have time to get a slice of pizza after work?'

My co-worker says that she does, so after wrapping things up, we go and order a large, extra-cheese, mushroom, and onion pizza.

Unfortunately, it isn't a great pizza.

So I take three slices home debating if I should reheat them or just feed the pizza to the chickens.

I park my car at home and carry the pizza down to the coop when I collect the eggs. I open the door and heave the slices in for them.

Overnight, it rains so I walk out the door and decide not to water the chickens today. By habit, I look down to the pen from my driveway.

Nuts.

I see something staring at me from the live trap.

Raccoon.

Nuts!

I walk down to acquaint myself with the critter who shies away from me, trapped.

I close my eyes and debate. Coonskin cap? Nah, but it is interesting. First the opossum, now a raccoon.

I open my eyes and look in the chicken pen, by now the chickens are walking about as they scratch the ground.

Oh man! A slice of pizza is at the edge of the chicken pen near the live trap.

Pizza bait!

I scare the coon to the far end of the trap, but he sits on the release lever. I open the door and prop it open with a long stick.

I sigh. I can't be late for work. I hope the coon doesn't return. I wonder, 'Do they learn their lesson?'

After starting my car, I look to see what the coon does and he's scurrying away from the shed and his furry belly sways as he runs down the stone wall to freedom.

Stretching the Dollah

New Ipswich produced some famous people from President Franklin Pierce's wife to a surgeon, known in New Ipswich as Doc Shaw, who was one of the first doctors to reattach a severed arm.

I talked with his son many years ago and his statement of New Hampshire is telling.

'We know how to stretch the dollah.'

And we do.

But with gas prices rising and the global economic outlook becoming more and more bleak, we're tightening more than ever.

Last summer I was laid off from a tech writing job and my buying habits quickly transitioned to buying food and gas, food, gas, gas, food, and then more gasoline.

I heard a radio report that Starbucks is losing revenue. That isn't surprising, is it? Where a bag of coffee beans covers the cost of two frilly coffees?

My friend, Derek Burnett, posted several entries to his blog regarding the ill effect of capitalism and a projection into the tough times ahead.

Here's a link to his post Economy: Great Depression, the Sequel to give you some food for thought.

The Free Pass

'I'll be at work at 7:00 to start on the release notes.'

Now I think, 'Why did I stay that?'

This morning, I am full of regret. It is 7:09 AM. I'm at home. Grr. Why do I say things like that? I have to go. Have to get the work done. Manufacturing line stopped. Need to go.

I open the door, check for my keys, and lock it behind me. I decide to not put water out for the chickens, but I look down towards the coop anyway.

A little furry guy looks back at me. Trapped!

I curse.

What is it?

So I walk down towards the coop and I live-trapped some critter last night. He has bushy, off-white fur. He seems blinded in the daylight, but his nose is active. I approach the live-trap. He's not upset.

I think so myself, 'What is it? A rat?'

Internally, I feel the clock ticking. I feel pressure to get to work.

Watching the critter, I move closer. My chickens are excited as they walk around the pen. The thing could be a rat, but I'm unsure. It looks like a rat tail, sort of damaged by time.

I don't have time to research what it is. I don't have time to shoot the thing, nor decide if I want to shoot it or not.

Slowly I move towards the cage, releasing the door, lifting it.

The critter isn't sure what's happening.

I set the trap again, door wide open and I walk towards the car.

The critter doesn't move.

He sniffs the air, stationary. I leave him inches away from his free pass.

**update**

When I got home, the animal was gone. I talked to my uncle about it, but we couldn't figure out what it was. We're thinking that it could be a possum, but that doesn't make sense.

Anyway, it's free. And I think that I need new topics to write about because I'm afraid that your patience may be wearing thin with all this bang-em-up shooting talk.

**final update**

I googled 'possum' and I learned that I trapped an opossum.

I had no clue that they lived around my house.

Fallout from Defending My Lettuce

Buddy wrote, 'I don't like the woodchuck story.'

I winced. Yeah. I didn't think that everyone would appreciate how I defended my lettuce.

After talking with my uncle that day who said, 'You should have shot two!' I went further retelling my story in person, and after my octogenarian aunts listened to my story, they cheered.

'Good job Timmy!' I struggled, is it worse to be called Timmy or that these old ladies celebrated my permanent defense?

I also heard all sorts of stories about really old people who sat watching their gardens with a .22 rifle in hand. A cousin's husband proudly said, 'My great-great grandfather shot and killed his last woodchuck when he was 94 just a few weeks before he died.'

I get the impression that old people think of shooting woodchucks as an Olympic sport?

It gets worse.

My friend listened to my inner conflict and he laughed.

'My wife has an aunt who lived to be 98 years old. She lovingly tended a garden year after year.'

'When she was 95 kneeling down in her beloved garden to pull weeds, a raccoon approached and gave her a hard time.'

'She quietly stood up, grabbed a shovel, and cracked the raccoon over the head.'

