tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-49784960480341326572024-03-05T04:26:56.479-08:00barebonseyBare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-55970777615494534072019-07-31T09:38:00.002-07:002019-07-31T09:56:44.856-07:0010 Years <br />
I had a very insightful friend ask me yesterday, how did your mom disciple you? My mind immediately went to the formalities, kind of a tick-the-box formulation: Were there daily devotionals, Q + A in which some rich spiritual wisdom was passed down to me? Did she fail me? Will I fail? Am I supposed to have a master plan?<br />
<br />
I stalled. <br />
<br />
Then I started talking. <br />
<br />
I told of how she was a skilled homemaker, how she decorated and filled her home with beauty order, cleanliness, and peace. She gardened and made food for her family, every night, without grumbling. <i>“She looks well to the ways of her household”.</i><br />
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She also opened her home constantly. I never saw her dash around in a fit to accommodate, as in she was totally unprepared and unhappy with a regiment of guests and/or small children coming through. <i>“Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the times to come”.</i><br />
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She served others, those who weren’t very important from a worldly viewpoint. She was merciful and gracious. <i>“She opens her hand to the poor, and reaches out her hands to the needy.”</i><br />
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Her life was an outpouring of discipleship to her Lord. My mom couldn’t hide what motivated her, what brought her joy, what she was obedient to. Children have a birds eye view to all of this, as I did. <br />
<br />
Today, as I mark 10 years since her passing, motherhood confronts me with the reality of discipleship lived out and seen by those closest to me. Jane Brdlik did disciple her family well because was loved so well by her Lord. If I am to mirror her life in the smallest of ways, I will not fail. "<i>Let her works praise her in the city gates.”</i>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-64407397544529818362019-04-29T07:09:00.000-07:002019-04-29T07:58:17.245-07:00An Open Letter to Kindness<div>
This letter is written to my 2nd grade elementary school teacher. I have been intending to write her for years but have convinced myself to first attend to far less meaningful pursuits that have neither praised nor thanked the soul work of many wonderful people. <br />
<br /></div>
<div>
Let me preface by saying that I was <i>perhaps</i> a difficult child, full of vim and vigor. But I was lovable, dadgumit. Mom used to recount stories of teachers who after going over my academic performance for parent/teacher conferences would clear their throats and shift uncomfortably in their seat...<br />
<br />
"Amanda, while being sweet and loving, tends to be a bit disruptive and... busy."<br />
<br />
Translation: <i>"I've wanted to wail on your child but the law won't let me."</i><br />
<br />
Paying attention to instructions or following directions were merely suggestions as I absorbed and dialoged with the world around me. This meant that at times, in my busy, confused little mind, I felt misunderstood by teachers. <br />
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But not by all, thankfully. </div>
<br />
<div>
</div>
<br />
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>To Kindness,</b></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>I have chided myself for not openly thanking others for the big and small ways they have enriched my life. It has been my intention for some time to recount for you a few memories from my early years in elementary school. Admittedly, some were spent in a corner and occasionally outside on the line but most of them were very fond memories of which you were most certainly a part of.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>What I recall most vividly about you was your intangible kindness. We somehow believe that children are unable to fully understand the world around them in the way adults do, but speaking as a former child, I know that is not true. They just gather information differently. While critical thinking and a ready vocabulary in which to express themselves are years away, we absorb and thus process our environment by observation and by feeling. </b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>I knew that you loved me (us) in my core and sometimes in spite of it. You were patient. You allowed us to believe that you enjoyed us</b><b>, even the naughty ones. </b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>As a 7 year old girl, "older" women (or ladies with pierced ears) were worthy of honor and deference in my book. You were one of them with your hair curled and smelling of baby powder. Top that off with the fact that you had swirly handwriting that I tried to imitate at home, my hand clutching a Husky pencil, tongue poking out the corner of my mouth in rapt concentration. And when you sang, you had a distinct vibrato which I also immitaed at home. In my closet. With my tape recorder unmercifully recording. </b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>At the end of the day, you were simply open to use your god-given gifts. We all have gifts, some more immediately consequential than others. The difference being that (little) people were being affirmed and approved of in such enriching ways. So much of life communicates the opposite: we are too much, too little, too insignificant to handle. That's why it's been nearly 30 years and I can still recall your influence in ways not shared with many others.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>So, I thank you for this narrative, a loving narrative, a better narrative. </b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>With gratitude,</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Amanda </b></div>
</div>
<br />
<div>
</div>
Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-2223407579491376132019-04-16T07:59:00.001-07:002019-04-16T08:04:02.267-07:00HardMotherhood is so many wonderful, soul-fulfilling things but sometimes it’s just hard. <br /><br />I read over my two prior posts that showcased the wonder of it all, which all still exist. He is still doughy and spicy.<br /><br />I adore him. <br /><br />Still, I ask myself at least a few times a day, “Just why is this so hard”? <br /><br />I’ve told my husband a few times, I think some women are born better mothers. It is baked into who they are as humans: patient, empathetic, selfless, and engaged. We’re honest if we admit not everyone has those qualities in equal measure. It is when you are squeezed of these so often day in and day out that you are confronted either by a wellspring or rung ragged and dry. Of course there are many more qualities that a good mother makes but those stand out as clear winners. <br /><br />So there’s the personal component of it. But, I think there’s much more.<br /><br />Loneliness. I rarely, if ever, have felt lonely. A qualified introvert, I find time to myself to be pleasurable and necessary. But the day in and day out of living life at home with a small soul with no vocabulary or hobbies makes conversing a one-sided affair and depleting. Conversely, having a pleasant conversation with a neighbor takes serious thought, much like I’m on a first date: look interested but not desperate. <br /><br />I can remember watching my husband leave for work just two weeks after birthing a human into existence. I felt desperate, tired, alone. For the modern day mom, the message is clear from the start, “You’re on your own, Lady”. <br /><br />Intellectually, it is much harder to keep up with the woman you once were when you were meeting deadlines, asking big questions and being asked big questions. A clear part of my mind has atrophied to be replaced by other homespun skills, whether they are touted as skills or not. This leads me into more subjective waters, waters in which I’m still trying to wade through and make sense of. That is a post for another day or another year as often as I update this blog. <br /><br />What the culture, the church, and the Bible have to say about motherhood have been most recently at odds and sometimes it feels as if we (I) am the collateral damage, trying to find my way through what is real and true. Because truth is all I’m ever called to live for, in any and every season of life.Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-73458208811567796632019-01-20T14:46:00.000-08:002019-01-20T19:18:30.237-08:00Dough BoyHe is doughy, made of gluten-esque first fruits. I want to sink my teeth into him. He’s always been a lean fellow but as luck would have it, he still sports one single Michelin band on his thighs. <br />
<br />
<div>
He smells better than a thousand lavender fields bathed in Dreft. Sometimes I pretend his feet stink (Ooooo, stiiiiiiinky feet!) but both he and I know that isn’t true. <br />
<br />
He hums to himself in his crib. He <u>hums</u>.<br />
<br />
He has a crooked smile (that’s my 50% working there). It's the one you’ll see in his little boy and adult face. You’ll need pictures to remember, though. You have already forgotten so much. <br />
<br />
At 7 months old, he already finds things silly: loud, one-syllable words, being catapulted anywhere, bending his legs up and under and then face planting.<br />
<br />
That belly laugh reinforced by all that gummy goodness in his mouth. <br />
<br />
The face he makes when you’ve come to rescue him from his crib… the sleepy bags under his eyes, and an occasional handprint from sleeping on his doughy face.<br />
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He’s showing you that your worth is not and cannot be attached to the completion of the noblest of tasks. Sometimes you feel like crying because you don’t believe this yet.<br />
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He is showing you what it means to say, everyday, my life for yours. </div>
Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-79417265639741215552018-08-26T13:17:00.001-07:002018-08-26T19:56:03.419-07:00MotherhoodTwelve weeks in and I'm not sure how to process what exactly happened in becoming a mom. As a writer, you anticipate the upheavals of life to begin writing, to express what you actually think about what just upheaved. I need the story to feel, and to feel gives birth to writing.<br />
<br />
The story is that I birthed a baby.<br />
<br />
And he's precious. Delicious.<br />
<br />
Blurry eyed, I bump into his room at 2am and I scoop up that little swaddled thing all warm and smelling of the best stuff on earth. And he has this blonde fluffy nonsense growing in patches on the back of his head that will break your heart in a million pieces if you stare at it too long.<br />
<br />
I have not forgotten about my old life. I loved my old life. That's why I cried hardest the first night home with my baby. The gestalt shift was settling in and I could feel my old self crumble. It's purely selfish, but that's what gives parenting its angst--- you're dying in all the right ways.<br />
<br />
My life has become in many ways very small. Small baby, short must-do list, simple sentences, shrinking walls. Intellectually, you know this time of life will require you to slow down and lean into the simplicities. Only until you are in the thin of it does it take you by surprise.<br />
<br />
I find myself needing more. I feel this way often.<br />
<br />
After the fall of mankind, God told Eve that her primary glory (that of birthing and nurturing) would come at a considerably higher cost to her. But He knew that in these pursuits, and in all the ways they were now to fail her, she would become <i>more </i>desperate for Him. What was meant to enrich her, give her purpose and place in creation would come with limits. But she would test these limits and get lost in them.<br />
<br />
There is much more to unpack about that but for now, I have to close. Baby bird is awake and I need a small, delicious fix.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-82178752111045348842014-07-31T11:43:00.000-07:002014-07-31T11:45:20.289-07:00And Yet<div>
For a split second tonight, I could not envision her face. I was sitting at the dining room table as she came to mind like she often does when I'm sitting alone. It created enough of a reaction that my chest began to pound and my breath quickened, frustrated at having to take so long to upload an exact image of her in her chair, clinking her fork through her front teeth and driving me crazy in the process. It was like my mind was feverishly scrolling through a Rolodex of 26 years with her in order to bring back to life one still portrait in the hope that a single memory could, once again, temper my sadness.<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
Today makes for five years since she's passed away. In some ways, it seems longer and in some ways, it seems very fresh. I don't know what is the accepted or normal way of perceiving time related to someone's passing. Is it supposed to be that time has flown by or slowed down? I'm not sure that there is a right answer. <br />
<br /></div>
<div>
In an email written to a friend years ago, I explained the feeling of coming into her bedroom once all of her personal belongings were gone:<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
"...He [dad] bagged and boxed up most all of mom's belongings, cleaned out her clothes in her closet, leaving only a sparse picture frame resting on her dresser. Mom had all but been physically erased from my eyes. At that moment, there was complete silence, a void that nothing this side of heaven could fill. Walking around the room and hearing the stark sound of my footsteps, I opened her closet door with just enough force to gently swing a metal hanger, resting naked on the pole. Everything was gone. Up until then, she had been there.. a still snapshot of how things were, as if she could just come in and pick up where she left off."<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
But that's the beef I have with death. She won't be back. That is the most unnatural feeling, by the way. Man was not created to die. That wasn't in the original set of cards which is why it is foreign, confusing, dastardly.<br />
<br />
Regardless, I have a hope that extends beyond these circumstances. Hope that says there are reunions and restorations to come. And yet, I have to be honest and accepting of the undercurrent of sadness that still sweeps over me and calls to me, you'll miss her all your life. </div>
Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-72188317656149012102013-09-04T19:42:00.001-07:002013-09-04T20:21:36.199-07:00Bloom <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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We're hard wired for the bloom. We expect that things should be intensely
seen, felt, tasted and explosive. Immediate. No where else in life it seems do we make these assumptions than in the
search for love. Walking into a new job, we dare not assume we'll have the corner office in a day or in a week. Likewise, a new acquaintance will only become a great
friend after weathering a storm or two. What is it about the promise of great, intoxicating love do we cast aside all measure of reality and shake our fist at the heavens while we
wait for everything to come together. just. as. it. should. be.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A bloom is obvious, blaring. Its raw power and intensity justifies our inclination to believe that
because something feels like goodness that it is actually good. Reality reports back that the
bloom has little to do with outcomes or whether we will be enriched or destroyed in the process. But we demand that it be so. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So we search.<br />
<br />
Our attraction to the bloom is centered around the idea of expectations. Expectations are a scary, insidious thing especially when they are not tempered with reality. They hold us back from experiencing life differently simply because we cannot see past our own version of what should be. So we revert back to what we know and what feels the most like smoldering fire. However, this insistence could strip us of the very thing that we are fighting tooth and nail for to begin with:<i> to know and be known. </i><br />
<i><br /></i></div>
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It takes great faith to believe what we have been told by
those far wiser than ourselves. Wisdom
that says that love, great love, the kind we all search for can be grown and cultivated by seed through sweat,
selflessness, understanding and patience towards other and self. In a word,
work. As unsexy as that was to write, it is far less enchanting to envision for
one's own life. I still prefer to be
transfixed.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My hope is, of course, that I'm not asking too much. My hope is that it is entirely possible that
I could have goodness with fire, real love and bloom. The kind that will not render my soul ember and ash. </div>
<!--EndFragment-->Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-86171393250640248482013-08-13T10:45:00.000-07:002013-08-13T10:45:08.570-07:00Memories of a Legacy<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Gram rubbed her hands together briskly, lighting an
imaginary fire while piquing curiosity in her grandchildren's head. “What
shall we do today, Amanda Kate?” she'd ask. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gram always thought that farting was funny.
