Journal: Dogs & Birds & Birthdays & Babies (& Quilts, of course)

 

Some friends asked what type of birdseed I feed the birds at my house.  I offer them black-oil sunflower seeds (this is the best all-around food for most birds), nyjer seed (in special feeders made especially for this small seed), and suet blocks.  Many birds – particularly woodpeckers, jays, nuthatches, and even English sparrows – like suet with fruit and nuts in it.  Even the small finches can husk the black-oil sunflower seeds.  They cannot very well husk the harder striped sunflower seeds, though.

It’s funny when little birds that usually exit Stage Left when the blue jays or the woodpeckers swoop in, feel all safe and protected on the other side of that suet block, just because they cannot see the bigger bird.  I once watched a sparrow lean around the corner of the feeder, get a beakful of a blue jay’s tail feathers, and give a good, hard yank.  The blue jay squawked loudly in protest and flapped to a nearby perch on the framework that holds the feeders.  The sparrow, belatedly realizing what kind of a fowl he’d taken on, cheep-cheeped in alarm and also fluttered off to a perch a little ways away, watching warily to see what might happen next.  He’d pecked off more than he could chew, that time!  😂

Remember the army-tank snow sculpture grandson Aaron made last month?  With that in mind, I sent him this Peanuts cartoon.

When I was in the 5^th grade, our teacher read us ‘A Wrinkle in Time’.  I did not like it.  I don’t like science fiction, or stuff that seems to dabble in the occult – and especially writings such as this that throw in Scripture references.  It’s like that dumb Christmas song with lyrics that say, “Santa knows we’re all God’s children; that makes everything right.”  I will not forget how horrified I was, the first time I heard those words, when I was age 10 or thereabouts.

On the other hand, I liked Dick, Jane, and Sally just fine, back in first grade.  But I did get in a wee bit of trouble for reading ahead.  The teacher thought I’d read one extra chapter.  She did not realize I had read all the way to the end of the book.  I couldn’t help it!  The suspense was killing me!

Speaking of reading and English and suchlike, I am picky about grammar and punctuation.  You do know that punctuation can make the difference between life and death, don’t you?  Witness:

“It’s time to eat, Grandma!” versus “It’s time to eat Grandma!”

You see what I mean.  (And now I must reread this journal five times to make sure I haven’t made an error.)

Here’s a picture that just scrolled through on my screensaver.  Look what Victoria was doing, and I didn’t even know it until I looked at the pictures later.

Tuesday, Keith sent this picture of himself with his stepdaughter Kenzie’s little dog Moha, writing, “This li’l cutie is such a spoiled brat.  🥰”

When I was little, I read the book ‘Big Red’ – and immediately wanted an Irish Setter, and planned to learn every command I would teach the dog in Irish.

Drawback:  nobody got me an Irish Setter.

Bike-riding with my blind friend Rita on her tandem bicycle one day, I saw an Irish Setter at a big, fancy house on the outskirts of town – with a dozen roly-poly red-furred puppies.  They were sooo cute.

Several friends of ours had Pekingese dogs, years ago.  The dogs were all related – possibly from the same litter – and they were all equally bad-tempered.  (The friends were related, too, and equally bad at training dogs.  {And at training kids, but we won’t talk about that right now.})  Anyway, I was four years old and considered myself pretty ‘grown up’, but every time we went to those people’s homes, I begged my mother to pick me up, because the dogs were ankle-biters, and they’d actually draw blood!

I finally got old enough to take care of the problem myself.

Larry and I were 17 and dating, and we were invited to one of those houses that harbored a Pekingese.  This particular dog, an offspring of their first one, liked to camp out under the couch, sneak forward, and chomp down on the tendons on the backs of people’s legs.

I, knowing this, chose to sit on — the couch, of course.

I positioned my ankles just far enough beyond the bottom edge of the couch and sat just far enough forward that I would have a clear view of that ugly rumpled face emerging from under said couch, teeth extended for a bite of my innocent, hapless ankle.

