Saxon vs. A Pile of Snow

Our bag that we use to tote firewood from outside unexpectedly gave in to gravity last night and fell over. This startled Saxon, the lovable hellhound, who had been mostly curled up by the fire. I say mostly because he has never seemed to master the ball. He curls up, but his feet always stick out like prongs.

The bag of firewood tipped over. His reaction, growl at it. This action reminded me of another story from when he was naught by an alien looking pup, the time he lost a fight to a pile of snow.

Here is the dog.

Here is a pile of snow.

(Not the pile of snow, because alas, I was without a camera.)

We had taken the dogs out to the Lawrence Bark Park, which is worth the drive. It's about 13 acres of fields, streams, forest and clearings for dogs to get into much trouble. We usually only take the dogs there in winter because there are rattlesnakes. I know this because a) my brother-in-law saw one and b) Saxon found the frozen corpse of one and thought it was the greatest toy ever.

On this winter day, the snow had all melted from the grass except for one large pile squatting near the edge of the field. I assume some kids had tried to build up a fort or something because there are no roads to plow in this clearing. Anyway, Saxon, who a little less than a year at this point, had seen snow before so I didn't think he would suddenly freeze with his hackles up.

I looked around for deer or a bobcat. Nope, nothing. And yet, there was the dog with a growl resounding in his throat. Meanwhile, the other dog was trotting ahead, nose to the ground, without a care in the world.

Saxon barked. Hackles up, he started to circle the pile of snow. It finally occurred to me that he'd never seen snow piled up before, especially when all the other snow had melted. The animal let another canine snarl tear from his throat, a sound to send terror into the spines of any small, furry animal. And, let's be honest, any ape-shaped animal too.

However, the snow staunchly held its ground in the face of the approaching, menacing dog.

Again, Saxon barked and circled closer. The snow still had not made a move. Ears back, hackles up, growling like a beast, he neared the snow. Finally, he'd circled within a few feet, and snow hadn't reacted at all.

The dog lunged.

I don't know if he was trying to bite the snow or if he was just trying to aggressively sniff the pile, but either way, as soon as his nose touched the icy coldness, the poor creature was off for the treeline like a rifle shot. He tripped over his tail twice.

Snow 1, Dog 0

Happily, the event did not traumatize the animal and today he is up to the task of subduing all manner of wild snows that dare enter our back yard.

Bachelorette Cake Pan

Note: This is a story about a Bachelorette Party, so it comes down to an adult joke/misunderstanding. I don't really like doing adult-themed subjects online since the net is so very public, so this may be the only one you'll ever read from me. It's just an honest, funny story. Anyway, don't read this if you're too young to go to a bachelorette party.







I would like to point out that I am one of the youngest of all my cousins. Not the youngest, but not too far off.

My cousin Leigh was the first of us to get married, so she got the kick-ass, buy-everything-in-the-store-who-cares-about-the-price-because-it's-on-dad's-credit-card party.

My other cousin Marcy and I dangled cut-out streamers across Marcy's living room. I taped them up with my eyes closed. Many fuzzy (possibly furry) decorations streamed across the space, but I didn't actually look at them. I especially didn't stare at the plastic crown with its wobbly "family jewels" on it. You know which jewels, and if you don't, I told you up at the top not to read this.

If I had a magic mirror and could use it to send a message across time, I know for a fact that I would not have believed myself if I told myself that this wouldn't phase me in a few years. I might have been a little freaked out by the talking mirror though.

Marcy's huge labrador Dexter also helped to decorate by grabbing the fuzzy decorations and scattering them about the room. He was perfect ambiance since his nickname is the S&M dog. He's entirely black (think black leather), has a spiked collar, and will walk up to you, arse first, demanding to be spanked. With fuzzy handcuffs between his fangs, he was perfect!

The room became a palace of phallic imagery, laced in more pink than I've ever witnessed before in one location. I'm sure at least 30% of it was on my face. All that was left to do was make the cake.

Baking! That would get me away from the decorations! With a thunderclap trailing my heels, I flew into the kitchen. I flipped on the oven and start mining for a cake pan underneath the sink. I'd just set the two round cake pans on the counter when Marcy exclaimed, "Not those! We gotta use the special one!"