When it wasn’t politically correct to laugh uproariously at your grandson’s
flatulence, Gram was always first in line to chastise while slapping her knee
in hearty approval.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
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Idle threats of a using the “big black stick” when
we misbehaved. The rumor was that she kept it under the deck but I never
saw it. And that is not because I was a particularly well-behaved child.
I think she just rather liked us even when we were naughty. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The gumball machine that sat (or called to me) on
the kitchen counter. Sometimes it spit out two instead of one brightly
colored sugar ball with just one sticky penny from her copper jar. I
found as I got older that if you shook it really hard, it spit out one. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her muffled whistling as she completed any number of tasks around the house: "shrr-shrr-shrr-shrr-shrrrr". </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her insatiable desire to win at board games. Some people might have said she employed cheaters' tactics at Rummikub. Since I am neither a graceful winner or loser, I can say I came by it honestly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The crisp $10 bill she gave me for dusting her
120-some wooden animal pieces when I came to visit. She wanted us to
understand the value of a dollar and admonished me not to spend it at
Starbucks.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sorry, Grammie. I have failed you many times
in this regard. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
My favorite snapshot is driving with her to my
cousins wedding in Wisconsin. I made sure to get a picture of her to remember
how she suavely placed her sunglasses on top of her bifocals for the optimal
sunless driving experience. It was a beautiful summer day on a long
stretch of road where she and I listened to her big band favorites on CD.
Glenn Miller. I knew right then that this would be a memory I would have
of her for the rest of my life. And it is.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few trips to downtown Chicago over the past few
years are what I’ll associate most with her. That Windy City so cold last time
we visited. We made our customary stop downtown to eat lunch on the 95th floor
of the John Hancock building where we could see out on to the city
rooftops. Tonight the city dines without her.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The older I get, the more I realize that all I call
good in my life I can trace back to the godly legacy lived out in the lives of
my grandparents. Those decisions they made, through the good and the bad,
in the difficult and the plenty carried such significance as they shaped and
anchored the lives of all those who followed after them. Our ripple effect is
great. Thank you, Lord, for the power of her continued legacy. <span style="font-size: 16pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<!--EndFragment--></div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-39334158595465499332013-06-01T11:05:00.000-07:002013-06-01T11:23:02.357-07:00And... Go...<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">So this is my first
post for 2013.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What about it?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truth is I’ve not been particularly
busy, just lazy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sometimes you get
out of the habit of doing something and it just becomes a habit that you become lazy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">But I have
thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lots of them and they
are occurring right now:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">1) I will never get rid
of this crusty black suitcase. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If this suitcase were a person, it would show up with hot rollers
in its hair, a ratty cotton bathroom robe coupled with a half-lit cigarette hanging
out of its busted zipper mouth. But you know it’s trusty and it’s been everywhere on earth with me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Literally.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
like an old friend.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And do you get
rid of old friends? I don’t think so.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You get rid of your old, mean friends. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">2) When I leave the farm,
I will leave behind a part of my soul. When that thought surrounds me, I
remember that everything has a season. I know I will relinquish a part of my soul in
every place I love and leave behind. That’s the beautiful part of an evolving
life. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">3) When I leave the farm,
I will be leaving for Colorado. There will be more to write about that at
another time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">4) Hopefully Mr. Darcy
lives in Colorado, that gnarly fictional bastard. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In reading through P&P, I’m again
finding myself wanting to kill off my likeminded heroine Miss Elizabeth Bennett and ride off
into the sunset with Mr. D where we can be snarky and angry at each other
forever. That, my friends, is love. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">If I may quote: </span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";"><i>"At his own ball he offended two or three young ladies by not asking them to dance; and I spoke to him twice myself without receiving an answer. Could there be any finer symptoms [of violent love]? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?"</i></span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">5) I love and abhor
change all at once.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">6) Part of me is scared
because it’s just me in this.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Part
of me is relieved for the same reason. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">7) Most of me wants to
erase that because it’s weakness for me to admit that I’m scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But it’s a necessary function of my human experience to be scared.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
alerts me to keep myself open and flexible, engaged and discerning in my new
environment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";">8) Being scared on another level allows me to
appreciate normalcy when it returns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The part that is relieved when I don’t look at my workplace like a
battle field waging war against my fragile competencies, a home-place that smacks of
my juju, my running trails, those routines of life that allow me to feel centered and
grounded.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Tw Cen MT";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">9) There are, like, 11 people on this flight and they're still boarding by sections. </span></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-55023854211205227642012-12-13T10:28:00.003-08:002012-12-13T10:33:51.154-08:00Thought Provoking Thursday's<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">“But the new rebel is a skeptic, and will not entirely trust anything. He has no loyalty; therefore he can never be really a revolutionist. And the fact that he doubts everything really gets in his way when he wants to denounce anything. For all denunciation implies a moral doctrine of some kind; and the modern revolutionist doubts not only the institution he denounces, but the doctrine by which he denounces it. . . . As a politician, he will cry out that war is a waste of life, and then, as a philosopher, that all life is waste of time. A Russian pessimist will denounce a policeman for killing a peasant, and then prove by the highest philosophical principles that the peasant ought to have killed himself. . . . The man of this school goes first to a political meeting, where he complains that savages are treated as if they were beasts; then he takes his hat and umbrella and goes on to a scientific meeting, where he proves that they practically are beasts. In short, the modern revolutionist, being an infinite skeptic, is always engaged in undermining his own mines. In his book on politics he attacks men for trampling on morality; in his book on ethics he attacks morality for trampling on men. Therefore the modern man in revolt has become practically useless for all purposes of revolt. By rebelling against everything he has lost his right to rebel against anything.”</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span"><br /></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 18px;">G. K Chesterton</span></span>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-91586137591945768592012-10-30T08:06:00.001-07:002012-10-30T09:27:27.773-07:00Dragons, Golf Carts and JesusA few Sunday's ago, I was hoping to drive home a point during Children's Church using that good ol' game of hangman. In attempting to review a story we discussed the week prior, I did a little Q&A. Generally, those don't go so well. Some kids were gazing up at the ceiling, pinching or being pinched by their neighbor, others were blowing air into their emptied Capri Suns and sending the straw flying across the room. Some were burping. It's what they do. Good thing one kid chirped up to clue me in: "Maybe no one is answering because the answers are obvious. It's like, duh."<br />
<br />
True story.<br />
<br />
And I thank you for that valuable piece of information, Sonny.<br />
<br />
I turned my attention to the chalk board where I drew out a succession of dotted lines and the infamous swinging gallow.<br />
<br />
"We will not be hanging people this morning, kiddos!" said I. Truth is, Miss Brenda had been swinging from the gallows a few Sunday's before. Just didn't seem right in the moment. Or ever. So we decided on a komodo dragon because they are nasty little cusses anyway.<br />
<br />
The kids figured out pretty quickly that I am a disabled drawer of animals. As you can see, the tail on this komodo rivals that of a tyrannosaurus rex. The kids thought it was hilarious. And they took advantage of it, my drawing disability.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAxMNFLz0aCMz9ViGGBMqYdPjsgTTnW10Q_e7Yp34tGOMWctdYhQCefrAUL24l26I6U2Q7jlCc-3kP_MCvq0JgoUIh0Az6oyi7BPXxBhZA-4lxMSgpNQPSnmleZ2I3KaXhTx5doFjJHra/s1600/Amanda's+iPhone+Pics+597.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSAxMNFLz0aCMz9ViGGBMqYdPjsgTTnW10Q_e7Yp34tGOMWctdYhQCefrAUL24l26I6U2Q7jlCc-3kP_MCvq0JgoUIh0Az6oyi7BPXxBhZA-4lxMSgpNQPSnmleZ2I3KaXhTx5doFjJHra/s320/Amanda's+iPhone+Pics+597.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
They were on a roll. The board soon reflected the following:<br />
<br />
RUTH KEPT HER PRO_ISES.<br />
<br />
Now, these kids... they're bright. And they're crafty. Instead of letting me off the hook and just providing me with the "m" needed to end the game and save the poor dragon from certain death, they were laughing hysterically and shouting out "z" "q" "x" and other improbable suggestions. <br />
<br />
Pretty soon, the komodo dragon was sporting a rastafarian hat, sneakers and a glove.<br />
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<br />
They continued on with more of the same calibre guesses: "w" "7" "egg" which left me with no choice but to draw the komodo driving a golf cart. It's just where my mind is.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhx040XbDnohvI-IaOl18K1a4AH0JudKqaVodLWByLRYrQy1EQ-uMbZEiIKdvc7uwd7e6cL00bc6a-wel_xb5oqw2L_UO1FP17HmCgez3queAOpEzSmFjD9ULciwHR-kfIyMhWVmhugJjX/s1600/golf+cart.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhx040XbDnohvI-IaOl18K1a4AH0JudKqaVodLWByLRYrQy1EQ-uMbZEiIKdvc7uwd7e6cL00bc6a-wel_xb5oqw2L_UO1FP17HmCgez3queAOpEzSmFjD9ULciwHR-kfIyMhWVmhugJjX/s320/golf+cart.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<br />