I knew what I was planning to do – and I didn’t care if these people were supposed to be our friends.  I didn’t let my dog gnaw on the ankles of my friends, now did I?!!

I didn’t have long to wait.

Out came Rumpelstiltskin, moving fast, angling for my left ankle.

I was faster.

I stomped on his head with my right foot, while simultaneously yelling, “Bad dog!”

No, I didn’t stomp hard enough to maim the mutt, though, believe me, I wouldn’t have been too awfully remorseful if I had’ve.

He yiped and yipped and yelped (more out of surprise than injury) and scooted himself back under the couch, posthaste.

His owners simultaneously yiped, too, and jumped out of their skins while they were at it.

Never once again did that nasty critter ever try to bite me, and he seriously curtailed his biting of other friends of mine – especially if I was with them.  (Even his owners were cautious around me, thereafter.)

Years later, one of my children asked me why Pekingese have rumpled faces.  I, having not recovered from my BATP (Bad Attitude Toward Pekingese), explained, “It’s because they went around biting people, and people didn’t like it, and ran their faces into walls.  Eventually, the pups were just born that way already, so people didn’t have to go to the trouble.”

That child of mine gave it a moment of consideration before saying somewhat reproachfully, “Mama.” 

Now, I hasten to assure you that I do absolutely realize that even a breed known for nastiness can produce a sweet one time and again – if it is raised by loving owners who take the time to teach and train it.  Those who will not do that should not have any breed of dog (or any other animal, for that matter).

{And if you don’t care for 17-year-old me, you won’t much care for 63-year-old me, either; ’cuz, I’m a-warnin’ you, I’d do the same thing today, were my ankles in danger from Ningpoo or his ilk.}  {Yep, that was his name.  My friends and I adjusted his name periodically to suit our various and varied fancies.}

Tuesday, Larry had new tires mounted on the wheels we’d gotten in Omaha last Monday, and when he got off work, he put them on the Mercedes.  After supper, we took it for a drive. 

Oh, it drives so much better!  It no longer wiggles and wobbles its way over bumps, and it rides better, too.  I wonder if the previous owners put those low-profile tires and wheels on it in order to make it look snazzy – and then traded it off because they didn’t like how it drove??

I finally feel safe again, driving that car.  It’s a wonderful vehicle; it was just ridiculous that someone messed it all up like that, putting on those low-profile tires and wheels.  Every little bump or ridge it hit, it would rock and bobble from side to side.  Unnerving.

The bolt that held the adapter kit for those low-profile wheels was skinny, and short, too.  The threads did not go very far into the nut that held it.  One hard ker-thump into one of Omaha’s nasty potholes, and a wheel could’ve popped right off of that vehicle.  Knowing something was wrong, I’ve been driving with great caution, and any worse-than-usual bump made my hair stand up on end.

The new tires and wheels will be a great relief.  But the new tires weren’t cheap, and the correct bolts and lug nuts alone were $500!  Good grief.

Friends who live in states to our south are starting to post pictures of their early-spring-blooming flowers, with the majority being daffodils.  I love daffodils.  I used to have the big, fancy, ruffled kind, in pinks, corals, yellows, whites, and in combinations of those colors.  They gradually died out.  Perhaps chipmunks ate the bulbs – but I also learned that if you plant them too close to lilies, chemicals from the lily rhizomes can eat away and destroy daffodil bulbs just as they do tulip bulbs.  And I did indeed have lilies next to the daffodils and tulips.

Around the countryside, I sometimes see bright orange daylilies and purple irises growing randomly here and there.  It’s usually for the same reason:  someone used to have a house there.  Every once in a while, the remains of an old homestead can still be seen.  I am always intrigued, and wish I knew the story of lives that have faded into the mists of time.

I spent a good part of Wednesday cutting quilt pieces, and I wrapped a couple of gifts, one for Ian, and one for Maisie.