Oh. Okay. I ducked back down and continued my under-sink spelunking expedition. A minor cave-in of cookie sheets crashed down, burying a deposit of casserole dishes. Any hope of discovering other cake pan strata instantly vanished.

Marcy started to pick through the grocery bags on the counter. "No, it's around here somewhere. We've gotta find this pan. I've got the different colored frostings, the whipped cream and the chocolate sprinkles all ready to go! Where could it be?" She flipped open her phone - this was in the days of yore and flip phones - and dialed her sister Kelly.

Across town:
Kelly didn't even notice her phone ringing as she rummaged through the over-filled trunk of her vehicle. Uncle Scott sifted through the other side of the paraphernalia. Kelly briefly wiped the sweat from her eyes as she tried to find her current college freshman report card.

Kelly, who can not only do an amazing karaoke of "It's Raining Men", was very smart. "It still can't believe my art teacher gave me a B on my design project!" She shoved aside a backpack full of either books or bricks, either way it carried the same weight.

Scott gently picked up the penis cake pan between two fingers and released it from the depths of the trunk into the sunlight. "You only got a B?"

How I Met My Husband and Other Zany Adventures Part 2

I recommend reading Part 1 first.

Cell phone in the Sands

Once again, I would like to remind everyone that this is what actually happened. This has not been embellished for comedic effect.

It happened on the night of the blue moon too. Honestly. So, let me begin, "Once in a blue moon..."

My friend Dave was visiting from Ireland. (This takes place after the previous story, obviously.) My roommate, Amy, and I even turned the awkward alcove in our apartment into a castle. Okay, a castle made of old refrigerator boxes we'd raided and then painted to look like a castle. This way, we had a guest bedroom. And our very own castle, who doesn't want to brag about that?

Alas, we forced him to leave the security of his cardboard fortress to venture forth on the classic American Road Trip. Keep in mind, he's from Ireland. I took a "road trip" over there with some of my friends, and after two hours, the driver had to stop and rest. "Two hours is too much." I looked around in confusion. "Are you kidding me? I'm just getting warmed up."

So, from Lawrence, we set out to see the Rockies, Mesa Verde, Grand Canyon, Moab, and of course, our first real destination, the Great Sand Dunes in Colorado. That's 662 miles from Lawrence or 1066 km. Google maps claims it takes 11 hours 15 minutes, but we made it in 10.

We also drove through a very lovely storm on the high plains with the lightning stabbing at the ground. Of course, while this storm is going on, the other half of the sky is completely blue. I'll never forget Dave look back and forth between blue sky-vicious storm-blue sky-vicious storm.

Amy and I thought it was perfectly normal. Because it is. Just not normal for the rest of the planet. We left all the lightning behind when he climbed into the Rockies, and soon arrived at the Great Sand Dunes National Monument.

It's getting closer to sunset, but we start on the dunes anyway. Come on, literal mountains of sand. It's like the sandbox from when you were a kid multiplied by infinity. How can one resist playing in it?

To gain perspective if you've never been there, here is a photograph.

Hmmm.... why do I feel like this is missing something?

That's better!

So, there we were walking across Tatoonie the Great Sand Dunes Desert.

The further we got into the dunes, the lower the sun drifted and out came the blue moon. We were having a blast climbing up and jumping down the mountains of sand. However, around the nearby peaks, I kept an eye on the gathering clouds and the dancing lightning.

Soon, they started to drift toward the dunes. Literal mountains of sand + lightning + humans = Bad Idea. There's no cover. Although, if you take the humans out of the equation, lightning + sand = fulgurite, which is a mineral I find really cool. Yes, I still collect rocks. I am not ashamed of this.

However, with an oncoming storm, we needed a way to quit the sandy peaks with speed, and none of us had concealed a sled on our persons. So, we decided to roll. It'll be like we're kids again!

I about made myself sick. Rolling down those hills was great at first. Then, on distances that one should considered taking a sled, the fun of rolling quickly, well, unrolls and turns into that roller coaster ride that you can't get off until it's over.

At the little shelf between the base of one dune running into the slope of another dune, I slid to a stop. I sat and stared while I waited for the stars to stop circling around in the sky. I seriously thought I was going to lose my dinner.

Then, for some reason unknown, I rolled down the next slope. Obviously, in this, Amy, Dave and I split up. Too many arms and legs to bounce into. I waited for them to catch up to me, and I saw Amy kicking at the sand.