Dead.

'She dug a hole, buried the varmint and finished weeding her garden.'

What's Your Favorite Color?

During church, my youngest niece walks up to me.

'What's your favorite color?'

I whisper, 'Blue.'

She walks away. Moments later, she's back.

'What's your second favorite color?'

'Green.'

She walks away, returning later.

'What's your third favorite color?'

'Red.'

Seeing the pattern as she walks away, I decide - yellow, white, purple, and then orange if I need it.

'What's your fourth favorite color?'

'Yellow.'

Later she returns, 'What's your...' She pauses, thinking, 'What's your...what's your five favorite color?'

'White.'

Again, she goes away and returns shortly, 'What's your sixth favorite color?'

'Purple.'

Moments later she returns with this colored picture for me.

It's 4:47 AM and All Is Well

Quiet.

It's quiet.

It's also 4:47 AM.

I'm awake.

Why?

Because the dew-point is near the temperature.

Because someone from the New Hampshire Flickr group is meeting me at Dunklee Pond in an hour.

Because we're nuts!

I am fascinated currently with taking photographs of fog and there is no better time to do this than at the crack of dawn, in a nature preserve, with one or more like-minded photographers.

Quiet.

Last weekend, we scared a deer there. With a little better preparation, I could have taken a photo of it.

Wish me luck.

Update:



Mike and I met and we took photos for a couple of hours. The overcast skies didn't reveal many striking opportunity, but I did a focusing trick to create this weird image of a rusted-out LTD next to Dunklee Pond.

We also saw a couple of herons, the backbone of what appeared to be a deer, ducks, but no beaver or deer this time.

Natural Cycles

Last night, I asked our local librarian, 'How are you?'

She replied candidly, 'Tired. You?'

'Tired.'

A third person joined us for the meeting. We asked her, 'And how are you?'

'Tired.'

The spring is a wonderful time of the year for rebirth and the intensity as our natural world regenerates itself. But the jagged weather cycles always seem to drag me down. I go from wearing shorts for three days in California-like sunshine. And then waking up to a cold, frosty morning before steady rain moves in for a few days.

Yet we persist.

Our library meeting was to explore a co-operative arrangement with various local libraries for an automated library management system (LMS). Several other towns have more money to spend (apparently), but New Ipswich and several surrounding towns operate on what I call the 'zero dollar budget'. So we're forming our own club open to all, but with our full understanding that everyone doesn't need to follow the hardscrabble approach.

For example, even though our library has an annual computer budget of $500.00, we try not to spend the money because it's better if we don't.

So our new co-operative is trying to pool our resources, separate needs from wants, and present a clear case to our respective communities that we will get much more for our dollar if we go together.

The case, I hope, will be as simple as paying a fraction (say 1/5th) of the cost for a suitable, bare-necessity system that we all share. If we go alone, we bear the full cost of the same bare-necessity system.

Our meeting succeeded, I believe, because we all clearly see the concept of needs versus wants in our zero-dollar budget situations. So at our next meeting, we'll organize our respective needs versus wants lists before we solicit money for the LMS.

And given the foreboding economy and the welcome American return towards being frugal, I suspect that our local libraries will rise again as we spend less money to buy our own books.

The Grandmother Inventory

'My Noni always had little cans of Pepsi, juice drinks in plastic bottles that look like barrels, and Rollos in her fridge. Always.'

Ah ha! Buddy gives me another memoir to publish!

I think that everyone remembers the grandmother inventory that accumulates after years of penny pinching, yard sales, and habits formed decades ago.

When one of my grandmother died, we doled out her meager belongings. I told my mom, 'I want that cup that tastes like metal when I drink juice from it.'

My mom marveled, 'Wow! That's what your cousin Mary wanted, too, and for the same reason.' The cup was already gone, but the indelible grandmother inventory was set.

My other grandmother always had Listerine in her bathroom and when I hugged her, she smelled faintly of it. Her house always smelled of yeast as she had bread rising so when I visited, we would knead the rye bread dough together while talking.

Her inventory included a circular, wooden clothes hanger with time-worn dowels hanging from a loose metal fitting.

I don't see how the inventory can be consciously constructed. Because our own traits are often identified by the children in our lives and our legend lives on through reminiscence. From talking to Buddy, it is clear that our grandmother's each have a clear inventory, as we each daily generate our own.

The Upper Hand in Defending My Lettuce

I put a garden in on the slope at my house and I thought to myself, 'What a great place to watch for woodchucks and kill them.' After finishing a fence around the garden, I went to make lunch and from the corner of my eye through a window, I see something approaching the garden.

'A woodchuck!?!?'

I grab a powerful rifle scope and sure enough, this dumb thing is walking around near my garden and taking his sweet old time.

I mistakenly refer to it as a hedgehog, 'Jim, want to have some fun and shoot a hedgehog?'

He yells angrily from his room, 'Are you stupid? Why would you kill a hedge hog?'

Oh boy.