Here are the gifts we got for Ian, who just turned 8:  a 1:64-scale model 1957 Chrysler 300C, and a Color-Popping game.  We gave them to him after our evening church service.  On the box that held the car, it said it was for ages 14+, so I said Ian must wait until he was 14 to open the box.  😄  It also said, “Not for highway use.” 

I like to wrap gifts in calendar paper.  

I asked Eva if they had brought her little sister to church.

“Yes!!!” she said, whirling around and pointing at the baby in her Daddy’s arms.  

She’s usually a little quiet and shy after church; but she’s not always like that.

I asked, “What’s her name?” and she looked up at me in amazement (You don’t know?!!!) and answered with a good deal of volume, “Maisie!!!”

Caleb said Eva had been making great plans for playing with her little sister – “I’ll play engines with her!” (Eva loves trains) – and was somewhat disappointed to learn that it would be a while before the baby would be big enough to play.

We had a late supper of roast beef, sliced beets, hominy, baked potatoes, cherry tomatoes, kiwi-strawberry juice, strawberries, and the last piece of cherry-cream cheese Danish from Panera Bread.

Thursday, February 22^nd, was Keith’s 44^th birthday.  We gave him a gift card for Cabela's.  The electronic birthday card I sent him pictured an old lady trying to blow out her candles – just three candles, in the numeric shapes of 1, 0, and 2.

(“Hey,” protested Keith, “I’m not 102!”)

Anyway, the lady tried to blow out her candles – and her false teeth flew out.

Not long after Larry got dentures, he showed Carolyn and Violet how his teeth came out (even though his wife was protesting).

They, at ages 3 and 4, then went home and tried to pull their teeth out.

When they couldn’t accomplish the task, Carolyn explained to her little sister, “We can’t do it, because our teeth are too slippery.”

A friend and I were discussing the controversy that supposedly occurred in the late 1700s over whether the bald eagle or the wild turkey should be our national bird.  I say ‘supposedly’ because some say the story is nothing but a myth.  In any case, here’s something I’ve always thought was funny:  the turkey has this large ungainly body, and when they go strutting along in a great rush, they look more like they’re waddle-jerk-running.  Their heads, which are small in comparison with the rest of their bodies, sport very little feathering, but are colorful with reddish and blueish lumpy skin, which gets quite brilliant during mating season.  Their feathers are in shades of brown and white, and from a distance they look dark and drab; but when they fan out their tail feathers, you can see beautiful stripes and patterns in each feather.

So... here’s the funny part:  I could’ve just described Benjamin Franklin, who, it is said, wanted the turkey to be our national bird.  He was partly bald on top, and what hair he did have was somewhat long, down to his shoulders.  He was rather plump, and not too tall.  Why, he even had a bit of a wattle under his chin.  His clothes were typical of the times, usually in dull colors, but beautifully tailored, with elaborate tails.

Charles Thomson, on the other hand, Secretary of the Continental Congress and the man who recommended the bald eagle, was a thin, handsome, rather elegant-looking man with a snowy head of white hair, also to his shoulders – just like the eagle.  His eyebrows were prominent and came down somewhat low over intelligent, piercing eyes – which is an excellent description of the bald eagle.  He had a long, narrow, sort of beakish nose.

Each man doubtless peered at himself in the looking glass, and thought, I don’t look half bad, huh-uh!

If you want to read the real story about Benjamin Franklin’s remarks and suggestions, it’s at History.com.  In truth, he had proposed that the seal for the new country be a picture of Moses on the shores of the Red Sea, extending a hand while the waters rushed back over Pharaoh and his chariot.  His proposal was Biblical, not avian.

Thursday, I took the box with grandson Trevor’s Nine Puppies quilt and pillow to the UPS Store and shipped it off to Tennessee.  I was assured that it would arrive Monday (today), on his birthday.