She'd forgotten to stick her personal items in pockets where they wouldn't jump for freedom, and had lost: keyring, flashlight, pocket knife and cell phone (or mobile phone, as Dave kept insisting).

But, without the flashlight, we weren't going to be able to trace our steps. The lightning flashes sure weren't luminous enough, except when they became very bright and you become a fixture in fulgarite. The wind pushed my hair into my face and kicked up the sands around my feet. I knew that our tracks would be gone tomorrow.

Calling the cell phone was useless too. No reception. (Hopefully, they've fixed that by now, but probably not.)
That night was spent shaking sand out of our clothing at an Alamosa hotel. It got everywhere. I was human sandpaper! Unfortunately, what it was sanding was my skin.

The next day, we reported Amy's losses at the ranger's station, and the guy laughed at us. Frankly, I didn't blame him. We trekked back out into the dunes. Of course, no tracks.

I saw something bright bouncing back the early sun at us. I scrambled through the sands, and it was a candy wrapper! I couldn't believe it! Why would anyone leave something that like out here? It would never get picked up and these things don't degrade!

This pattern continued seven more times. I couldn't fathom how inconsiderate these people were being. Finally, well ahead of Amy and Dave, I sat down for a water break.

Amy climbed up and collapsed next to me. Wordlessly, I handed over my canteen. She pointed. "I think I see something shiny."

Probably another candy wrapper, but what the hell?

I treaded on my hands and knees to make it up the incline. The sand scattered beneath them, threatening to send me sliding. This would have been a great hill for rolling.

And, there they were. The shiny flashlight, phone, keys and knife. All in one spot. I couldn't believe it.

We reported them found at the ranger's station. This time, the guy responded with, "Uhhhh..." and didn't form an actual word for over a minute. Worth it!

I was still finding sand in those jeans for months. No matter how many times I washed them.

By the way, you can drive from the Grand Canyon (somewhere on the north side) to Lawrence, KS in 21.5 hours (including stops).

**

Driving in that same car, this time to Arkansas, I read the "yeah, right" look all over M's face. At least, after the initial wide-eyed stunned look had faded.

"You're the luckiest person that I've ever met!" he exclaimed. "I don't believe you!"

At that point, I figured I really didn't have a shot with this guy. Funny how I was wrong.

How I Met My Husband and Other Zany Adventures Part 1

I never daydreamed about my perfect wedding. I thought marriage was an antiquated tradition and its main purpose throughout history was to keep women as property. Other than a tax break and other various legal issues leftover from laws that haven't caught up with the times, I sincerely believed that the whole marriage concept didn't have contemporary relevance.

Obviously, I must've been so-oo much fun to date. Maybe that's why nobody asked me out. I was honestly okay with that. I had my own life to sort, and didn't want to have to bother to sort out someone else's life too.

My husband thought along those same lines too. So, how the hell do we wind up dating for two months, decide to get married, and are still enthusiastic about being married for more than two years after the fact?

Um...

Well, it started when we met on a road trip to Arkansas, and my reluctance to be honest. He later said that he thought I was the greatest storyteller he'd ever met, and that I was also one of the most gifted liars he'd ever met.

I believe in being honest with potential friends. I have learned, however, that people hesitate to believe me when I start to tell stories about myself. So, I didn't want to own up just yet.

It's my brother-in-law's fault that I didn't get the chance.

He wasn't my brother-in-law at the time. He was still my sister's boyfriend, and I was meeting his best friend for the first time. Then, we were all going to meet my cousins two states away for a New Year's Eve party.

So, I meet my brother-in-law's bff, the man I eventually marry. That was my second thought about him, that life-altering attraction. My first thought was, 'he looks confused'. Later, I learned that was because he was still waiting for his friend's sister to arrive. He thought I was just a roommate or something because my sis and I look absolutely nothing alike.

My sister and her boyfriend piled into my backseat. I'm still not sure why I got saddled with driving from NE Kansas to NW Arkansas when they already drove over to my apartment in their own car and left it parked there. Oh well. So, they were in the back seat, I was driving, and this attractive guy was in the passenger seat.

