Och, But No' A Haggis

Day 59: Regrettably, I was not reminded of St. Andrew's Day (Scotland's national day) until it was too late to hunt the reclusive and estimable Haggis. However, I discovered their lair last year and managed to snare two, round and plump, before the season ended. The larger of the pair was reserved for Robert Burns' birthday, when it was served in Capt. Morgan Corbye's cabin with steaming neeps on the side. And alas, I have neither bannocks nor baps to accompany my meager meal tonight, but the day shall not go without a nod and a nobbler in honor of my Scottish ancestry.

Planking - Chicken If You Don't

Day 58: I have my friend Richard to thank for the inspiration behind today's post. He brought up the subject of planking, so I decided to plank myself on his very doorstep, as it were.

Planking (per Wikipedia) is "an activity consisting of lying face down - sometimes in an unusual or incongruous location. Both hands must touch the sides of the body. Some players compete to find the most unusual and original location in which to play."

Planking is best done with an assistant manning the camera, however if none is at hand, choose your timer setting wisely to allow yourself time to get up before the police cruiser drives by, and be sure you have your cover story well rehearsed in case you've miscalculated.

Thanksgiving

Day 57: The girls will be bringing my fishing buddy out of the nursing center to spend the day in the bosom of family. We'll dine together, watch a little football, and then he'll nod off in his chair as old folks do, the younger people caught up in conversations he cannot follow. If he wakes, perhaps we'll talk about the fish we've caught, the hikes to mountain lakes, the people we've met and the adventures we've shared in our long friendship. We'll laugh again over the "shortcut" which took us five and a half hours out of our way and ran the gas tank down to fumes, and at the mishap which cemented us as piscine partners (on that day, I fell face-first into the lake). We'll speak of shad and surf perch, of lunker trout and nets filled with writhing smelt; the smell of tide flats and labor of digging mud shrimp will come to our memories in brighter, gayer colors than they wore at the time.

If I am to be thankful upon this day, it is for recollections such as these and the chance to re-live them with a man who has been as important to me as my own father. If, as I suspect, this is our last Thanksgiving together, I am truly thankful for the chance to be with him one more time.

I Need An Extra Pair Of Hands

Day 56: With everything I have to get done to be ready to ship Christmas prezzies some time in the next two weeks, I really need an extra pair of hands! Oh, I have the major stuff out of the way. This is the last-minute flurry of  projects which hits me every year in November. "Gosh, I should have made a ... for Patty, and I bet Mousie would like one, too."And so it goes.

I do my Christmas "shopping" early, which is to say that before Christmas 2013 arrives, I'll be started on projects for Christmas 2014 and may even have them finished up by January or February. No last-minute dashes to the crowded stores for me! But when November rolls around and the weather keeps me housebound, my mind strays to things I can do with my hands. Inevitably, that line of thought finds me browsing needlework catalogs, placing orders and stitching like a madwoman as I race against the calendar to create just one more gift for a special friend.

The end table beside my chair is piled high with the tools of the trade, various handcrafts spilling off the edges, the supplies I most urgently need becoming buried as a rotation between embroidery, knitting, crocheting and the like takes materials to the bottom of the heap. "That *$&% ruler is in here somewhere," I curse as idle double-point needles roll off onto the floor. "Where the #%*# is my stitch counter? I had it a minute ago."

Well, on that note, it's back to work I go! If I'm diligent, I can get that ... done before I go to bed.

A Study In Persistence

Day 55: Blooming in spite of a week of hard frosts, Viola persists. That alone should be enough to qualify it for the title "weed." I've tried to eradicate it from my garden, and it goes without saying that I have been unsuccessful in my quest. Still, you have to acknowledge the heroic tenacity of this plant, as if it could echo the words, "Never give up. Never surrender." You'd admire that in a human, so why not give Viola its due?

Mountain Classic

Day 54: I should have guessed. My eyes are itchy, I've been sneezing every few hours and my chest feels constricted. No, I'm not getting a cold. I'm suffering from an inverted air mass. That became quite apparent when I went in town today. As I crested the hill south of Graham, my eyes fell on a layer of brown fug spread like a carpet across Flatland. By the time I reached the shopping district, I was feeling decidedly short of breath. A return to the Mountain gave me some relief, perhaps only because the air LOOKED cleaner.

The Middle Kid

Day 53: Poor Red is the proverbial "middle kid," often overlooked when the showier Zygos are bragging up their hybridized colors. It's hard to compete when your siblings excel in white and yellow, or take honors with fancy trimmed picotee. I've tried to afford this cactus some degree of dignity by bestowing a label reading "Vermilion" on the pot, the titular distinction my way of saying, "See? You haven't been forgotten. Thank you for faithfully flowering year after year after year."