After exhausting the entire alphabet (with the exception of "m"), I decided to add a few golf clubs in the back. After drawing them in, one said child remarked, "That looks like a pair of grannie legs sticking out of the back of that golf bag. That's weird."<br />
<br />
Touche, kid. Touche.<br />
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As a disclaimer, no children were hurt in the staging or as a result of this game. I think. What I do know is that they were taught that Jesus loves them and wants them to keep their promises through a ridiculous game of hangadragon. </div>
Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-32398577030048736952012-10-20T10:26:00.001-07:002012-10-20T16:55:31.246-07:00Comings and GoingsLife has a funny way of taking you many places if you let it. Even in my own mind, I wander. That's generally dangerous though. Especially behind the wheel.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But that's jumping ahead of myself. Recently, me and few companions were able to take a trip down Highway 1 along the coast of California. Our travels took us from San Francisco, North to Napa Valley then down to San Diego. Of course, that seems like a lot of driving (and it was) but instead of passing toll booths, turnpikes, and angry Michigan drivers (DON'T pretend you don't know what I'm talking about), these were the sights we took in on our way through Monterey and Carmel...</div>
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Welcome to San Francisco...</div>
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I made the guys listen to "I left My Heart in San Francisco" by Tony Bennett a few times over the course of the day. I insisted that I was culturing them. </div>
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Chinatown. </div>
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"... to be where little cable cars </div>
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climb halfway to the stars..."</div>
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And then on to Big Sur and Pfeiffer Beach. My favorite. There were probably 20 people on the beach that day. It was 75 degrees but the water was bone chilling cold. I winced and then scurried back to lay on the warm, dry, soft white and purple* sand. </div>
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Panoramic shot.</div>
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*I tell the truth.</div>
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This is Digger. He was waiting [im]patiently for his Master to come back from surfing. </div>
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This is my brother whipping himself with some long tube-like kelpy thing that washed up onto shore. I had never seen anything like that before on beaches on the east coast. I've been too lazy to research what it is. I'm sure google will know exactly what I'm looking for when I type that name into the search engine.<br />
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Below are a few random shots from our travels. I hope some time in your life's journey, you'll get the opportunity to visit California and these wonderful places. It's unlike any other place in the world (can't verify but it sure sounded right).</div>
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With gratitude,</div>
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BB </div>
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Hearst Castle. Or at least 1/10 of it. </div>
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The heated indoor pool at Hearst Castle that I would have gladly sold my first born to be able to swim in. (sorry, kid)</div>
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Laguna Beach.</div>
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Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-56016983964501557512012-09-05T10:13:00.000-07:002012-09-05T12:58:33.186-07:00Tricking Small Children <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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What happens when a little girl asks to hear stories about "her" horse's day at her Pop's farm in West Virginia? The horse writes her, of course. <br />
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My sister said that she was getting a daily barrage of Q &A from the little girl. "What's Tate up to today, mom?" "I wonder if he's being a good boy?" "Is he being nice to Rainy Day and Patches?" Sighing, I'm sure my sister in all her adult wisdom responded with something like "I wish I knew, sweetie. But I don't think Tate does much more than eat grass and fertilize the lawn. It would be nice to ask him what he does all day out at the farm but horses can't really talk or write."<br />
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*buzzer*<br />
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WRONG-O, mom. Wrong-o.<br />
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Of course horses talk and write! Duh. <br />
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Luckily, the little girl's Aunt Poo went out to the barn with a large pencil in hand and some wide-lined paper and stood by while Tate wrote 5 long pages detailing his experiences with Tuna, the barnyard cat and Patches, his very best friend who has long eyelashes and a sassy disposition.<br />
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Word on the street is that it was bought, hook, line and sinker. <br />
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<br />Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-83890410506277396392012-07-13T07:20:00.000-07:002012-07-13T07:25:40.822-07:00What to do when there's nothing to do: A survival guide for country folk without power, water, AC, road access and hopeFriends with Power, <br />
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I write to you with the sound of our backup generator sputtering mercifully in the background. Instead of using our alternate source of power for reasonable things like DVD watching and online poker playing, we are making sure our 2 deep freezers full of deer carcass and minestrone soup stay edible. It's a worthy cause I reckon. However, I'm melting. It neared 100 degrees yesterday which is why I was on my back on my living room floor flailing my arms and legs in a summer-time snow angel motion.<br />
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The thought of being without modern conveniences for an extended period of time is not savory, however, it's kind pioneerish which in my head puts me alongside one of my childhood idols, Laura Ingalls Wilder. Now the only difference between her and me is an electric toothbrush. <br />
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If you look closely in the background, you can see one of our horses, Patches, fa-la-te-de-da-ing and grazing on some nearby grass. Little did she know that in a few short minutes, she'd have an 100 lb. metal barn door careening towards her. She jumped the fence like a champ and thus saved her hind end. <br />
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Hard to imagine that just hours earlier, the sky looked like this...</div>
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Yesterday morning, I took a 3 hour hike to assess the damage caused by this storm. Along my route, I came across these fellows:<br />
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Cows are naturally afraid of everything under the sun so when I asked this guy if he was spooked from the storm, he answered "Duh, yeah." <br />
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Moving on to things that aren't quite as sassy, here we have Queen Anne's Lace (my favorite flower of all time).<br />
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On a side note, I will never understand the thought process behind someone rolling their crusty car down the ditch on someone else's property. Or maybe I can. It maybe sounds something like this: "Here you go! You don't want this but here you go!" <br />
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But that car has nothing to do with the storm. Me taking a picture of my fancy farm boots in the stream does.<br />
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The reason I was playing down at the stream was because I was meeting this guy on the four-wheeler.<br />
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Yours Truly had to sit through (seemingly) hours of the following: "Amanda Kate, let it be known that your dad is a GENIUS!" Of course he was referring to his funnel and hose contraption that he was using to collect water from the stream for bathing and toilet flushing. I gave him kudos. It was smart. I come by it honestly.<br />
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Finally on the way back, I found this old spare tire on the side of the road. I also took some pictures of huge trees that had been uprooted but who wants to see that? Random roadside trash is far more interesting. I hope you agree. </div>
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*This post was written two weeks ago. By now, you know better than to assume I'll be timely with my posts. We have since gotten power, water and road access back after 10 days without. You should know it was a precarious and smelly situation. </div>
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<br /></div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-7732039816445279362012-03-15T06:58:00.003-07:002012-03-15T07:10:21.733-07:00An Open Letter<div style="border-collapse: collapse; color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">While my brother and I were on the train back from our wanderlust excursion in Rome, we had the great fortune of sitting next a woman reading the NYT. Our great fortune was not that she was reading our "hometown USA paper" but that Patti was the best riding companion and the most perfect stranger you could conjure up. After chatting a while about Clint’s military service, we delved into her time in Italy (she is American) and the fascinating jobs she has since undertaken. There isn’t much Patti hasn’t done or seen or any subject matter she cannot speak eloquently about. </span><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Frankly, it’s admirable that anyone could acquire as much knowledge and not use it for world domination. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After exchanging contact information and a solemn promise to visit her in her countryside home on the outskirts of Florence --- someday---, we have kept in contact every so often to exchange life tales. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Recently, Patti lost her mother. The natural order of things suggests that it is reasonable that all of us will be orphaned at some point in our lives. However, knowing that in advance does not preclude you or in any way soften the blow of experiencing the stinging loss once it arrives at your doorstep. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Our email exchange this week had Patti reminiscing about the loving legacy her mother left. She asked that I share a story about my mom. What I wrote to her really was not as much of a story as it was a short testament to my mother’s continued legacy… how it inspires me to be more purposeful in my everyday interactions with others, show more grace and acceptance of others then I could ever ask for or expect in return. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It is good to remember that at this moment, today, we are all writing our own stories, crafting our own legacy. What will mine be? What will yours be?<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">…<o:p></o:p></span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Even still, I have people who knew my mother (some in a very superficial capacity) seek me out to relate stories of something she said or wrote to them during their darkest moments that had a profound impact on their life. She had this intangible quality that attracted others to her. By the droves. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Her influence was not a result of knowing all the right words to say, or having some overly empathetic aura. I think her secret (as far I can put into words; it is mostly intangible) was that people knew that she accepted them wholly and completely as they were. It was immediate and without reservation. Thinking back, I know that part of her was crafted both by nature as she was always a compassionate and caring person. Yet, I know that part of her was also crafted, more painfully, by nurture. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think my mom struggled with feelings of inferiority and unworthiness. This may have been spurred on by her lack of desire (and she would have said lack of aptitude) to excel in school. She had "only" dreamed of being a mother. People in her life further solidified these and other negative core beliefs, mostly unintentionally.<o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Mom knew what it was to look to others for approval and come up empty handed. That led her to turn one of her perceived frailties into a great strength. What was withheld from her she so freely gave away. Unconditional acceptance. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">No matter who we are, where we came from, or where we think we're going, once we inquire of the world (and we all do... it's not really a question of "if") "Am I enough? Am I lovable?" we’re already defeated as we have left our most vulnerable of questions open for debate. <o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="color: #222222;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">How rare and lovely are those who, by their very presence, convince us of our own worthiness before we can even open our mouths to persuade them of it.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 13pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></i></div></div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-59491387723218457472012-02-25T10:03:00.003-08:002012-02-25T11:04:00.657-08:00But Baby It's Cold Outside...Hello there, Friends. Glad you're checking to see if I'm still e-alive. To make up for this gross lapse in communication, below are some pictures from last weekends snow storm on the farm. It was a storm that even a Yankee could be proud of. <br />
<br />
By the way, the title of this blog is of course from the classic Christmas jingle, "Baby it's Cold Outside". Have you ever listened to the lyrics to this song and thought, "Wow. Creepy."? Let me set the stage. Imagine you're at some dudes house for dinner. You laughed together, you ate roasted lamb, you had an all around pleasant time but it's time to go. He has a snaggle tooth.<br />
<br />
You reach for your coat and say,<br />
<br />
"I really can't stay<br />
He responds: (but baby it's cold outside)<br />
<br />
I've got to go away<br />
(but baby it's cold outside)<br />
<br />
This evening has been<br />
(been hoping that you'd drop in)<br />
<br />
So very nice<br />
(i'll hold your hands, they're just like ice) <em><span style="color: red;">(An unwanted advance at this point)</span></em><br />
<br />
My mother will start worry<br />
(beautiful whats your hurry)<br />
<br />
My father will be pacing the floor<br />
(listen to the fireplace roar)<br />
<br />
So really i'd better scurry<br />
(beautiful please don't hurry)<br />
<br />
but maybe just a half a drink more <em><span style="color: red;">(bad choice, bad, bad, bad choice)</span></em><br />
(put some records on while i pour)<br />
<br />
the neighbors might faint<br />
(baby it's bad out there)<br />
<br />
<span style="color: red;"><span style="color: black;"><u><em>say what's in this drink</em></u></span> (lady, two words:<em> Date. Rape)</em></span><br />
(no cabs to be had out there) <span style="color: red;"><em>(my trunk is available for transport however...)</em></span><br />
<br />
i wish i knew how<br />
(your eyes are like starlight now)<br />
<br />
to break this spell<br />
(i'll take your hat, your hair looks swell)<br />
<br />
i ought to say "no, no, no sir" <em><span style="color: red;">(now you're getting the picture, sister...)</span></em><br />
(mind if i move in closer) <span style="color: red;"><em>(he's not getting the picture... knee him)</em></span><br />
<br />
at least i'm gonna say that i tried <em><span style="color: red;">(say what?)</span></em><br />
(what's the sense in hurtin' my pride)<em><span style="color: red;"> (hurt more than his pride...)</span></em><br />
<br />
i simply must go<br />
(but baby it's cold outside)<br />
<br />
so nice and warm<br />
(look out the window at that storm)<br />
<br />
my sister will be suspicious<br />
(gosh your lips look delicious) <em><span style="color: red;">(Oh, dear)</span></em><br />
<br />
my brother will be there at the door<br />
(waves upon the tropical shore) <span style="color: red;"><em>(Think Natalie Holloway)</em></span><br />
<br />
i've gotta get home<br />
(but baby you'd freeze out there)<br />
<br />
say lend me a coat<br />
(it's up to your knees out there)<br />
<br />
you've really been grand<br />
(i thrill when you touch my hand) <em><span style="color: red;">(Again, unwanted contact. However, the drink has kicked in by now. What snaggle tooth?)</span></em><br />
<br />
but don't you see?<br />
(how can you do this thing to me?) <span style="color: red;"><em>(The Guilt Trip. Women fall prey to it all the time.)</em></span><br />
<br />
there's bound to be talk tomorrow<br />
(think of my lifelong sorrow) <em><span style="color: red;">(See Guilt Trip)</span></em><br />
<br />
at least there will be plenty implied<br />
(if you got pneumonia and died) <em><span style="color: red;">(His cover-up)</span></em><br />
<br />
Sorry to ruin this Christmas classic. These are just the thoughts that run through my head.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Merry Snow Day!</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div align="center" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqQ1DFMEPJZgIaKmtTZShZp0A_ztCc3V2-YSO_dQCHELJX6VR-ko4VsvsPemxbkxhECH2uBMyIcMS5VJecjNJUmVg-DD5qEXG5M9zpEPfXm_84cxBIUjEN2M_X0XVUsDqmEcffSuwtiw4/s1600/18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" lda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuqQ1DFMEPJZgIaKmtTZShZp0A_ztCc3V2-YSO_dQCHELJX6VR-ko4VsvsPemxbkxhECH2uBMyIcMS5VJecjNJUmVg-DD5qEXG5M9zpEPfXm_84cxBIUjEN2M_X0XVUsDqmEcffSuwtiw4/s320/18.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QJFMreGF3EUdtqw1UquIRj-VTRRrA4R6kuRFiIXfo4I1pDRaZwN_86exLFWDhvJhW8bmcISuZEju83Bj6rhSkLHu86awSq-ouF4YmQxFg99QV7wERC8rNAWFl6Tye_5Mo13-9GGS5Csm/s1600/17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" lda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6QJFMreGF3EUdtqw1UquIRj-VTRRrA4R6kuRFiIXfo4I1pDRaZwN_86exLFWDhvJhW8bmcISuZEju83Bj6rhSkLHu86awSq-ouF4YmQxFg99QV7wERC8rNAWFl6Tye_5Mo13-9GGS5Csm/s320/17.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-71421011123431827522011-10-28T14:03:00.000-07:002011-10-28T14:03:41.710-07:00It's Friday, Folks.<div style="text-align: justify;">Some photos for my faithful few. This made me LOL. And I never write "LOL" unless the situation warrants it. Silly truck. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7OS-HHZL8SfRZNqCSuP4GGYS_9uagRdNrZv7RlBPwFIkTsELzm4P9au8eixVcQm0udLUm6Ji-rNRQpEU37l1htBjuDFvbJXLq1VdDm9NOICIdGb5V7_PurdEQ4LW41x0NrjoKGH4uoVQE/s1600/Penny.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7OS-HHZL8SfRZNqCSuP4GGYS_9uagRdNrZv7RlBPwFIkTsELzm4P9au8eixVcQm0udLUm6Ji-rNRQpEU37l1htBjuDFvbJXLq1VdDm9NOICIdGb5V7_PurdEQ4LW41x0NrjoKGH4uoVQE/s320/Penny.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">And here we have Charlotte. Charlotte, unlike our other feathered acquaintances, has no fear. She will boss the horse, the sheep, the dog, the other ducks, probably the cattle if she could get close enough and for certain, she will boss you. I hope you aren't thin skinned because she will cut you down. I don't appreciate it but what can I do? What can I do? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFYJ8An8iNNRbtfdMv3Pw1SErcPR9h-KQJyL4p4fmljfgcpibYvW53_7GsKvOYQPI_uWknFBitKcxEmq9hrQWj4WcA3n0EwzfWeyL3mXtHMigfAfRlrNWG0rATbP0PgbdIbISkY4fZIHt/s1600/Carlytheduck.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuFYJ8An8iNNRbtfdMv3Pw1SErcPR9h-KQJyL4p4fmljfgcpibYvW53_7GsKvOYQPI_uWknFBitKcxEmq9hrQWj4WcA3n0EwzfWeyL3mXtHMigfAfRlrNWG0rATbP0PgbdIbISkY4fZIHt/s1600/Carlytheduck.jpg" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Perhaps get a life and stop dialoging with animals you say? </div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-16335688747070796292011-09-17T12:22:00.000-07:002011-09-17T12:43:12.112-07:00Homecoming<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I turned older last Sunday and I expect that I will next year too. That seems to be the trend these days. But where has the past 10 years gone? Sheesh. Between waking up and going about our daily routines and then falling asleep watching any number of reality shows on cable television, what really separates one day from the next? It all becomes squashed. Life becomes a uniboob of memories. </span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">On my next birthday, I'll be turning th...th....thhiii.....thiiiiirt.....thirteeeeeeeeeeee-----n. Yes, thirteen, folks. You thought I would be turning 30 because that's what happens when you subtract my birth year from 2012. And that’s ridiculous. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">However, I wouldn't want to go back to being 13. Most of you have seen pictures of me in Jr. High. Sweet. Merciful. Savior.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Last weekend had me driving to Ohio for an old high school friends baby shower. She's as cute as a button. Her husband wants to name their son "Lucky" which makes Sarah very upset. How wonderful it was to see these old friends in their current capacities as mothers, wives, and teeth-cleaning technicians. Each of them has enriched my life simply by being in it with their lovely and hilarious selves.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">I also visited the town where I spent part of my early childhood. Going back to my roots was like greeting an old friend. I had this intense urge to re-introduce myself in case they had forgotten what 23 years could do to a person. No more potbelly, glasses and pigtails. They scarcely recognized me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">While driving down Bradley Street at a fast enough clip that I wouldn’t creep out the neighbors, yet slow enough to trigger a flood of nostalgia, I realized that childhood has a way of distorting reality. Houses, trees, streets, front porches all are smaller then what you remember. The world is just a grander place when taken in from a tiny set of eyes. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Everything made me think of mom. She colored my little world, even then. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Driving away and catching a glimpse of my childhood past growing smaller in the distance, I felt a keen sense of gratitude for the life I had been given and for my life now that is completely sustained and propelled by a similar tenor of grace.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times; font-size: x-small;"></span><span style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxhzGsHlSveOz71zJriCyJE4UQzp5CVZ3jpF8p9NBKBwPRtEq95XpuVaj9q60DPEro3MyFq5bk5liWVQ2-2ILJdLlBlJAloKQknEaSusI53VPKUNeGXESu-mICXFJ1g77YCXOZhB-zhb0/s1600/Popcorn+shop.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIxhzGsHlSveOz71zJriCyJE4UQzp5CVZ3jpF8p9NBKBwPRtEq95XpuVaj9q60DPEro3MyFq5bk5liWVQ2-2ILJdLlBlJAloKQknEaSusI53VPKUNeGXESu-mICXFJ1g77YCXOZhB-zhb0/s320/Popcorn+shop.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJPc0pJthlWObfgrglsun4t6_YSk_cmRugrmQMbkdrs65mZVKvb37iUhGbovIwBhACNXxdGgKCgeSNKRAFdPcF2P75xbEkvL4qsvOmKSYodYmUZd67gVax5zycViaFAOBbo_O_arztMa0/s1600/Chagrin+shops.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIJPc0pJthlWObfgrglsun4t6_YSk_cmRugrmQMbkdrs65mZVKvb37iUhGbovIwBhACNXxdGgKCgeSNKRAFdPcF2P75xbEkvL4qsvOmKSYodYmUZd67gVax5zycViaFAOBbo_O_arztMa0/s320/Chagrin+shops.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi2c3C0yMPrkE4Klx61dtTcjwxe9TxZY154ax-n36o7rhYQo3mG_qe_uGPIZtPw1QMzhbvAuFoX0a1WJ8C_RNrUyVpq3lYjHJ0RVYq-rWsJPHZNIaSwqLXyUf0vx_kVqbwTpsLKwfWe6em/s1600/Falls.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" rba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgi2c3C0yMPrkE4Klx61dtTcjwxe9TxZY154ax-n36o7rhYQo3mG_qe_uGPIZtPw1QMzhbvAuFoX0a1WJ8C_RNrUyVpq3lYjHJ0RVYq-rWsJPHZNIaSwqLXyUf0vx_kVqbwTpsLKwfWe6em/s320/Falls.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-56219220802917453832011-08-11T12:16:00.000-07:002011-08-11T12:19:33.135-07:00What the heck I've been up to besides not blogging...July had me running around like a chicken with my head cut off. Or, in the case of our unfortunate farm animals, like a duck with my neck sawed to shreds. By an gigantic owl. Anyway, it doesn't even apply because ducks just plop over dead when their heads get severed off. Ours don't run for anything. Ever.<br />