I call my uncle, no answer. I could swear that he kills woodchucks on sight.

So I decide to take one shot with my .22 rifle. I lift a window in the alcove and flit about, thinking. Both of my cats jump into the open window and threaten to fly 15 feet *splat* to the ground. I move them out and toss them to the floor.

I kneel at the window. 'One shot, I think. One shot.'

I line up the iron sights on the bugger.

Crack.

The thing sort of balls up, cringes, and then starts walking towards the brush.

I hit him, but didn't drop him.

So I bounce around more and I notice that my uncle is home. I walk over there, bursting through the door. 'I shot a woodchuck!'

He replies, 'Only one? You should have shot two.'

Later we go and look at the thing as it lays curled up, dead. I buried it.

So as far as I know, my garden is safe from at least one woodchuck and I have a great vantage point to crack any others if they start attacking my lettuce.

Shh....did I tell you that I am a...

It's my guilty secret, but it's time to come clean. I am a memoir thief! I listen to stories I publish them here. Shhh...

At work, I dipped into the candy dish at the receptionists desk. I call the receptionist Buddy!

Buddy hunches over and says, 'Can I tell you a family story?'

I smile delighted! I might be able to steal a memoir. I lean towards her, 'Yes...what is it?'

She smiles and says, 'My Noni, the Italian word for great-grandmother, was 93 for like six years before she died. She was like totally nuts! So my cousin visits her house and for some reason drops a Playboy on her table. She picks it up and reads it, but eventually drifts to sleep. The Playboy open on her chest as she snores away.'

We sort of look at each other, but what are we going to do? She's sleeping!

Finally, Noni starts shaking a little bit as she wakes up, startled a little bit. She asks us, 'Was I sleeping?'

'Yes, Noni. You were.'

She looks around the room a little bewildered before saying softly.

'Oh. Naked women always make me so sleepy.'

The Alien Golf Ball

The other day, I noticed a golf ball in my yard. This isn't too odd because I occasionally hit some balls around or maybe my roommate or uncle do, too.

Then today after work, I see several more.

Something's up.

Driving past my neighbor's house, I see the lady aiming a gun at something. Then a young man. It looks like a target.

Hmm. Odd. The rumor is that the lady's boyfriend left her and stopped paying on the house (in his name).

I park and walk across the field to talk with my uncle who is planting his garden. I hear the thump of a BB gun drilling a target.

I run an errand, return, and I water my garden.

I hear the familiar thump of a golf ball on a white pine tree on my property (I know this sound all too well from my own golfing exploits). I see from the corner of my eye, a young man at my neighbor's house swinging a golf club aiming towards my woods.

So I finish watering my gardens and I collect a bunch of the golf balls from my lawn. I decide to walk down there and give them back, simple as that.



I walk the property line and down the hill to a collection of people. I smile, they wave, we talk. I hand the golf balls to one of the guys milling about and the younger guy says, 'Oh no. I won't hit any more golf balls towards your place again!' His expression is sincere. I believe him.

I laughed a little and said, 'Yeah, I would rather you didn't because they landed within twenty feet from my chicken coop and close enough to my house that I'd hate to have to come down here and report a broken window.'

So we all talked for a while about the house (my grandfather built it from material from an abandoned church building) and their current plan. They're moving at the end of June (and who 'they' is confused me - I'm not sure who was the mom, son, grandchildren, etc.). What they say about how they spend money puzzles me. But I compliment them on what they have done to improve the house and the property.

We talked about chickens for a long time, too, and I got a sense of who they are and I shared my regret that things didn't work out better for them to stay.

The Brook Is Magical Today

We have snow in the yard, heavy now under the intense early spring sun. The gentle wind is warm. The forest is noisy as the sun warms snowy branches and releases heavy snow to the woodland floor.

I walked twice to the brook with only boots, jeans, t-shirt and sweatshirt on.

I captured magic.

Friendship with Sumedha

At some point over ten years ago which is not clear to either of us, I met Sumedha on the Internet. We chatted, talked on the phone, and wrote endless letters on paper. She lived with her family in India and I was living in Minnesota at the time.

Sumedha said, 'The Internet allows us to learn about each other from the inside out.'

I had the pleasure of meeting her yesterday, over ten years since we first communicated.



We had a marvelous time and she even fell in love with the beauty of New Ipswich and my little property.

Perhaps after she earns her teaching degree, she'll return?

Through the Winter in a Family Fable

disclaimer Thank you for stopping by, and please consider this particular post a work in progress. I have something clearer to say, but this is a first draft during which I was interrupted. I suspect that the concept will expand when I return to this at some point. disclaimer

Someone at my new job helped me unravel more of the mystery of my family dynamics. In lively conversation, I am learning probable reasons for our quirky behavior that were only explained previously by what I call our family fable.