Then, since I was on the far side of town, I stopped at Caleb and Maria’s house to give them Baby Maisie’s gift – matching sleepers, onesies, mittens, and hats, and a soft, soft teddy bear that rattles. 

Eva happily let me in, and then trotted lickety-split around the living room, showing me her books, her painting easel, and her ‘engines’.  I held Baby Maisie for a few minutes.  Eva told me several times what the baby’s name is, since, after all, I had asked the night before, when people ought to have known, by then.

Eva has no idea that I asked her not because I couldn’t remember, but because I like to hear her say it.  😄💞

When I got back home, I headed upstairs to the quilting studio, and got back to cutting the background triangles for the Crossed-Canoe blocks.

A couple of hours later, I paused with the quilt-piece cutting and went downstairs to eat supper.  Larry was working on a vehicle in Genoa, and would be late getting home.  Hungry for boiled eggs, I heated water and put the eggs into the pan.

And then I set the timer for 9 hours instead of 9 minutes. 

It wasn’t long before I went to check on them (I was hungry, after all!), but by then they were hard-boiled, instead of partially soft, the way I like them best.  I had green beans, a kiwi, strawberry-kiwi juice, string cheese, crackers, and applesauce.

Here’s a story a friend recently told me:  our late friends the Wrights (Bobby’s grandparents) were going to their Uncle Gilbert’s funeral.  Mr. Wright called his daughter Leanne’s home and his granddaughter Julie, age 4, answered the phone.  Grandpa Wright wanted to talk to her father, but he was in the shower.  So Mr. Wright told his little granddaughter what he wanted her to ask.

Shortly thereafter, he heard Julie calling loudly, “Dad, Dad, Grampa wants to know if you’ll be a polar bear at Uncle Gilbert’s funeral.”

That evening, Victoria sent me pictures of the cute things she’s been knitting and crocheting.  Here’s a little outfit and blanket for Arnold, and below is a blanket for Maisie.

By 10:45 p.m., the triangles for the Cross-Stitchin’ Gone Fishin’ quilt were all cut, and I was ready to start sewing blocks together.  I put two together and quit for the night, with 35 blocks to go.

There are 592 triangles of varying sizes and angles in this quilt, plus 12 blocks with cross-stitched little boy fishermen.  Fisherboys.  What do you call young male fishermen?  (It’s Overall Sam, Sunbonnet Sue’s counterpart, sans overalls.)  The triangles were such odd sizes, I printed paper templates from my EQ8 design, laid them on the fabric, then put my slotted ruler over the top and used the rotary cutter to cut them, four at a time.

Friday, I spent the day sewing.  Later that night, I got the Bernina 730 Artista ready to take back (again) to Nebraska Quilting Company in Fremont.  They messed it up... tried to fix it... messed it up worse... and are now attempting to blame me for the stitches it’s skipping:  “You don’t have it threaded right, you didn’t put a new needle in, you probably put the bobbin in backwards, etc.”  Yeah, I’m not the turquoise-haired idget who messed up this once-wonderful machine.

Hopefully, the classes the owner recently took at a Bernina company somewhere will help him fix my machine.

Friday night’s supper was venison and corn on the cob.  I loosely-wrapped the ears of corn in aluminum foil and set them atop the venison in the Instant Pot.  Forty minutes later, we had tender, savory venison and tasty corn on the cob.

By bedtime, I had ten more Crossed-Canoe blocks done, making a total of twelve.  The cross-stitched blocks will need sashing around them to make them the same size as the canoe blocks.

Saturday, February 24^th, was our youngest child Victoria’s birthday – she’s 27.  How’d that happen?

Larry put my machine into the Mercedes, and I headed to Nebraska Quilt Company in Fremont.  After dropping off the machine, I went on to Omaha to visit Loren.  He was in the dining room when I got there, so I slid a chair over to his table, sat down, and visited with him, showing him the National Geographic magazines I’d brought, and some Instagram pictures on my phone.

In the middle of this, he suddenly asked, “What are Mama and Daddy doing?”