<br />
Bad example.<br />
<br />
So, work has been keeping me knuckle dragging honest and quite busy. Other than actually being quasi-productive at work (sans today, of course), I have managed to do a few fun things here and there. <br />
<br />
<br />
<div><div style="text-align: center;">Clint came into town for the 4rth of July. We had us a celebration! This pictures kills me because dad looks like a mischievous little boy here, no? Or an Iguana. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW9cIbs-HeO3jC_ZCkertyhG8ku7f83yLBTl7CcdFSKIxvXVQrP_jmPPvc_cN7F6i38xdyMNj5979oseKQf1r6q271QrY6Y83tKHfM_TdoG6deM8iWJll68UcXPfm8r39To_xRJ_I2TIGS/s1600/SL733107.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgW9cIbs-HeO3jC_ZCkertyhG8ku7f83yLBTl7CcdFSKIxvXVQrP_jmPPvc_cN7F6i38xdyMNj5979oseKQf1r6q271QrY6Y83tKHfM_TdoG6deM8iWJll68UcXPfm8r39To_xRJ_I2TIGS/s320/SL733107.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Here I am taking Clint on a white-knuckle 4-wheeler ride around the property. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEideYxS-j2IBivact42yOFaBm7WBwMFACSHIWFF-gvEndVQRTEt-sV2zIN9b3MV6Wgk-G7RQj5rvsLgD4GPrdE8tana3XmY_KDpvzH-KOLgSHGCpBSrU8cXdAKXbzvS9AW5KqbrWmKnk-pg/s1600/SL733109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEideYxS-j2IBivact42yOFaBm7WBwMFACSHIWFF-gvEndVQRTEt-sV2zIN9b3MV6Wgk-G7RQj5rvsLgD4GPrdE8tana3XmY_KDpvzH-KOLgSHGCpBSrU8cXdAKXbzvS9AW5KqbrWmKnk-pg/s320/SL733109.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">When we arrived at the old Schoolhouse, Clint became very tired and decided to take a nap on a rusty fence. <br />
<br />
Totally. Normal.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1N7sxe3gOGfL7hTPH8wxUUeeHV-eU7PyTyaeLSe9MhFXRxepuuGjqfp4MetbiJ5TbBAliHWgkKAky35KuqqKLsCW15Uxek5H81FTfZCsrcayzA8oKIP14jA0o2DlIqehHpqtM8D6LnqO/s1600/SL733167.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhl1N7sxe3gOGfL7hTPH8wxUUeeHV-eU7PyTyaeLSe9MhFXRxepuuGjqfp4MetbiJ5TbBAliHWgkKAky35KuqqKLsCW15Uxek5H81FTfZCsrcayzA8oKIP14jA0o2DlIqehHpqtM8D6LnqO/s320/SL733167.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">For no reason really at all, I felt that he should be put in the corner. Maybe it was repressed memories stemming back from our childhood together or the fact that he sometimes does not return my calls or just because the wind was blowing outside. It just felt right in my soul.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxGvMePdGWi1h8EV07Qnc4I4pRP1pGpRS-G5hF-3JXH5xxYMr5RRM1JC8xGz6hdrBZFZ425-1JecTrtthZG_taxHQHIAAzaNHdxqRtJhZ0krFBHW-JAge969hURqDSxGSOqp70DR0NnRU/s1600/SL733172.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhxGvMePdGWi1h8EV07Qnc4I4pRP1pGpRS-G5hF-3JXH5xxYMr5RRM1JC8xGz6hdrBZFZ425-1JecTrtthZG_taxHQHIAAzaNHdxqRtJhZ0krFBHW-JAge969hURqDSxGSOqp70DR0NnRU/s320/SL733172.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Next, Clint gets a refreshing drink from the watering trough. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgTjY2dPnnhHt6LgIrryWEVgoh1yGIor8JpV76ViDjKVwCjM9UGn0iV2OUXY9QkQjo4yw2Y7_3RmFM3RbFsoJpzrSzwZfL-wgxEK6sxM1vcXRT6Ng8NSDukGQIO4JlVc975EU-OPbGMhK/s1600/SL733183.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTgTjY2dPnnhHt6LgIrryWEVgoh1yGIor8JpV76ViDjKVwCjM9UGn0iV2OUXY9QkQjo4yw2Y7_3RmFM3RbFsoJpzrSzwZfL-wgxEK6sxM1vcXRT6Ng8NSDukGQIO4JlVc975EU-OPbGMhK/s320/SL733183.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">We visited an old cemetery down the road and came across some headstones from the early 1500's. Or maybe they were from the 1600's? Eh. What's being off by 100 years when it was a bazillion years ago either way? </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJVwHJbvcyYrdUiBvAc9-azKqg-nO6QW9NSJsE_OVa_OXecfNRbHaagGWusN6_9L7TGEAT1cdbSqJu4RwK46GI38c5BMwI01FflLKE532jw8b2sA5Fj8mQfXNwSvrbf3X9T79TcLCAd9d/s1600/SL733205.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNJVwHJbvcyYrdUiBvAc9-azKqg-nO6QW9NSJsE_OVa_OXecfNRbHaagGWusN6_9L7TGEAT1cdbSqJu4RwK46GI38c5BMwI01FflLKE532jw8b2sA5Fj8mQfXNwSvrbf3X9T79TcLCAd9d/s320/SL733205.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">I took many, many more pictures of headstones but I will spare you. The intricate details were beautiful, though. Early settlers took dying seriously. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgteunnUXd5u2rsqvRE5iKIByesSkMxKEtAAvVo6SXy18liKf0r6y7nQdhFyOq054_ZeraX0f4XwwnLHfgrvuldeFAqdp72QI0GBM9kVoK1E_S0r2abPtCMhLLHVxGj6Vd5T4b7RzvhC7yw/s1600/SL733207.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgteunnUXd5u2rsqvRE5iKIByesSkMxKEtAAvVo6SXy18liKf0r6y7nQdhFyOq054_ZeraX0f4XwwnLHfgrvuldeFAqdp72QI0GBM9kVoK1E_S0r2abPtCMhLLHVxGj6Vd5T4b7RzvhC7yw/s320/SL733207.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Here I took in a beautiful florida sunset while celebrating my friends' long awaited nuptials. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT4Zmhp9YLnhiUjFT27V1dVBhqDDCz8rsw6dFr1ZvyahyphenhyphendTDmvQNX0tciAVDRc4IXDOsQOeYRJrdW7L1hCMnZfD6JO7OqVVKMd7K5fKXhjA-5OW0lZBGrAjQ75Dod4TCnVY8Boaeuzy1iz/s1600/SL733253.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT4Zmhp9YLnhiUjFT27V1dVBhqDDCz8rsw6dFr1ZvyahyphenhyphendTDmvQNX0tciAVDRc4IXDOsQOeYRJrdW7L1hCMnZfD6JO7OqVVKMd7K5fKXhjA-5OW0lZBGrAjQ75Dod4TCnVY8Boaeuzy1iz/s320/SL733253.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">... And here is my friend putting her husband in a Twister Simulator at the local mall. It was the best $2 investment of her life.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq5YCoDOxCWVeEnVXbT8DNdtVnDw5ZnAtH1rMy_k9RWcOgn-Itda2YmU9o56coDXTd_By0Aq2LIx1tFYpiNVKXeEPXjZSmQ0K9SoFNI2NIZW-beS0XaklfcMwOHSAA9tCSwRMX_mSdo5ES/s1600/SL733226.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhq5YCoDOxCWVeEnVXbT8DNdtVnDw5ZnAtH1rMy_k9RWcOgn-Itda2YmU9o56coDXTd_By0Aq2LIx1tFYpiNVKXeEPXjZSmQ0K9SoFNI2NIZW-beS0XaklfcMwOHSAA9tCSwRMX_mSdo5ES/s320/SL733226.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">You all come back now, ya hear?</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRluDKIhyphenhyphenyKt3SFaIfK9QULDB_hAKa3RBA4QAmEO5PleHUu7BvzUc3IPjn7mA1c8ISKD-p1R5KOzM9glmt9f-Rng1ZcGFF6_xbNsf977VlizaXyFFNafsIxDS3TrNXhCl_WOY3mSrsaxnY/s1600/SL733104.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRluDKIhyphenhyphenyKt3SFaIfK9QULDB_hAKa3RBA4QAmEO5PleHUu7BvzUc3IPjn7mA1c8ISKD-p1R5KOzM9glmt9f-Rng1ZcGFF6_xbNsf977VlizaXyFFNafsIxDS3TrNXhCl_WOY3mSrsaxnY/s320/SL733104.JPG" width="320" /></a></div></div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-56186405945919922482011-07-01T06:47:00.000-07:002011-07-01T06:58:08.033-07:00Sowy.Sowy. It's been about a month since I last wrote which means that you have already cut me out of your will. And that's appropriate because sometimes, I just cannot keep up with your demands. All one of you.<br />
<br />
You should know a few things about my day today:<br />
<br />
1) I love the sweater I'm wearing. It is a pleasant color blue, it's from Target, it's soft and smells great because I hosed myself down with perfume this morning. However, if I sweat or even think of glistening, it shrivels and darkens to a degree that's embarrassing and makes me want to hide in my office bathroom. But, I love my sweater. So today I will keep my arms plastered to my side and wave only from the elbow. And if I happened to be roped into performing the YMCA song today, I will demand that I be the "A"(the gay fireman?) because I can still maintain my stationary elbow pose.<br />
<br />
2) You should know that my drive into work most every morning is very lovely and peaceful. That is until about 15 minutes in when black lab with no manners and a limp lies in wait for me and Cheryl to come around the bend. Then out from a ditch, he bolts out in front of my car. The first 50 times this happened, I would jam on my breaks because unlike hippies, I will break for dogs. <br />
<br />
His careless owners who have bequeathed him a red collar must know about this. It happens almost every morning right in front of their front porch. Sometimes when it's an especially close call and I have run out of Xanax, I have impassioned dialog in my car going over just what I would say to his owners if I were ever to knock on their door in a fit of anger. I can be a completely unreasonable and a total jerk in my head.<br />
<br />
However, past experience has told me that whatever profane dialog I had practiced prior to would come out something along the lines of, "Hello there! Would you kindly keep your doggie inside between the hours of 8:30-9:00 Monday through Friday. Okay? Love your flower garden! Would you like a sandwich?"<br />
<br />
I'm turning into one of the sheep. Always consternated and skittish. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Happy July 4rth weekend, Friends!</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCYf3BYrIFTmnpj6LCLG4P8tHYwqxz2THyKTrrvYZMA5UoOxq5ZhDziPxvkx3qzuLMI6sgxG2UZaGZFdL7RqjRGw0rkG8RqQ154cID5EewW12H08i7p5mvWwgw97zLn4QM5sAzL-ovKpP5/s1600/SL732870.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCYf3BYrIFTmnpj6LCLG4P8tHYwqxz2THyKTrrvYZMA5UoOxq5ZhDziPxvkx3qzuLMI6sgxG2UZaGZFdL7RqjRGw0rkG8RqQ154cID5EewW12H08i7p5mvWwgw97zLn4QM5sAzL-ovKpP5/s320/SL732870.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-18638934107934979402011-06-10T07:36:00.000-07:002011-06-16T10:24:39.267-07:00Snappy Times<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Hello, again. It seems as if my brain is taking a writing hiatus. I hope you don't mind. One day I'll have thoughts again and will tell you about them. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For now, these are snappy times.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlk5yhtux7jeFVqk5N2HyTrliiXoCt1pKTEctkj-051ar9Bg2tph4mhJzEA8pvEW8Bk_yZushlF5rM3SCI7Vi4tpT7YGsXDLaRCd67Qkca5RoZivgChXutiKMhg8UMWoeOJIyTw0un_bk/s1600/SL733001.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitlk5yhtux7jeFVqk5N2HyTrliiXoCt1pKTEctkj-051ar9Bg2tph4mhJzEA8pvEW8Bk_yZushlF5rM3SCI7Vi4tpT7YGsXDLaRCd67Qkca5RoZivgChXutiKMhg8UMWoeOJIyTw0un_bk/s320/SL733001.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-p8bGX8_OxqPWL0DvciI3EISuRjNQDCg9TyKBEQS6Knd0sEX6kQhmd23pkSOeGewJcnYvO2altK9dg-rV89J9fVdG4Fhtu6ptqokcaQI51TFKVfg8ihvjxMMgLtnqEpuPZmAJVqWxr2-B/s1600/SL733002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-p8bGX8_OxqPWL0DvciI3EISuRjNQDCg9TyKBEQS6Knd0sEX6kQhmd23pkSOeGewJcnYvO2altK9dg-rV89J9fVdG4Fhtu6ptqokcaQI51TFKVfg8ihvjxMMgLtnqEpuPZmAJVqWxr2-B/s320/SL733002.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: left;">The sheep are interested in me only when I am shaking my can. <br />
<br />
(Perverts!)<br />
<br />
But really "shaking my can" consists of an old Folgers tin filled with sweet-feed which is like crack cocaine to those sheared beasts. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">They hear me calling "Sheeps!"<br />