Before I explain further, many of these thoughts congealed on a foggy winter morning. The fog rose surprisingly over my family property and I wandered around the house near sunrise taking photos. My sister immediately requested an 8 x 10 printout of this one:



The temperatures fell from a balmy, snow packing temperature to frigid below zero wind chills. And while the weather violently changed, thoughts assembled gently and I snapped puzzle pieces together as I correlate my newfound knowledge into the fabric of my family fable.

As you might guess, I am part of a story telling family. I remember fondly watching my grandmother's work-worn hands move while she retold stories of our family lore. As a child in Worcester, she made dolls from corn cobs. She giggled with friends while nestled safely in the coat closet at church. And from the cozy coat closet, her heart surged with foretold delight when she first saw my grandfather enter the church.

And just yesterday, our family fable continued itself in subtle ways as my niece sat in rapt attention listening to my story of when I changed her diaper while I talked on the phone with my aunt. For me I simply had to multi-task, but for my aunt the event was noteworthy and is repeated again as it works its way into our family fable.

The purpose of the family fable is to celebrate, and educate, and rationalize, and tie us closely together in a sense of family. Why does our crazy Uncle act that way? The family fable offers a common explanation built on a haphazard retelling history. The family fable explains most everything.

And now when I go to work and talk daily with my dear friend, I learn more about family dynamics and I learn plausible scientific reasons for what was only explained by fable before.

I second-guess myself and wonder why the term 'fable' seems so right in this post. Remember our history lessons where cutting-edge science believed that the world was flat? Or in my family, we have rationales for why old crazy Uncle acts this way or that?

Fable fits because as time slides ever onwards, our understanding and perspective changes and our comfortable knowledge today may become amusing fodder in years to come.

However, the universal truth of love continues eternal so we may as well weave our own threads tightly into our respective family fables.

Slipping away from 2007

My neighboring uncle's garden produced Swiss chard and other vegetables a calendar year ago, but now a year later our properties are buried under up to 20 inches of snow. 2007 arrived hot and is waning cold.

2007 brought me great turbulence, change, excitement, freedom, and opportunity. My varied employment fueled the fun where I started working on a world-class writing team only to be laid off mid-year that released me to an unstructured lifestyle. The constants were unchanged - faith, family, love of writing, photography, and New Hampshire.

Freedom allowed me to immerse myself into New York City to experience the city from ground-level. And I met and walked briefly with a wonderful woman and her family until time and circumstances gently set us on a separate course.

My soccer team delighted me when they were not exasperating. My niece and several other players graduated from daisy-pickers and cart-wheelers into soccer players with drive, vision, and a shared passion for the game. The player's character grew in my mind's eye only to be corrected at the pizza party when things were right-sized when they stood next to video games and pool tables in the cramped game room of a local pizza house.

As you might suspect, girls and their motives often confuse me, but I knew that unity and a feeling of togetherness were key. So we played a season long name game eternally deciding whether we were the 'Purple Grapes', 'Purple Fighting Fish', Purple Doritos', or 'Purple Pumpernickel Breads'. (The last entry was mine - serving to motivate creativity and passion.)

The name game exceeded soccer in some ways because weeks after the season one of my younger players approached me with all seriousness, 'Coach Tim. Really, next year I don't want to be the Purple Fighting Fish. Really, we need to be the Purple Tigers because that's a superior name.'

I am so lucky to have the privilege to coach our youth.

Through my contacts in the soccer program, I found a job in the office of a high-end indoor pool construction and service company. I learned how to use a CAD application and I tried my hand at designing indoor pools. A sketch of an Oforu, or a Japanese soaking tub, may become reality someday.

While I worked this job, we had a family get-together at my house - mostly to introduce my girlfriend (at the time) and her children to my family. She and her daughter joined my nieces and my dad on a walk to the brook. My eldest and youngest nieces returned first - crying. Bees somehow stung them and we quickly scurried to soothe their wounds.

The others returned. My middle niece started screaming as a bee nestled in her clothing suddenly stung. And finally, my girlfriend's daughter started shrieking as a bee moved up inside her shirt and stung her. So the sobbing, sniffling girls assembled neatly into rows of pairs in my kitchen. Their striking blond hair framing tear reddened eyes and sniffling noses. Their mothers clucked like mother hens over their stings - doling out ice packs and empathy.

I watched devoid of my camera and soaked in the Rockwell moment in my very kitchen.

As the year closes, I heeded the call of tech writing opportunity and I agreed to work for a computer hardware company starting on January 2, 2008. I have read so often that a layoff is a wonderful reset for one's life and profession. The mind-numbing silence of sitting around for days and weeks unemployed lets us determine what our true loves are.

And for myself, I always find that writing is central and core to me. Tech writing fits and I look forward to returning to my first love.

So to close my last post of the year, I'll throw some tidbits out.

I earned $75 for a photo sold to a publisher of a NH Travel book.

I edited a friend's published work and I started editing Laura Bloch-Bourque's memoir to fulfill a long-standing dream of starting a small editing business.

I saw 11 deer while hunting - a record for one season of hunting NH. I shot at a doe, but missed.