That’s a different question than he’s asked before – or at least it’s worded a bit differently.  “I don’t know,” I said truthfully.

He looked at me for a moment.  “Maybe they’re not home.  Have they gone somewhere?” he asked further.

“They’re home,” I answered – because they are.  Home in heaven.  “They’re probably just doing whatever they normally do,” I added.  That’s true, too!

I hastily scrolled down to a video of a bald eagle snatching a big snake up and flying off with it.  Yep, that distracted him, as I’d known it would.  😏😉

I let the loop play through and start up again. 

“OH!!!  It caught another one!” he exclaimed, jabbing a finger at my phone, and successfully exiting that video and launching one of a couple of hummingbirds sipping nectar from fuchsia blossoms.

“Oops,” said Loren, glancing at me sheepishly.

“It’s okay,” I laughed, “Now we can watch hummingbirds!”

On the way home, I stopped and gave Victoria her birthday present.  We gave her the niftiest little pin cushion; it looks like a plush easy chair in dark blue, and the seat opens for a bit of secret storage.  I gave her some Mrs. Meyer’s plum-berry hand soap, a Lilla Rose headband, and a Lilla Rose U-pin for her hair.

Willie helped unwrap the gift, and got a piece of packaging tape stuck to his hand, to his consternation.  He harrumphed (it really did sound like that), and held his hand up.  His Mama had her arms full of sleeping baby brother and gift, so I said, “Here, I’ll help!”  Then, taking it, “See, Willie?  This is what you do with it –” and I stuck it to my nose. 

 

He stared, then whirled around and quickly reached for another piece of tape to hand me.  I stuck it to my chin.  He stared momentarily, then grabbed another piece, and handed it to me.  Carolyn and Violet were by now giggling like anything.  I stuck a piece to one eyebrow, and another to my glasses. 

There was no more packaging tape, so Willie reached into the box, pulled forth the tissue paper, and gave that to me.

I draped it over the top of my head.  Carolyn laughed, and Violet shrieked with laughter.  Willie grinned.  Having run out of things to hand me, he asked for help with his drawing slate.  It has colored magnetic dust in it, and you draw on the white ‘slate’ with a thick magnetic ‘pencil’.  

The girls were in their nightgowns, hair shiny from just being washed.  I asked, “Are you all squeeeeeeaky clean?”

They laughed, and explained that they’d been playing in the sandpile at their other grandparents’ house, and when they came home, they had sand all over. 

“It was even under my fingernails!” exclaimed Carolyn, wrinkling her nose.

“Caked-on sand,” added Violet, rolling those big hazel eyes of hers in typical Violet fashion.

“Well, it’s good to wash it all off before you go to church tomorrow,” I told them.  “Imagine sitting down in your pew, and sand spilling out of your shoes and socks and the hems of your skirts.  And when you’d get up, you’d leave piles of sand behind on the floor!”

They were laughing, imagining this mess...

On Willie’s slate, I drew Willie himself, giving a running commentary as I drew.  “Here are your eyes... nose... mouth... ears... and hair!”

Scchhhhwwwwwip, he slid the eraser bar.

Violet started to protest, “Oh, Willie!” but I patted her shoulder to indicate all was well.

“Annnnd... he’s gone!” I announced.

Willie grinned, drew a circle, and handed me the pencil again.

“Oh, look, you’re drawing a dog!” I told him.  “He just needs ears... tummy... tail... back feet... front paws...  And there he is!”

Scchhhhwwwwwip went the eraser bar.

“Annnnd... he’s gone!” I said again.  (Two-year-olds like repetition in their games, ever notice that?  You change something midstream, and it’s not nearly so funny.)

Willie drew another circle, handed me the pencil.

“It’s a cat!” said I.  I put in ears... “—and cats have to have whiskers!” I said, adding them, then filling in body, paws, and tail.

Scchhhhwwwwwip.

“Annnnd... he’s gone!”  Carolyn and Violet chimed in with me, this time, giggling.