*shakeshakeshake*<br />
and they. come. running.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Although they don't look like a force to be reckoned with, have one of them step on your toe once and you will know what it means to fear the stampede. It isn't like they line up in single file formation either. Sheep are neither clean nor orderly. But they are cute and they let me pet them while they are eating so I will deal with a lose toenail or two. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWp4iq65ilG58T-leENJqjmR6xMEt0AsinGGB41UHcMqJ-ey6FwvFaLW1za_UdQeyFD11DsJnBJdD6cCiI1jbwN_9WkkZLijxHmEMUuFdZa7uvR-uqRRAnPfRqbq8vHBOH_x6-8bv2IHFt/s1600/SL733005.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWp4iq65ilG58T-leENJqjmR6xMEt0AsinGGB41UHcMqJ-ey6FwvFaLW1za_UdQeyFD11DsJnBJdD6cCiI1jbwN_9WkkZLijxHmEMUuFdZa7uvR-uqRRAnPfRqbq8vHBOH_x6-8bv2IHFt/s320/SL733005.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0s-0mYlwEDNFD1qCR_GcCZWCJUZ7sEA7laaCJ5FXid1jrEH1xw9CVT1WkboN5OIZRUSIUcAyA_3P5YDoaDsL5uClBxP36fAyb0_FuHPJe211jCe6W2FPoHLqMnhxIBFVuF90EuWfmCLL/s1600/SL733021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx0s-0mYlwEDNFD1qCR_GcCZWCJUZ7sEA7laaCJ5FXid1jrEH1xw9CVT1WkboN5OIZRUSIUcAyA_3P5YDoaDsL5uClBxP36fAyb0_FuHPJe211jCe6W2FPoHLqMnhxIBFVuF90EuWfmCLL/s320/SL733021.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Look at that long neck. She's a virtual Grace Kelly of the sheep world. Except that Princess Grace did not eat grass and poop where ever the urge hit her. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggEFlpT41B8oImP2cbZ8tckwK_DvDHh9LRk1xpmqssgChRraPLDXuytUT36mM-_-KZLgpr2llncVo8nPEL24GD6rnPercym2iPH0EYqLpTu6fPPH_zTfd8y0w9hW7cSmjsi0DSqRWPaERM/s1600/SL733006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggEFlpT41B8oImP2cbZ8tckwK_DvDHh9LRk1xpmqssgChRraPLDXuytUT36mM-_-KZLgpr2llncVo8nPEL24GD6rnPercym2iPH0EYqLpTu6fPPH_zTfd8y0w9hW7cSmjsi0DSqRWPaERM/s320/SL733006.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzs9la8x4Qu0F1zTS7ly_CEdxhXG1UKUsUEVPcgNjTnbmkDzYi707Q6DIlqfNftaQKcH21TVObUIZM4rJp4wq-S2yMYM-5fufbBM6C21oWYvckDQJgRNQsjEft5J-9yLWILjS0Ye-Q7Jf8/s1600/SL733008.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzs9la8x4Qu0F1zTS7ly_CEdxhXG1UKUsUEVPcgNjTnbmkDzYi707Q6DIlqfNftaQKcH21TVObUIZM4rJp4wq-S2yMYM-5fufbBM6C21oWYvckDQJgRNQsjEft5J-9yLWILjS0Ye-Q7Jf8/s320/SL733008.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Helicopter ears. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHATHLowxRYKBaEaQkVP3fGLTuhohKeylW7iqu2KDohCkBGKdjbaaTpM1onkZVnX_xS7UTxhJ7MV2g3gmp9BK_Pviskap3Mt6RDjoIkyLvCPRkx2yJF_eqeFb5whmPX_eKq4if_o2SkWP/s1600/SL733013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijHATHLowxRYKBaEaQkVP3fGLTuhohKeylW7iqu2KDohCkBGKdjbaaTpM1onkZVnX_xS7UTxhJ7MV2g3gmp9BK_Pviskap3Mt6RDjoIkyLvCPRkx2yJF_eqeFb5whmPX_eKq4if_o2SkWP/s320/SL733013.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> One of my favorite pictures to date. Pretty much sums up how sheep view personal space. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QAtv6rB14O-i1oA27oQ5cwktM5fhxjMqkxE1kMn04TXJAq7tT8FvGAj1vsalt1ZsT8op7s-pyNLGkg0PA4J4GTaGyXua3Us0dHzDQvjRkr7VpgXks_r0fA9mgypm0Noro7vnIqwcKr6i/s1600/SL733023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1QAtv6rB14O-i1oA27oQ5cwktM5fhxjMqkxE1kMn04TXJAq7tT8FvGAj1vsalt1ZsT8op7s-pyNLGkg0PA4J4GTaGyXua3Us0dHzDQvjRkr7VpgXks_r0fA9mgypm0Noro7vnIqwcKr6i/s320/SL733023.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"> They are sweet, no?!</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZyQ7DzLTxLBfLCRUFRuDuk7JkWv5YHB4YgwZjjToAi-L5sMlZMsXmm1sUC_tsq_PYFN9A21cfeCPgZq66mGIrNedU8NjflJEuYWbPvYoGBEHUpJKk4poKqxzyqzCcAPPLo3QMC-McTUWk/s1600/SL733028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZyQ7DzLTxLBfLCRUFRuDuk7JkWv5YHB4YgwZjjToAi-L5sMlZMsXmm1sUC_tsq_PYFN9A21cfeCPgZq66mGIrNedU8NjflJEuYWbPvYoGBEHUpJKk4poKqxzyqzCcAPPLo3QMC-McTUWk/s320/SL733028.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> And mildly suspicious.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3g11_SW3sdgdXzCrlcOVGtV5cXxPJirVQft8yTbHZZZX-MMZL_tJwpGNdqXSufTdmj-W921K1Z1W4HEwpR8SSjLMRYewHxaU946o_vCn1fJMMezpPbBWdciGH8FW-T21DEG4VOmA-UNP4/s1600/SL733029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3g11_SW3sdgdXzCrlcOVGtV5cXxPJirVQft8yTbHZZZX-MMZL_tJwpGNdqXSufTdmj-W921K1Z1W4HEwpR8SSjLMRYewHxaU946o_vCn1fJMMezpPbBWdciGH8FW-T21DEG4VOmA-UNP4/s320/SL733029.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">My name is Blossom. Nice to meet you.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCLyJziKtJXvec9ty-_0XdJ6JZicSzwNRoiVDf1t608s4g2n9ZYrBylHWZIcpdUn5je8ij_9D_apjDGEB8-qphHSnZNMfVh7guDryb_m6gYZiOwA-Os-mKnscdDH-zA1gSidoje6EqExf/s1600/SL733033.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCLyJziKtJXvec9ty-_0XdJ6JZicSzwNRoiVDf1t608s4g2n9ZYrBylHWZIcpdUn5je8ij_9D_apjDGEB8-qphHSnZNMfVh7guDryb_m6gYZiOwA-Os-mKnscdDH-zA1gSidoje6EqExf/s320/SL733033.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUamOSBZnq61ZbFq_0l-dtCfMqiEMGO7_RsuWY8vn2XE7yOSOXBNOQuOC8x_UQoUNetfpbOiqCHk4fJywuGhU6b6OUrrG83O4GoRVhH09M8ZecSxV2TIcnuWfPVqe5yGqPZxtw0ltRu9EM/s1600/SL733037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUamOSBZnq61ZbFq_0l-dtCfMqiEMGO7_RsuWY8vn2XE7yOSOXBNOQuOC8x_UQoUNetfpbOiqCHk4fJywuGhU6b6OUrrG83O4GoRVhH09M8ZecSxV2TIcnuWfPVqe5yGqPZxtw0ltRu9EM/s320/SL733037.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7MdzM7opcIxFSbN86qjdYPc5X4aY83W_zHLZt8QtjKRq1ixmmi-Q6Iv-eq7tUS32xJUcEnPIIvytFCMG28SJMM04x_2_vXmw9lhgIRUvr4TGO9XyWxv8Fz-FvWFMDzbJcep0bE_gjM_G/s1600/SL733040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe7MdzM7opcIxFSbN86qjdYPc5X4aY83W_zHLZt8QtjKRq1ixmmi-Q6Iv-eq7tUS32xJUcEnPIIvytFCMG28SJMM04x_2_vXmw9lhgIRUvr4TGO9XyWxv8Fz-FvWFMDzbJcep0bE_gjM_G/s320/SL733040.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: left;">In case you've gotten to this point and muttered out loud to yourself, "I wonder how those baby ducks are doing?" I have some answers for you. As of this morning, we are down to 2 when we started with 6. I have some theories about this, reader. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Our "baby ducks" are really closer to being pre-teens now. And we all know how terrible pre-teens are. Maybe it got to be too much having them around eating up all the bugs, Wonder Bread scraps or gluten free bagels that tasted terrible and grew mold in exactly 3 days from the date of purchase. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">Perhaps they were sent off to boarding school,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Or sent down to the pond to be with the guys,</div><div style="text-align: left;">Or just maybe we have a fox. </div><div style="text-align: left;">And Charlie is sleeping on the job.</div><div style="text-align: left;">Again.</div><div style="text-align: left;">And every other day that ends in "y".</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">It's a reality of caring for animals that are not under your constant watchful eye. I would bring them inside but they do not care for the human variety.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Happier [less dead] times.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCSGQgQ1kyy_H6mZSFP-teDLrhlLaGJuBkmnExsWFc3kNUX69hJ0j_BdNaJ2Zm8ipylC1ZIEG4zSTNjRHNP2YFGU0p4sGuS3VYQQkIdrJN8TqOnb35Q6rdTObNepBBCthvYlGPZFJsZ8jE/s1600/SL733048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCSGQgQ1kyy_H6mZSFP-teDLrhlLaGJuBkmnExsWFc3kNUX69hJ0j_BdNaJ2Zm8ipylC1ZIEG4zSTNjRHNP2YFGU0p4sGuS3VYQQkIdrJN8TqOnb35Q6rdTObNepBBCthvYlGPZFJsZ8jE/s320/SL733048.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-57246292068446083672011-05-31T06:56:00.000-07:002011-06-02T06:55:54.688-07:00Take a walk with me...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Last Saturday, I got off my duff and took a walk around the farm. It was 75 degrees and sunny which makes it a virtual crime to stay in doors. I would have liked to take you with me but you were all busy. I know because I peeked in your windows. You all are impeccable house-keepers. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Come along with me...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfOiJwtKhgCgoGTen6c6wSwm00m0koZNHU_-D1EW_3f3LgMQ3eWe1CLJvpmeUWv3OnR-Sx9oh6h3z6t39w0FqhKkn_2cxAs4SR6nIhYINqjg04FAUeoRRKib5tCOISOTZBJENhvQWYURD/s1600/SL732920.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfOiJwtKhgCgoGTen6c6wSwm00m0koZNHU_-D1EW_3f3LgMQ3eWe1CLJvpmeUWv3OnR-Sx9oh6h3z6t39w0FqhKkn_2cxAs4SR6nIhYINqjg04FAUeoRRKib5tCOISOTZBJENhvQWYURD/s320/SL732920.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">For whatever reason, I always feel like I should provide commentary on every picture but that is not always necessary. Plus, you might be tired of my snarkiness. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">So, here's some fence posts that are covered in what appears to be green scabs. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_uMlNBPxvJcaxtuU-Mlg3IQuy9ZUp9PXGT1t9qurJfRvCUkjNyrMzNI9h1jugVZMEBMHu4PZaOWnhyphenhyphenLZ0I90WyoJONC253uR8siEFH_YmbqAfbtldqa37gviE4cL17_aeY7ILzqykzEqW/s1600/SL732902.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_uMlNBPxvJcaxtuU-Mlg3IQuy9ZUp9PXGT1t9qurJfRvCUkjNyrMzNI9h1jugVZMEBMHu4PZaOWnhyphenhyphenLZ0I90WyoJONC253uR8siEFH_YmbqAfbtldqa37gviE4cL17_aeY7ILzqykzEqW/s320/SL732902.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoebyM3vQEb6avCJFP7uh_LWDjWTigOiZxENH5_nQmTNi7Z07PsoGI6ObSIAqE5vGrV2N4IllO_8C8kB71Navv11Y8vUNorENN2Xd7FJzuyQGAz73tUJC12hYEcTS8O6GkIO5dtmvYS-xs/s1600/SL732921.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4DndKlyZLPG8NXdfyCth-EevrHzyw-Xmvu99pYNCdV26h_vd-uVSqeRnFgGAWNg6UxoMZ9pV2K6J_PJMBgfUI3FsMnyGMPRg4Z_Zs8hU8CmsPiGc4lOdF39H7ak8Fz9QJ_CoyMOuBWVn0/s1600/SL732880.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4DndKlyZLPG8NXdfyCth-EevrHzyw-Xmvu99pYNCdV26h_vd-uVSqeRnFgGAWNg6UxoMZ9pV2K6J_PJMBgfUI3FsMnyGMPRg4Z_Zs8hU8CmsPiGc4lOdF39H7ak8Fz9QJ_CoyMOuBWVn0/s320/SL732880.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Cows are in a constant state of panic. For really no reason at all.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5gBy8uToyCU9nUE3BD-Ud9gTARzBmDM83_fQwH9722I9UPlvw8sD5p_WN0z_WkBiUZ5hdKL4Re2R2MEfWIvx2xUEdvFMyUDvKSM9I9l-gpmJp0c_COheYHmpfR9LEMbk5kmqnZH0t2OU/s1600/SL732914.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgx5gBy8uToyCU9nUE3BD-Ud9gTARzBmDM83_fQwH9722I9UPlvw8sD5p_WN0z_WkBiUZ5hdKL4Re2R2MEfWIvx2xUEdvFMyUDvKSM9I9l-gpmJp0c_COheYHmpfR9LEMbk5kmqnZH0t2OU/s320/SL732914.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Oh, looky. An outhouse. How convenient after a long walk. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4l5HmRu7SShPv6qtrIJFxkvdav0yETT68jyUeQhp4Z4ybv7tJYdjqT_yVyhctB2-pm0wiksUdxux3mfFPqPPhYuxD5_0Atj1Oz2rAbiLzBdxf3T9iqsxRyLM71K773FL7AnYmOwo1VuZ/s1600/SL732922.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM4l5HmRu7SShPv6qtrIJFxkvdav0yETT68jyUeQhp4Z4ybv7tJYdjqT_yVyhctB2-pm0wiksUdxux3mfFPqPPhYuxD5_0Atj1Oz2rAbiLzBdxf3T9iqsxRyLM71K773FL7AnYmOwo1VuZ/s320/SL732922.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Don't mind if I doo. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAih2VO7eaFlKq09qgg7iQkQhhmIYJdKsRb0Q_MNMNK0qX9DIkiuRPagtmRP2P9Pd19N5VRbV1Iat7A1stVkUnkLj0auC4VWvFxASGXDqr_8dxKbwxsnZy4U9iEdIiocYHc5ZS1FFEUgi/s1600/SL732927.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAih2VO7eaFlKq09qgg7iQkQhhmIYJdKsRb0Q_MNMNK0qX9DIkiuRPagtmRP2P9Pd19N5VRbV1Iat7A1stVkUnkLj0auC4VWvFxASGXDqr_8dxKbwxsnZy4U9iEdIiocYHc5ZS1FFEUgi/s320/SL732927.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"> That must have hurt. Don't ask me why people were eating shoes back in the early 1900's. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpOscHWkIzfCG0hddHwWis5cj-9seD3XElBjc4Psm1HtRxyANtzrw6sj-phuxlieZQ9tkjyjYOdkGOe2N8om7aM_TY1GFI67H4cVL3F1KBZk-rYQkDk54sKjZtDPFM-4iyEWRGKQkYfqRI/s1600/SL732926.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpOscHWkIzfCG0hddHwWis5cj-9seD3XElBjc4Psm1HtRxyANtzrw6sj-phuxlieZQ9tkjyjYOdkGOe2N8om7aM_TY1GFI67H4cVL3F1KBZk-rYQkDk54sKjZtDPFM-4iyEWRGKQkYfqRI/s320/SL732926.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Moving on...