Unintentionally, I killed four turkeys with one shot. The State of NH fined me and I lost my hunting privilege for a year (possibly reduced to 8 months, I hope).

I raised 18 broiler chicks. 12 for my friend and 6 for my freezer.

I raised 7 laying chickens - 6 laying hens and a rooster - to go with a pair of older roosters. In the last couple of days, a predator killed four layers and the old rooster. (One older rooster was gone long ago.) Three left.

My roommate found employment in Worcester and his presence helped quell the solitude of living alone. His heart is in Minnesota and will happily return next year - hopefully richer for his experience here.

I am continuing to date for no other reason than I feel secure and emotionally ready. Who knew that I would be in my early to mid 30s before I arrived at this juncture in life?

Outside my window, I see snow covering the hill between my uncle's house and mine. The beauty is not well captured in a photo - the even grey tones bleed into the faintest green hue of the evergreen. The overcast skies strain to blush blue. The weathered split rail fence leads to a maple tree that is budding unseen from my vantage point.

The staid beauty here makes me reflect on Brooklyn and the scintillating sense of freedom that I felt there. I wonder that with a companion, could I live a vagabond life and let the wind toss me away on my easy tether to New Hampshire?

Strong Wind of Change

Since my last post, a strong SW wind blew and I landed at home for good in New Hampshire ending, a week or two early, my adventure in Brooklyn. Following the southwest wind, a strong ESE wind cast me to Wisconsin to where my mother's family is from for a brief vacation outside my two point rail between NYC and NH.

One of my first cousins and I had a marvelous adventure yesterday cruising in his power boat around the Apostle Islands. I hiked over 5 miles on Stockton Island and we enjoyed resting on the rocks of the idyllic shoreline of Lake Superior.

I left my camera behind during this trip so that I could enjoy the moment in person rather than by peering through a viewfinder. I regret this now, but with pale words I can describe a strong east wind making whitecaps in the lake and off into the horizon wide bands of color, teal blue, dark blue, silver, light blue, spread across the turbulent waters in the big lake.

On our ride back to Madeline Island for supper, I sat in the back of the boat rather than standing in the middle and I learned a fast lesson. When the wind touched my face, spray from waves crashing against the boat soon would follow. My cousin turned from his driving and smiled gleefully and chuckled when he saw lake water dripping from my face and glasses.

Later I learned that our boat travel was equivalent to the speed and direction of the wind so my cousin heard dead silence while we zipped across the four and five foot swells at 25 miles per hour. His face shown true excitement as he retold a new experience.

My summer is winding down and I am conflicted as to what to do with my blog. My ordinary life seems so humdrum that I hate to reveal trite, boring details of life on my edge of New Hampshire granite.

Soccer coaching, library trustee duties, family events, and the continued gentle tug of dating ground me in New Hampshire and eventually, I suppose that I should get a job. I suppose.

But today as I write, I'll linger in the fantasy that a guy like me can retire at 36 years old and figure out a way to make just enough to live and love those around him.

Be well until I post again.

A Brief Hiatus

I'm in New Hampshire now preparing to install a floor at a condo in Worcester. I feel the effects of burning the candle at both ends and I plan to take a brief hiatus from my blog for a few days.

The end of the summer looms despite being in the dog days of August and that is always connected to a little introspective sadness. My problem being that I'm moving so fast that there is little time for introspection.

On a news-related item from last Wednesday morning, a tornado touched down in Brooklyn only ten blocks from the 820 apartment. The New York Times reported that the tornado was Category 1 (the weakest on the scale) and it ripped the roof off a few buildings, uprooted trees, and caused other damage.

I was in my cot on Wednesday morning throughout the related thunderstorm during which lightning and thunder pounded away over Brooklyn.

The storms caused flooding that interrupted the transportation systems in NYC, but I took a (somewhat delayed) train to Penn Station and then an Amtrak train to Springfield, MA where Jim picked me up. I returned a day earlier than planned.

I'm in New Hampshire now and preparing, as I said, to go to Worcester to install a floor today. After a brief hiatus, I'll blog again.

Finnish Energy

My sister's family returned to New Hampshire last night. A few moments ago my friend's family returned to Minnesota. Before sunrise, my friends moved with military precision and were off less than ten minutes after the alarm woke us. Their belongings packed neatly in the hallway the night before, car loaded, children bundled into the van seats, hugs, goodbye greetings, and on their way.

The apartment is silent already. My feet sore and swollen from our sight-seeing journey yesterday that included over five miles walked while I was in boat shoes. (I forgot my other shoes in New Hampshire.) The bathroom swelters with atmospheric humidity and the humidity of being well-used. The supply tank on the toilet sweats.

I'll return to sleep now with comforting memories of familiar laughter and energy as I slip back into solitude, immersed in Brooklyn.

I slept for several hours and before I wander to ArtToFrames.com, I'll describe yesterday's adventure.