Willie grinned.  He handed me the pencil without drawing a circle, so I drew a house.  I managed to get the door, a window, and the sidewalk drawn before the eraser bar obliterated it.

Next, I drew a swingset.  Willie was reaching for the slide bar (I was turning into a Speed Artist, trying to stay ahead of that eraser bar!) when I said, “Let’s draw Willie on the swing!”

His hand paused, midair.

I drew a stick-figure Willie on the swing seat and managed to get one shoe on the stick leg before it vanished.

And then I had to go.  I gave him a hug, said, “Bye!”, and headed for the door.

He wouldn’t look up. 

“Tell Grandma ‘bye’!” encouraged Victoria.

He waggled a few fingers at me – but he would barely crack a smile.  He didn’t want me to go!  😊

It’s always nice to go when people still want you to stay.  Not good to stay until they want you to leave.  As wise King Solomon wrote in the Proverbs, “Withdraw thy foot from thy neighbour’s house, lest he be weary of thee.”

As I was leaving Omaha that day, I took a series of photos west of the Army Reserve Center north of Elkhorn (a northwest suburb of Omaha) of a field of large antennas in all sorts of configurations.  

I sent them to Joseph, asking what they are for.  “Maybe they string up Army recruits and make them run around like horses on a ProWalker?” I asked.

Joseph didn’t answer for a few minutes, so I, impatient soul that I am, did some research and learned this:

There are eight directional rotatable log periodic antennas maintained by the 55^th Strategic Communications Squadron near Elkhorn, Nebraska.  The directional rotatable log periodic antennas can rotate 360 degrees.  A dedicated crew of telecommunications specialists monitor the antennas, which support a wide variety of missions from executive levels of government to the National Aeronautics and Space Administration.

I had barely found that out when Joseph answered:  “They are antennas.  The kind of antennas that send and receive from satellites.  Extremely powerful.  They can hear a bird chirp on Jupiter.”

“So if we got close enough,” I asked, “and wiggled our car antenna just right, we might hear messages from aliens?”

“Wrong frequency,” Joseph told me, “but yes.  They can pick up and transmit signals way out into the galaxy.”

“I’ve driven past that place hundreds of times,” I said, “and have sometimes driven on Rainwood Road to the north – but was only on Rainwood at night, and Saturday was the first time I ever saw all those antennas.  Pretty impressive.”

“They aren’t actually controlled from here,” Joseph said.  “The people here just maintain them.  They are controlled at Andrews AFB and Grand Forks.”

“Those are in Maryland and in North Dakota, right?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered.  “Also, those antennas would be the ones used to send the nuke launch orders if it ever comes to that.”

I had time to make three more Crossed-Canoe blocks before bedtime.  That makes a total of 15 finished canoe blocks.  22 to go.

As I mentioned last week, the Crossed-Canoe blocks are made from a layer cake Kurt and Victoria gave me a few years ago.  I’ve never used a layer cake (precut fabric in 10” squares) before.  And I would never in a million years have chosen that combination of fabrics.  I’ve been saving it, thinking to use it for a quilt for Kurt.  But as I was doing a somewhat unsatisfactory search through my meager stash for fabrics to go with the cross-stitched fishing boys (what do you call a little boy fisherman??), I spotted that layer cake and thought, Hey, this is exactly what I need!  (Sorry, Kurt.)

It’s fun to put together fabrics I would not have picked, and find myself thinking, Ian’s going to really like this.  I’m looking forward to showing Victoria what I did with the layer cake they gave me.

I made myself a cup of raspberry tea and sipped it while I edited a few pictures, then headed for the feathers.

Aaauuuugggghhhh!  A boxelder bug just went brazenly traipsing right across my screen!

Fwwwwip.  He is now upside down on the other side of the room, wondering what happened, and if he somehow accomplished touchdown on the moon.