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Next stop, an old schoolhouse on the outskirts of the property. I know a lot about school because I was in for a very, very long time. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Just ask Sallie <i>freaking</i> Mae. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">I am researching the origin of this early 1900's schoolhouse so I hope to be able to update you at some point. For now, I've been instructed to talk to the neighbors to my left and the lady at the post office down the road for more information. However, it's fun to imagine what may have taken place during that time period... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span id="goog_609979305"></span><span id="goog_609979306"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirS3mHCv6NXV__N_IYfQUoL8LLnbBN2ViFPpZrxpyKk89M4_CVRNCr740ZOW6jpaVBc76AMS_Xwmu3Koz7hhaidoPsLeDOTvHCkRCd0EIy_fRte2UHzNiWe07gleahP141lMYJCVvXz7Vu/s1600/SL732929.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirS3mHCv6NXV__N_IYfQUoL8LLnbBN2ViFPpZrxpyKk89M4_CVRNCr740ZOW6jpaVBc76AMS_Xwmu3Koz7hhaidoPsLeDOTvHCkRCd0EIy_fRte2UHzNiWe07gleahP141lMYJCVvXz7Vu/s320/SL732929.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">The inside of the school house. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-l9FVDiVTr_0phnGwJ1LzYVAiU-lW11OYfu8zBJtfMXE1vL5Ex0-6VxIjSQSvlDpH1QZc7Z3o3SJhoGj9uwb6QrV8sGWtSH2rEE7tSe4T-CvCi1GFuAXqwuHsbrAvdu1Utv_kfvQxWF4n/s1600/SL732934.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-l9FVDiVTr_0phnGwJ1LzYVAiU-lW11OYfu8zBJtfMXE1vL5Ex0-6VxIjSQSvlDpH1QZc7Z3o3SJhoGj9uwb6QrV8sGWtSH2rEE7tSe4T-CvCi1GFuAXqwuHsbrAvdu1Utv_kfvQxWF4n/s320/SL732934.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Imagine all the lessons that were written on that board or the many noses that were pressed up in the corner...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih9sr5qK84WEQlZHK7A8ppB3SQthr5pQFEKo5pssLYVe3sObDACsuM_YM2NBwBq1lb-dMBX1VlAELPlpWXSDlRvd2xKNF8ytOSxv2wo_BP-E2JMeJlNhBLTjqyGJiEHBWRlI6wUkknxx2F/s1600/SL732937.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih9sr5qK84WEQlZHK7A8ppB3SQthr5pQFEKo5pssLYVe3sObDACsuM_YM2NBwBq1lb-dMBX1VlAELPlpWXSDlRvd2xKNF8ytOSxv2wo_BP-E2JMeJlNhBLTjqyGJiEHBWRlI6wUkknxx2F/s320/SL732937.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">As a little girl, I wanted to be a school teacher. My brother, mother and who ever else would give me the time of day were my semi-cooperative pupils. I won't say I didn't yell at them or give them big red "F's" on their worksheets. I was tough, but fair. Mainly, I was just bossy.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ4Ye2zjO1JUtTpTO_lg4lZp2M5hI1Gtzye7Wjmhq8QohHlM0PA9Jpo2vTss1MYBxjrysKWATOqHTICrkV6U-UJnYULmKCGCd26ZTyKeQYHdxvl-kWi1bmE25ZJbC_kFqrcT_7XNRP55KR/s1600/SL732946.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ4Ye2zjO1JUtTpTO_lg4lZp2M5hI1Gtzye7Wjmhq8QohHlM0PA9Jpo2vTss1MYBxjrysKWATOqHTICrkV6U-UJnYULmKCGCd26ZTyKeQYHdxvl-kWi1bmE25ZJbC_kFqrcT_7XNRP55KR/s320/SL732946.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Well, I'm exhausted. How about you? Let's go. While on the way, let's take a picture of the cotton ball clouds. Sorry if I am excited about the most mundane of objects. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAVfZ3WbKMU4WekZ2rMMnpvvyPfXFtKBzEshgxGdXBQLxfLUWi0OpuYtu2tZKoqnY_jOecYV8FCIkM0Qy8cdHh-bpkjC1bn2c210b1YgP3NuEN71a7xQPzvze8k-NeC9a0SNOB67NeIsD/s1600/SL732984.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="246" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOAVfZ3WbKMU4WekZ2rMMnpvvyPfXFtKBzEshgxGdXBQLxfLUWi0OpuYtu2tZKoqnY_jOecYV8FCIkM0Qy8cdHh-bpkjC1bn2c210b1YgP3NuEN71a7xQPzvze8k-NeC9a0SNOB67NeIsD/s320/SL732984.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">Almost home. Calves. Burning.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR68qfmF5gLonsXzy1-NNM6kkBoNgoAUQ196Qm271Y_eBZ38D3pUdrwbdb_i8dQ084EYf8GooJUR26hcdqwiKw5GE375RbnFug9ISA8bKLKrCryRw2HTq9K-F-BBGdeeYXlPDog7W-H0_V/s1600/SL732994.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgR68qfmF5gLonsXzy1-NNM6kkBoNgoAUQ196Qm271Y_eBZ38D3pUdrwbdb_i8dQ084EYf8GooJUR26hcdqwiKw5GE375RbnFug9ISA8bKLKrCryRw2HTq9K-F-BBGdeeYXlPDog7W-H0_V/s320/SL732994.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Thanks for coming along with me. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Coming soon, the story of my crazy neighbors. Literally. </div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-66580053987313786272011-05-20T06:51:00.000-07:002011-05-20T08:52:07.406-07:00Nekkid<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Montana holds the official title of "Big sky country" but I'm pretty sure West Virginia is its kissing cousin. Please take a moment to revel in the subtle inference of incest. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">These things come to me in flashes of brilliance.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">I hope to show you one day what I mean by "big sky" but my camera has been around for years and is very, very tired. Its shutter speed is such that the object I intend on capturing on film will have graduated college, gotten married and moved cross country before their image registers. In other words, the ideal subjects for this rattle-trap Nikon are stationary items like statues, buildings and old people.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes. Because of the big sky panoramic views, I am able to forecast inclement weather days in advance. Well, not days <i>per se</i>. It sure feels like it. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">Here is a shot of a storm rolling through the other evening. In the background are Quincy and Winnie being regal. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr8T7onA7UntLp_ehz3nSWyKrTKyRgMnKgWYQf46jHBX_8gGvvE-6xRImqmgbpU8LnOWmJ-oE_-hJ4TeO0S8kSTFRsHcEZpn5vJwJaWgklR7QwcbW8CsTbBOG7RbOT-20ULJUzMF85Y8Gm/s1600/SL732825.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr8T7onA7UntLp_ehz3nSWyKrTKyRgMnKgWYQf46jHBX_8gGvvE-6xRImqmgbpU8LnOWmJ-oE_-hJ4TeO0S8kSTFRsHcEZpn5vJwJaWgklR7QwcbW8CsTbBOG7RbOT-20ULJUzMF85Y8Gm/s320/SL732825.JPG" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcyYStTQt4Z0h8PNSIrt1nqxq56E7ByhYtlb0uR-04ze31mCrTSrgtcbG32IUoYYzSTwrNs6_MoYrqvUauzhyk_sflRglOIAWceOlXY-3pbIYSYfAgr8ZBAorRsg59ODFsbV_jGz6Nxhxp/s1600/SL732834.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcyYStTQt4Z0h8PNSIrt1nqxq56E7ByhYtlb0uR-04ze31mCrTSrgtcbG32IUoYYzSTwrNs6_MoYrqvUauzhyk_sflRglOIAWceOlXY-3pbIYSYfAgr8ZBAorRsg59ODFsbV_jGz6Nxhxp/s320/SL732834.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>The sheep were kept in the barn or "jug" overnight while this weather system moved through because they were getting their hair done cut off the very next morning. Wet wool is apparently brutal on electric shearers. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">The close quarters caused much consternation amongst the community. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zj64hLqNj-u73MZ4zS-LDGUh03P_ZBk1IvMAFpKJjsZAXO_qcOkPzhGiMSI1y7TVcnb4osXhzeJR9neZPEG6hay7gFW65yCE_-uuouKE9fGtZAKtUFr7TUS9ZAYEPdZgzftyvMvt95v4/s1600/SL732835.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8zj64hLqNj-u73MZ4zS-LDGUh03P_ZBk1IvMAFpKJjsZAXO_qcOkPzhGiMSI1y7TVcnb4osXhzeJR9neZPEG6hay7gFW65yCE_-uuouKE9fGtZAKtUFr7TUS9ZAYEPdZgzftyvMvt95v4/s320/SL732835.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Say wa? You say this Jerry Curl is coming off?" </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8NpWRuuFutrA3TCtdExpOlkk3jJQ8PcPXcNw9jTwUzGgWBeeofEjr870NIhgpx3IvImddcB362sdcK8VwNHgX4pOMVO81-NoZ3GLELjY-KE19jhw9nySvkCc6CxptNJiv8E-Sugv4zxZ/s1600/SL732838.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEht8NpWRuuFutrA3TCtdExpOlkk3jJQ8PcPXcNw9jTwUzGgWBeeofEjr870NIhgpx3IvImddcB362sdcK8VwNHgX4pOMVO81-NoZ3GLELjY-KE19jhw9nySvkCc6CxptNJiv8E-Sugv4zxZ/s320/SL732838.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">This guy is always consternated. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmOOpQa3nOl-SIBD8QYdFnSmXUvzHEeTmKbSzSeFxaJG6H33gK07zxAbxLb0WBZRU8SkzwF4p2qW7PPGCuEHuotkj35LBWdnRToVvDhuZqWeWdAVS2NQcs2HYrHR6EmDInizO3gre5rSrh/s1600/SL732837.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmOOpQa3nOl-SIBD8QYdFnSmXUvzHEeTmKbSzSeFxaJG6H33gK07zxAbxLb0WBZRU8SkzwF4p2qW7PPGCuEHuotkj35LBWdnRToVvDhuZqWeWdAVS2NQcs2HYrHR6EmDInizO3gre5rSrh/s320/SL732837.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;">At 9:00 the next morning, we had a professional sheep shearer come out the farm and strip these guys nekkid. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">You should know right off the bat that sheep love being on their backs and even more then that, they love loud tools that hover a mere millimeter from their flesh. <br />
<br />
Look at how relaxed this guy is? He's LOVING it.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGMzWHvzqR7WtlK5lyedjQPQXWwABPFhHYiJ9uRjSXJm57r4B2qNbIEWAF4zkUIoBqhbzyyLxYoyJ-xDrhiYlsz7uJ5tfY8lNOyih8R3mjDfO3EdB-Mv3HtaAlr8ut1-EqcKonxpT_q2o8/s1600/SL732857.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGMzWHvzqR7WtlK5lyedjQPQXWwABPFhHYiJ9uRjSXJm57r4B2qNbIEWAF4zkUIoBqhbzyyLxYoyJ-xDrhiYlsz7uJ5tfY8lNOyih8R3mjDfO3EdB-Mv3HtaAlr8ut1-EqcKonxpT_q2o8/s320/SL732857.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">"Fa-la-te-da"</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtgNQOs-sGUp80zLdglNEVF_KT2PbnIzG85iz2bsMpE9Jm5KBeQYb1idWYKOLYbfKtpobwyG4gkIKuc0MfCblMXPQk51TT34sq391O7-tXDIdftAbYWqK6VpfrGhdJNDgeBlpoINmEMGD/s1600/SL732858.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAtgNQOs-sGUp80zLdglNEVF_KT2PbnIzG85iz2bsMpE9Jm5KBeQYb1idWYKOLYbfKtpobwyG4gkIKuc0MfCblMXPQk51TT34sq391O7-tXDIdftAbYWqK6VpfrGhdJNDgeBlpoINmEMGD/s320/SL732858.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">And just in time for summer, Leila gets a bikini trim.<br />
(sorry, I know that's unsavory but I couldn't help myself)</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBkkcCb0KtlynXRX7k3hSMf41HJgz8SC-HI-jJxr17Ocg2rXLMglObZuzkr8mDcGmsW2VLESkLMBDoCKZ9Zq0KCtue24v7D9P9FklNnpN5n-NuNLOKAe7M05M8SbkSMc3AUREfOGYeDIH/s1600/SL732847.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKBkkcCb0KtlynXRX7k3hSMf41HJgz8SC-HI-jJxr17Ocg2rXLMglObZuzkr8mDcGmsW2VLESkLMBDoCKZ9Zq0KCtue24v7D9P9FklNnpN5n-NuNLOKAe7M05M8SbkSMc3AUREfOGYeDIH/s320/SL732847.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Going,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAnGMG_x1-KIV74m1cb5yn-7JTSjUaVQQ2Hd3L10xaHR8nRhxtL8PrAPqyNRw3-hZ_hocD8u-nY4IiiNawzi7IEn_btmoMh7HFPCOciumG1hE1TH0V9tGvnaidA86frWfnSK1uI5zeg7lU/s1600/SL732852.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAnGMG_x1-KIV74m1cb5yn-7JTSjUaVQQ2Hd3L10xaHR8nRhxtL8PrAPqyNRw3-hZ_hocD8u-nY4IiiNawzi7IEn_btmoMh7HFPCOciumG1hE1TH0V9tGvnaidA86frWfnSK1uI5zeg7lU/s320/SL732852.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">going...</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9BO2OWvxexIX0GtqcfQ7oLKAifD71mr4MVneH03Zb7afoE0rSUwsit40PA228AnoWdO1gC_6e0CmKi1bV9RMicVjMXqoyJPEZ4bGVYEA5wji1ki0rM0smNx8ZLXl5AQdA4V0tmtmoTIf0/s1600/SL732853.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9BO2OWvxexIX0GtqcfQ7oLKAifD71mr4MVneH03Zb7afoE0rSUwsit40PA228AnoWdO1gC_6e0CmKi1bV9RMicVjMXqoyJPEZ4bGVYEA5wji1ki0rM0smNx8ZLXl5AQdA4V0tmtmoTIf0/s320/SL732853.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"> gone.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPeq0Myq-DWjDWlnd_02SAuufL0MDVGDgVl9hg1lL2Mq-qkfMBkLAdPFEvTGrIZZE6kZD0BMQMB3NER3w1nclm-GKBPxU5sgk3-1R_Wi2H1WqK5Ty8QYy0AVLveymoYW2yX3OYqLjg2ikM/s1600/SL732854.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPeq0Myq-DWjDWlnd_02SAuufL0MDVGDgVl9hg1lL2Mq-qkfMBkLAdPFEvTGrIZZE6kZD0BMQMB3NER3w1nclm-GKBPxU5sgk3-1R_Wi2H1WqK5Ty8QYy0AVLveymoYW2yX3OYqLjg2ikM/s320/SL732854.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Coming soon to a mailbox near you, Lands' End Winter Fleece collection 2012.