My unrelenting pace started last week when I drove home on Wednesday, I think, and proceeded to take care of things in New Hampshire on Thursday, went on a date, climbed Mount Monadnock on Friday, went to a summer party (with my date) and played in a band concert on Saturday, church Sunday and then drove two families to NYC on Sunday night. Whoosh.

After arriving late Sunday night, we contemplated various activities for Monday and the consensus was to get on television by going to one of the network morning shows. I like the NBC Today Show the best, knew where Rockerfeller Center is, and I nudged the group towards going to the Today Show.

The problem is that our sleep would be brief and was eventually fitful as I and others woke on the hour until I finally rose at 4:40 to lay out food for breakfast, turn on lights, and make enough noise to rouse the parents who woke their kids.



We left the apartment around 5:45 or so after everyone ate, a few people bathed, and prepared for the day. We got off the subway in Rockerfeller Center just before 7:00 AM when the Today Show starts. Security checked our bags and interviewed us briefly and we shuttled into the fenced corral for the Today Show street studio and we joined other early-rising nuts like us.

NBC broadcast the show on flat-screen televisions displayed on rolling carts or on the studio building so we watched as the show started and we got a sense of when the cameras would film. The hosts broadcast the show from inside a ground-level, corner-office studio, behind a curved glass panel.

Suddenly, the glass panel dropped and we saw the hosts! Some of us ran to be seen through the window and we alternated from standing around the corral and the window. My brother in law stayed at the window and when he saw that the camera trained on him, he started signing a message in front of the camera.



Some of us at the corral started laughing hysterically to see him sign in real life and then glance up to the flat screen TVs to see his signing displayed on the TV! When he returned to us, we asked what he signed. 'I need help signing. My sister lives in Snellman, MN. My name is Erik.' We all hooted with laughter.

The people that we contacted to watch us didn't see him so we speculate that the editors cropped the shot tightly to keep him out of the broadcast. Enough people recorded the show for us to examine at a later date.

Despite that, a stranger in the crowd went to him and complimented his ability and wondered where Snellman was. After his crowning achievement of quick-thinking, the Today Show lost its luster and we decided against waiting for another hour and a half for the hosts to emerge into the corral. A few of us hopped up and down behind the crowd while the weatherman gave his report. But then we all left.

I approached a NYPD officer and I asked him, 'Excuse me sir. We have several children in the group here and we gave each one a piece of paper with our names and phone numbers, the address where we're staying, and the nearest subway station. If the children get lost, is it a good idea for them to show the paper to a police officer?' His stern demeanor melted into a smile and a nod, 'That's a very good idea.'

I communicated that to the group loudly so that the kids would listen and learn what to do if they got separated from the adults.

Our plan was to go to the Today Show, walk to Times Square, walk to Central Park and re-evaluate if we had the energy to go to the WTC site and Staten Island Ferry before returning to Brooklyn to rest and sing. Every so often, the adults were anxious and impatient, but that usually ended in laughter because just being together on the streets of NYC was really enough.

On the walk to Times Square, the group was fascinated by a street vendor so people ordered coffee, donuts, and other snacks. We rested and ate and continued walking. We approached Times Square and my nieces asked numerous times to go to the M&M store in Times Square, but it wasn't open yet. We saw through the ABC Studio windows where the Good Morning America show was being broadcast.



On each street corner in Times Square there were one or two people handing out a new flavor of Balance Bars. Often they handed them out two at a time. We had eleven people in our group and each time we passed these people, we acquired more and more Balance Bars! Soon our pockets and bags were weighted down and each time we laughed with delight at all the free food.

Finally we made our way to Central Park via Broadway to Columbus Circle. We wandered into Central Park and the kids were most enthralled with the rocks protruding from the ground. So we all scrambled up one and sat drinking water and counting our Balance Bars. The girls estimated that we collected more than 70 bars!

The younger kids saw a playground made of steel and concrete so I walked with a few of them so they could play. The playground was quite cool as it was designed to be like a castle and fortress. Spongy rubber mats cushioned the ground - a welcome relief to already tired and sore feet.

Eventually the majority of our group collected at a series of park benches near some porta potties that everyone said were totally gross. While we sat a honey-sucker, or in other words, a porta pottie cleaning truck, drove up and started emptying the johns. Soon I saw someone in our group cover her mouth and bolt from her bench, walking briskly away.

Then the stench hit me and we all moved quickly away so the porta potty smell didn't knock us all flat over. We were laughing and all agreed that was the worst smell that anyone had ever experienced.

We walked to the train and took a train just north of the World Trade Center site. By this time, the little and big legs in our group were feeling some fatigue and after we looked at the WTC site, our pace slowed. We sat overlooking the NYSE building and Wall Street, eating. We walked back to the WTC site for bathrooms at Burger King and we ordered pizza.

We rested.