On rural radio news this last week, they’ve been warning of someone calling and pretending to be a member of the police department, threatening people and asking for information.

Remember when Loren gave his SS# to someone who called him on the phone?  After I’d told him time and again to never, never, give out his personal data?  At least he was still aware enough that he was worried, and told me about it.  But when I told him he needed to hang up on people calling with threats and asking for personal information, he got all blustery and told me, “We’ve been taught to treat people RIGHT!”

“So then,” I suggested, stopping what I was doing and looking at him, “Would you like to stand on the street corner with a sign listing your bank account and your investment account numbers, and telling everyone, ‘Help yourself!’?”

He remembered that remark of mine for a while.

I went home and immediately called Verizon and had his number changed.  I had to shut down his account and put him on our account in order to do it; they wouldn’t help, otherwise.  Dealing with Verizon is like dealing with a recalcitrant donkey.

Then I spent several hours making sure all his accounts were safe, and putting ‘alarms’ on his SS#. 

Nothing bad ever happened, so I guess I caught it in time.  I never told Loren that I’d changed his phone number.  Twice I heard him giving his old number to someone he had called, ordering questionable items from his questionable alternative health magazines.  (We still get those things, even though I’ve tried hard to get them to stop.)  Whoever it was, they’d have a hard time calling him back! 

And it certainly foiled the stubborn people at his eye doctor’s office, who refused to stop calling him, and call me instead, concerning his cataract surgeries and follow-up.  That was frustrating.  They sent eyedrops to his house instead of mine, and he promptly lost them, and said he’d never gotten any such thing.  (I found them when we cleaned out his house.)

A couple of weeks later, they called me, all excited and agitated.  “We can’t get Loren on the phone!  The call won’t go through!”

I told the woman, “You aren’t supposed to call him anyway.  He no longer has the same phone number.  Look down at the notes in that folder or on your screen right in front of you.  See that?  It says, DO NOT CALL LOREN.”  (I knew it was there; I’d seen them write it with my very own eyeballs.)  

She spluttered a bit, then said in a snippy tone, “May I have his number, please?”

Me:  “No.”

Loooong pause.

(If you wait long enough, the other person will say something.  Trust me.)

Finally she said, “So if I need to get in touch with Loren, do I call you?”

I said, “Yes.  Just like it says in your files.”

Today is Trevor’s 8^th birthday.  And look what I got in an email from the UPS:

Bah, humbug.

I checked their website for updates and found this:  “Due to operating conditions, your package may be delayed. / Delivery will be delayed by one business day.”

So that box loitered in Omaha, cooling its heels, from Thursday until early this morning.  What did it do, go visit Henry Doorly Zoo? 

“Due to operating conditions.”  What’s that mean?  The ceiling fell?  The floor gave way?  A drinking fountain quit working?

I sent a couple of e-cards to Trevor with animated giraffes wishing him Happy Birthday, and asked Dorcas to let him know something is on the way from us.

UPS service is becoming more dismal all the time, here in our neck o’ ze woods.

Meanwhile, out in Big Bear Valley, California, exciting things periodically happen at the eagle nest in the middle of the night:  Eagles of Big Bear Valley

That’s Fiona, the flying squirrel (they are nocturnal), using Jackie the Bald Eagle’s back as a launching pad.  Just listen to that >>wing slap!!!<< as Jackie abruptly awakens!

This is the male eagle, Shadow.

Victoria sent pictures of Willie and Arnold this afternoon.  Arnold is a happy baby.

Larry brought taco salads in edible bowls for supper tonight.  Afterwards, he worked on his pickup in Genoa for a while.  When he got home, he checked his blood pressure.  It’s too high.  He took a blood pressure pill; that should lower it pretty quickly.  He needs to make an appointment with the doctor in order to get more.  I informed him that if he didn’t, I was going to do it for him. 

The maid has not washed the dishes.  I suppose I should?

Mañana.

,,,>^..^<,,,          Sarah Lynn          ,,,>^..^<,,,