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-67165665390806858382011-05-13T14:16:00.000-07:002011-05-14T08:30:28.880-07:00Meet the Neighbors<div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oh boy, oh boy! I don't even know where to start. At this juncture in my life, I had imagined I would be living in downtown Chicago with a few kids, a husband, a mortgage and a cute lawn boy to look at because I married for money and not for looks. And because this was birthed from my squirrelly imagination, yes, I would have a lawn in downtown Chicago. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Of course. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">That is why I feel so very blessed that life would throw me this country bone... </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: large;">Welcome to el Farm</span></i><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifawVZ-pPUvZUQ_GuH0WFYiu7gy5rVB23RHLHuhFNy5_EmIkYMM12C0G0Uy4Aem7t5bXd7494F4yyWLSLQltBetLjBqF-UIfkXdRl3bMXnxJN2ruGNMqDfCZdh0TXl9VGBAuSOo7O5RY0S/s1600/SL732706.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifawVZ-pPUvZUQ_GuH0WFYiu7gy5rVB23RHLHuhFNy5_EmIkYMM12C0G0Uy4Aem7t5bXd7494F4yyWLSLQltBetLjBqF-UIfkXdRl3bMXnxJN2ruGNMqDfCZdh0TXl9VGBAuSOo7O5RY0S/s320/SL732706.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">In the evening when I'm driving home from work is when it hits me. There are no lights, pedestrians (yuck) or traffic jams. The only time I get held up is when a neighbor cow stands in the middle of the road and gives me a brown stink eye. I do not mind cow stink eyes because they are big and brown and sweet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well, without further adieu, let me introduce you to some of my friends... </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">First up, the Bell of the Ball, Charlie or Chaaaarles as I call him. Charles sheep-sits for a living. Say that 5 times fast, please.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here he is practicing yoga. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzxvniAZTiDmp-k5neO_J0jGYcjFqeVLTkX58QCU5D2SEQrqezDLyL5DzdL7edm-WyUG8SZDLW8PLWa0QUngrfQGSAvZgi1li_18wsaN8eBRkpJfJWjB4O_NS2k2AanNAGjPt7rKCRIaa/s1600/SL732638.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLzxvniAZTiDmp-k5neO_J0jGYcjFqeVLTkX58QCU5D2SEQrqezDLyL5DzdL7edm-WyUG8SZDLW8PLWa0QUngrfQGSAvZgi1li_18wsaN8eBRkpJfJWjB4O_NS2k2AanNAGjPt7rKCRIaa/s320/SL732638.JPG" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Here Charles is napping on the job while sheep are being mangled by neighboring coyotes. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzfmP0TimovgcWDU97cLCXJ_ZaJqRbIu6w7bTDSMMKaNC7D9V7ZZWjIekN9hvfKDCb1EH9K-oy39lS9cOwvK6Sdtuta-faUTccH1Hzk-5JRNeYnPtHnhDMzy6fW7XWhI2yn635Cq5Rtm0/s1600/SL732639.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrzfmP0TimovgcWDU97cLCXJ_ZaJqRbIu6w7bTDSMMKaNC7D9V7ZZWjIekN9hvfKDCb1EH9K-oy39lS9cOwvK6Sdtuta-faUTccH1Hzk-5JRNeYnPtHnhDMzy6fW7XWhI2yn635Cq5Rtm0/s320/SL732639.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Does he care? I don't think so. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEgHK1FNySUZgN6ZXt1tVmxhm7QV_8np0KWoSFQu2sa_XDX66Bpk5jyv3587J8f_-lz1lihQjfQqzVE7Nj8XHrHSFyxyOos5nEp73cTSRQ1jpV0f6pecdGFTa4PwG1aScrVLg7URhBMwzO/s1600/SL732636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEgHK1FNySUZgN6ZXt1tVmxhm7QV_8np0KWoSFQu2sa_XDX66Bpk5jyv3587J8f_-lz1lihQjfQqzVE7Nj8XHrHSFyxyOos5nEp73cTSRQ1jpV0f6pecdGFTa4PwG1aScrVLg7URhBMwzO/s320/SL732636.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Honestly, are there any other creatures on earth as endearing as sheep with their bulbous bodies propped up by match-stick legs? It was like God was running out of ideas by the fifth day of creation.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Everyone, meet Oliver. </span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Oliver, meet my friends. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvnCgwRLyd5u_oMESiTqXnQ3fBQWX48gVq227fQ7e9WPBhVdObzSZRQ7JZqWBGXXTTvd1yyueXj_bLTbZNgZs401jiw6egrCs3dZbO3AX_IVp59verwhHin1eeVKhZlatw733t7bFdzrl/s1600/SL732644.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtvnCgwRLyd5u_oMESiTqXnQ3fBQWX48gVq227fQ7e9WPBhVdObzSZRQ7JZqWBGXXTTvd1yyueXj_bLTbZNgZs401jiw6egrCs3dZbO3AX_IVp59verwhHin1eeVKhZlatw733t7bFdzrl/s320/SL732644.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">(This guy has a story but I'll save that for another day)</span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Sheep buns. They are cute, but trust me, you don't want any part of it. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCIO1sr1HY0MdIeMluLYsFfwyTwcdhJln220zhDnvx23N46nr0fM3dgFlt-Z2uvJ440tPm_yR7DbFAccY3WyNOmlqYQE_dRvmjNmAWT3Ury9hTC4g3-dI3vYnUH3qQqAkPlGi0WJ4tNdal/s1600/SL732698.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCIO1sr1HY0MdIeMluLYsFfwyTwcdhJln220zhDnvx23N46nr0fM3dgFlt-Z2uvJ440tPm_yR7DbFAccY3WyNOmlqYQE_dRvmjNmAWT3Ury9hTC4g3-dI3vYnUH3qQqAkPlGi0WJ4tNdal/s320/SL732698.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And here we have Nelson after a hard night of partying. The bottle, along with consuming too much lush pasture, will destroy him. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7E1jTTJKcXBOwGkRClL8rJ7MJ6qTM3SRxmcINlEQ5s-kF32ihG4_IUWnuHJhDoWLqOGj7Wpml-xqiRi8_DUs2pJn3iIl4Y2GmL8zQXFizQAsBestYvf9JF5QTzZbeKC9uTr3fT70XV8KN/s1600/SL732660.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7E1jTTJKcXBOwGkRClL8rJ7MJ6qTM3SRxmcINlEQ5s-kF32ihG4_IUWnuHJhDoWLqOGj7Wpml-xqiRi8_DUs2pJn3iIl4Y2GmL8zQXFizQAsBestYvf9JF5QTzZbeKC9uTr3fT70XV8KN/s320/SL732660.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Precious. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0TxDLKSWQWqFZvkN0X1QTEuAiynN4A5whPfJioxiRY8HId44xsTv4jBHs4y260nnWKCAX2YeCjFskwu9PlkMNRQYd6MHPKhpkvob0tNv2jc1vDktNG16yKvlvLYxY6hMUN75XKviqhFIE/s200/SL732704.JPG" width="200" /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFmCRVfXspZTHP6lTKn4a7UpViHItaVghs1QARHAK3g1gGaUC0ERMYLjmU8g8Ijs8KNjyeuV1djLL_7ACQF5bgEdDJARJyljFUoPClZ3phvF0xaLV-AotUVmFFbTzFzm5rQSgTUDD3SlR3/s200/SL732701.JPG" width="200" /></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3S2XN1Qtr8Q_W7kZ8CEF_TwHaPqs1Wyt24Z6csuLNpVJAhtmWhGw0Fgkos2lPwrHthWrurt3dZvBPgrwdEeR68WvKN19aWIMfhLJ0Hf4KlzwiWHCU1GI5g-dinCmz4T72mR8UChRcV5Lz/s1600/SL732670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="display: inline !important; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3S2XN1Qtr8Q_W7kZ8CEF_TwHaPqs1Wyt24Z6csuLNpVJAhtmWhGw0Fgkos2lPwrHthWrurt3dZvBPgrwdEeR68WvKN19aWIMfhLJ0Hf4KlzwiWHCU1GI5g-dinCmz4T72mR8UChRcV5Lz/s200/SL732670.JPG" width="200" /></span></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Why, look who it is! Quincy McDougal. Although he doesn't appear like it here, he's as big as a Tyrannosaurus Rex. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Quincy's sniffer. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My pal.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikE8azZIWje2M1X_Oe-SvVleHwiViE4H-5nTZ1cl0azJlLNiXrL26q_BuOjZSN5RVSVdKQK0vvD_-JbcS1Q-Y8u32zJIswajv0Z6PoLk8HgTHMqQhAGI-pXf0cG6GIL3vK_s1xIEbQRbyJ/s1600/SL732737.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikE8azZIWje2M1X_Oe-SvVleHwiViE4H-5nTZ1cl0azJlLNiXrL26q_BuOjZSN5RVSVdKQK0vvD_-JbcS1Q-Y8u32zJIswajv0Z6PoLk8HgTHMqQhAGI-pXf0cG6GIL3vK_s1xIEbQRbyJ/s320/SL732737.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And here are our little hatchlings who, as of this morning, haven't been picked off by neighboring hawks. It's a brutal world out there. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> My home on the range...</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsg3pKf8Dg16P2Xer7IC9QKZyRNJ-XGm9qh-aKJ7LwL63_9c0STwossQ0UyuoXVd9tbvVLk2Kx2qcEyxjYRZETUuvets4Ml_f3uNvIAHL4QaEDVLKEE44UimhKlUzjaG_Y8PF3vVwtakK/s1600/SL732705.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQsg3pKf8Dg16P2Xer7IC9QKZyRNJ-XGm9qh-aKJ7LwL63_9c0STwossQ0UyuoXVd9tbvVLk2Kx2qcEyxjYRZETUuvets4Ml_f3uNvIAHL4QaEDVLKEE44UimhKlUzjaG_Y8PF3vVwtakK/s320/SL732705.JPG" width="320" /></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></div><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span><br />
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</div>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4978496048034132657.post-76164003852606287042011-04-27T18:09:00.000-07:002011-04-27T18:59:08.549-07:00I'm leaving on a jet plane...<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Actually, that is not entirely true. I'll be leaving not on a jet plane but in a V6 engine that has the gumption and vigor of a V2. Assuming there is such a thing as a V2, its name would certainly be Cheryl P. Troll-Cruiser. Let me get straight to the point here--- I am leaving my little condo. *sigh* </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">You know, it's strange where life will take you if you let it. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Life has me moving to a very, very far away place called Union, West Virginia. I feel comfortable putting that information online for a number of reasons:</span><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span></i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> 1) My readers consist mainly of family, friends and possibly a few lovers. Not likely you say? </span></b><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Kill joys!</span></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">2) Union is so remote and unchartered that I doubt that an ax-murderer would be able to find me anyway. Seriously, in trying to map the coordinates of my new digs, Google Earth was like "Woh. Where are my glasses? Please hold."</span></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">3) I underestimate the investigative prowess of said ax murderer. </span></b><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I just got a chill. Hold me.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">I won't tell a lie, I'm a wee bit sad to be leaving. The walls have been lovingly painted and then re-painted, the location is convenient for work and, well, it's mine and I've enjoyed living here. Arriving home after a long day of work, you might hear me bellow "hello house!" as I enter through the front door. Don't be alarmed. You should be used to me personifying inanimate objects by now. It's what I do. </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">This weekend I'll be saying adieu to my little condo of dreams...</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vffReiTbxIDVa4EslVBOywoqkQYj0tE98tGYnq4eAQMq5Wj99_AdbNuaA1hNkg2bErq0Obz5NfIfkvNc-3O9lzqJWH0iUA-sI-gcb5qn7CtZGZ1LfsHn8Q-8WmCYZKXSC-3tkevWorBs/s1600/housewife+of+the+year.bmp" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3vffReiTbxIDVa4EslVBOywoqkQYj0tE98tGYnq4eAQMq5Wj99_AdbNuaA1hNkg2bErq0Obz5NfIfkvNc-3O9lzqJWH0iUA-sI-gcb5qn7CtZGZ1LfsHn8Q-8WmCYZKXSC-3tkevWorBs/s320/housewife+of+the+year.bmp" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Oh, silly me. That is an old picture. Here's *my condo...</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7BleKN2SzigCd5rLgHXUFNxP7TGV03waDVfcBdiVB7RBSLAeVMZ5UsTcJ7d3wh7d-Bn4cV1_3u1XYf3N4e95QG1YV__quTFCcGJ4l1lG0HKAPXL34x7uZ6qd7EXE9Iv_pi-LXT4F50U8_/s1600/pb2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="287" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7BleKN2SzigCd5rLgHXUFNxP7TGV03waDVfcBdiVB7RBSLAeVMZ5UsTcJ7d3wh7d-Bn4cV1_3u1XYf3N4e95QG1YV__quTFCcGJ4l1lG0HKAPXL34x7uZ6qd7EXE9Iv_pi-LXT4F50U8_/s320/pb2.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Like the pillows? I sure do. </span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Whatever mixed blessing this move represents, where I am moving</span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"> to</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">, dear reader, is pretty awesome. I am looking forward to sharing with you some of the sights from my new residence which just happens to be a slice of scenic glory.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">*This picture exists in my dreams and also on Pottery Barn.com.</span>Bare Bonseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05494998849683942997noreply@blogger.com4