Afterwards, we went to the Staten Island ferry port and boarded the next ferry. The sight-seers watched the sights from the edge of the boat, but I propped my legs and feet up and closed my eyes. We arrived in Staten Island and sat in the port for the next boat. Again, I dozed. After we boarded, the sight-seers looked around and I fell into a deeper sleep. An announcer woke me up, and my sister was talking to me.



'Tim, do you think it's a good idea to go to the Empire State Building?' I bluntly said, 'No. Not really.' I smiled as I realized my bluntness and I went to talk with the larger group and agreed that a train ride to the Empire State Building wouldn't be such a bad idea. A few of us in the group were aware of the general fatigue, but it's the group consensus that wins over.

Instead of going to the Empire State Building, I walked to B&H Photo and bought a new lens hood to replace the one that had broken on our trip down to NYC. Then I bought a train ticket for Thursday and joined everyone near Macy's. Cost prohibited anyone from going up the Empire State building so they shopped for souvenirs instead.

By now the pace slowed to a halt, but the young girl's eyes glowed with hopeful excitement, 'Can we go to Macy's?' Of course we could. So the group split into four. Two anti-shoppers went to the street. One family went to the bathrooms downstairs. The remainder sans myself went up all the escalators to see the wooden escalators on the top floors of Macy's.

I stayed in the entry way and laughed by eye-contact with a man offering perfume samples at all the women who walked numbly past him.

Finally, we returned to Brooklyn and I gave a tour of the church and the garden in the back. We went to the 820 apartment and fixed up a hodge-podge supper for everyone and we sang church songs for a while. My friend started singing loudly and we all joined him, but I admit that I looked out the window to see if people were staring and wondering.

After we sang, my sister's family left and the remaining people planned a return to Times Square to see it at night. We returned and discussed numerous strategies for their return to Minnesota and eventually, the consensus was to leave before sunrise today. In Times Square the weariness of the group showed due to divergent goals. Some wanted to push relentlessly and go to one store after the next. Others showed restraint to the plan. We ate some over-priced (what else?) ice cream. Eventually we returned.

After arriving at 820, the family packed briskly and I discussed the route from here to Chicago with a focus on the simplest route out of NYC to avoid traffic. Their bags lined up in the hallway, we slept. At 4:45 my alarm rang. At 4:54 AM, the family left to start their return trip.

Solitude again.

So I hear birds chirping from the trees and see the street in front of my writer's nook, empty of cars, as it waits for a new coat of tar. A woman walks up the street and another pushes a cart, drinking water. My asian neighbors pop in and out of their adjacent apartments. My swollen feet throb a little.

I have to shower and walk to ArtToFrames.com soon.

Before I close, I have reflected a bit about where my adventure led me. At the summer party on Saturday, I reunited with several former co-workers and I heard allusions of gossip and backbiting to get work. No specifics were offered, but our group was small enough that I could piece things together to suit my curiosity and imagination.

I sensed anxiety and lurking anger, but from an outsider's point of view. My free-spirited path is quite divergent and I am detached and I simply assess the character traits of my former co-workers and imagine how they manifest themselves in their current situations. Everyone gets their due in the end.

So here I spend the summer sleeping in a cot as I chose inner-city camping for the summer for the adventure and the solitude to practice my craft as seen in my blog and photo stream. I dated the woman local to NH and I feel a gentle tug to see her again. I enjoy the freedom of the free-spirited life. I learn more about myself. I'm poised in a thrilling position to help grow a business in Brooklyn.

My future is unknown, but as I always wanted, the wind is settling my future rather than my self-assured assertive ambition that caused such great pain during my twenties.

Fat Monadnock

Guests from Minnesota and a number of my friends and relatives and I climbed Mt. Monadnock yesterday in the sweltering heat. I lingered with the slow group in the back, straining to go faster, but enjoying conversation with my sister about our respective summer adventures.



Towards the summit, I started talking about the cave and how we should all look for and explore the cave. The young boys weren't motivated to explore until I arrived and then we found the tiny entrances just off the white dot trail near the summit.

A boy from Minnesota entered first, followed by his sister, and later a local boy.





The boy's dad, my friend, arrived and we surveyed the slight opening. My turn. I dangled my feet down, grabbed the upper rock to lower myself below. Stuck! I'm too fat!

Determined, I tried again. Stuck at my midsection! Legs dangling a little, I released the rock and suspended myself, wedged into the opening.

I looked at my friend, who is my age, and I shook my head angrily, laughing. I'm not a big guy, but boy this middle life stuff is terrible.

Shortly after being stuck, we heard thunder and saw dark clouds start roiling so we snapped the group photo and descended briskly down the mountain.

Occassionaly, and even now as I write, I curse middle age! Too fat for the cave. My goodness.

Heat, Just HEAT

I returned from Brooklyn last night. During the day, I walked around Manhattan doing a bit of research for sales at ArtToFrames.com. In Central Park two young Asian girls asked me survey question regarding air pollution. They spoke halting English, but persisted to ask me questions.

Later I saw other kids from their group wandering in pairs or with adults through Central Park.

Then on the subway off the Q line, I think, a flood of red shirted kids from a church-related group poured into the subway car. The energy and clamor were unbelievable! A young girl in cute cornrows whispered to a chaperone. 'I don't have a seat.' I caught the chaperone's eye and soon the girl took my seat.

A stop later, the girl stood for some reason and a new rider plopped herself down. Again, I made eye contact with the chaperone and we shrugged in quiet disdain for the selfish adult.

Someone seems to be picking on my car in the gentlest way. Twice now I see my gas door open. Once when the car was parked right in front of 820 and then again when parked towards the corner. It's quite mild, but I hoped to be invisible while I live at 820. Oh well.

The temperatures didn't cool much when I got home to New Hampshire last night. The sweltering heat persisted into the night. My ride home was fast and short - thankfully. But I was caught in a conundrum. To stay alert while driving, I drank an iced tea. But the caffeine worked its magic for too long, well after I returned to my home.

This afternoon, I walked to the local bank and then to the Town Field where some kids are in a soccer camp. Walking and taking photos was enough to be drenched in sweat. The kids were in a cycle of drill, water, drill, water - rightfully so.







I returned home and made a few calls for AYSO and I am dreading the rest of the calls. I don't talk very much in general and to break my reticence and call strangers is not a thrill for me. Now if I could type into e-mail, who could shut me up?

ArtToFrames.com made a corporate business page on their Website and that will make it much easier for wholesale orders.

Shortly I am going on my date and I look forward to meeting her and I especially look forward to our conversation. I enjoyed our e-mails and chats. Funny, too, that we're meeting for ice cream on what must be the most hot and humid day of the whole summer. Is that considered an ice breaking topic? I think, rather, a melter.

August

Cool air spills through the window and I look outside into the gentle morning light. A guy walks by in a dark blue t-shirt. I notice that he's carrying something, odd, a frying pan. Only in New York.



Yesterday had two distinct halves. The first half was arid and the second rich with excitement and possibility making sleep difficult late into the night. I waited silently at ArtToFrames.com through the morning, through a long lunch break where I returned my car to 820, silently alone in the conference room before the meeting.

Salient phrases in the meeting included Yossi saying, 'Right. We're not at a point where there is money for QA and Usability. We don't need that.' And when Jeff said, 'But as a saleman, you can be part of our family!' And easy forthright honesty poured from me, 'I keep wondering. Am I a salesman? I'm honored that everyone here thinks that I am.'

Jeff will draw up a contract and I will sleep on the offer for a few days. I was clear and everyone was comfortable about my desire to live in New Hampshire. Yossi later looked at my property via Google maps and I showed them where I fish, hunt, and raise chickens.

After the meeting concluded, I spoke at length with Yossi to get a deep understanding of the technology, the business processes, and most importantly the sales cycles. I need to know who has the money, authority, and need for corporate framing services.

A brief digression - from my window, I see the man carrying the frying pan return, but this time with a bicycle tire pump in his right hand. The frying pan continues to swing back and forth in his left hand as he walks. My Chinese neighbor appears swinging his gate open with a slight, high-pitched squeak. He shakes his right leg and leans forward into a jog up the street.

My conversation with Yossi continued at length and I suggested the virtual reality game, Second Life, as a source of revenue. I gave a brief demo of Second Life and I chatted with my art student friend in Connecticut who started a design business in the game. She plans to give us a demo today at 10:30 and for much of the evening, I tried to wrap my head around the fact that I am doing business with someone who I have little to no contact with outside a game.

Things at home are flourishing with the return of my sister's family from their summer-long trip. A family from Minnesota arrived and I look forward to sight-seeing with them over the long weekend. My roommate returned, also. The Minnesota family plans to follow me to Brooklyn on Sunday afternoon and we'll sight-see in New York. My sister peeped that she might like to take her family here, too, so there may be up to 11 people in the apartment if they all arrive.

My Chinese neighbor returned from his jog, slowing his steps in front of his building, rubbing his chest once, swinging his arms, and walking away to cool down.

I'm looking at my trusty laptop computer. Yossi used it briefly yesterday and he noted that the L key is gone. I smiled replying, 'Just the label is worn away.' Several keys have a distinct wear pattern much like stone stairwells in New York that have bore millions of people in their paths. I'm intrigued that plastic keys have sworls and grains under their veneer.

My Chinese neighbor is now hanging clothes from the air conditioner grate. Another Chinese man in flip-flops walks casually through the street and sidewalk. He starts the daily sweep of his sidewalk.

I return to New Hampshire today. I'm unsure of my schedule and I should trim the grass in the front and back yards and prepare the apartment for guests. The weather is going to be hot and sticky for the next week or so and I should plan to have fans running for everyone's comfort. I'm wondering if my virtual friend in Connecticut would like to have dinner with me so we can discuss business.

I laugh as the blue t-shirt guy walks again past my window. But now he traded, bartered maybe, his frying pan and bicycle tire pump for two grocery bags full of products.