Now what? The highway opened for us. I focused on driving because 1) it's considered rude to stare, 2) there's no natural high like buzzing along on the open road and 3) I don't want to die by distracted driving. So, I gave my attention to driving. And, what would I say anyway? "Hey, glad you like my car, yeah, just ignore the textbooks and drive-thru recepits. I didn't know I was going to drive."

In the backseat, my sister's boyfriend leaned forward. "Hey, Deb, M's got to hear about what happened on your way over to Ireland."

"Um, okay. Which time?" But, it didn't matter; I knew exactly what story he wanted me to spill.

(Dear readers, none of these stories are embellished. What is told is what happened.)

On my way to Cork

I studied abroad at University College Cork, Ireland. I don't know why I picked Ireland. Sure, I've got some Irish heritage, but not enough to transplate myself a quarter of the way around the globe. I just knew that's where I wanted to go. So, I did.

But, I had to get there first. Simple plan: Kansas City to Chicago to London to Cork. Okay, simple enough for a college budget.

First delay: sitting on the tarmac in Kansas City because Chicago is having bad weather. I cracked my knuckles. I had a tight connection to make in Chicago, but that was okay. That flight would probably be delayed too because the bad weather was happening over there.

No such luck. As soon as I get off the plane, I grabbed the nearest employee I could find. She assured me that since my original flight still takes off in 5 minutes that American Airlines had moved me on to one that takes off in 30, and here was my new boarding pass. Great. That would still give me time to catch my London to Cork connection.

So, I could relax. I purchased a cinnamon roll, an extra bottle of water and sat down to review my paperwork about my new university, housing arrangements, etc...

And then I heard my name announced over all of Chicago O'Hare, and the PA demanded that I report to my original flight to London. "This is your final boarding call."

I burped up a piece of cinnamon roll, stuffed everything in my backpack and was running before my feet hit the floor. In this run, I learned how freaking huge this airport actually was. Again, I hear my name announced. I kept running, and kept running...

Finally, out of breath, I slapped my hand up on the counter. The door to the jetway was already closed, but everyone was still there. "I'm here," I wheezed and presented my original boarding pass.

The attendant took my paperwork, glanced at it, and then just raised both her eyebrows. "Oh, you were moved to the next flight, didn't anyone tell you?"

"Then why the hell did you just call my name over the intercom!? TWICE!" ...is what I wanted to shout. Instead, I wound up just staring and probably catching flies in my open jaw.

I slept most of the way over to London. I just had to shut the world out for awhile. Once I arrived, I realized that Chicago O'Hare has got nothing on London Heathrow in the realms of huge and confusing.

Other wide eyed American students also stared up at the maps, trying to figure how to navigate the airport. For fifteen minutes, we became comrades in arms - just to get through the airport. And, just like that, we evaporated to go our separate ways.

I was still in time for my connection to Cork. I shuffled through my paperwork one last time, and discovered that I was missing my contact information for when I arrived. No phone, no address to my apartment, no contact name. Literally no clue.

When I made my mad dash in Chicago, it must have not made it back into my backpack. It was probably still sitting in the food court, covered in cinnamon bun fragments. A cold shiver ran up my spine at the same time my face lit on fire. I gulped. What was I going to do?

To make matters worse, when I presented my boarding pass for my final connection, it turned out that American Airlines had canceled my reservation to this flight completely. However, since I had my original boarding pass and obviously still needed to go, they'd let me on because they had extra seats. Go Aer Lingus. Of course, I wouldn't have the seat on the ticket and my luggage had been condemned to limbo.

I plopped my unhappy butt now in my new seat. What a great way to start this adventure. Seriously. What was I going to do when I got there?

Another woman, about my age, took the seat next to me. I ignored her thorougly. I just glared ahead at the back of the seat in front of me. After takeoff, she tried to get the last few stubborn drops out of the bottom of an empy bottle of water.

I sighed and pulled out my unopened bottle that I'd bought inside of O'Hare and offered it. No reason why both of us have to be in sour moods. She accepted it with a nervous smile and said, "Yeah, I'm just coming over here to study abroad."

"Me too." And, as it turns out, she was going to exactly the same apartment complex. Boo-ya.

**

So, back to the road trip. We were still cruising along somewhere on Highway 71 in Missouri with this really cute guy seated in the passenger seat. He shook his head and laughed, and it was the "I don't believe you, but you sure can tell a whopper laugh".

I grinned. Whew. I was glad that was over.

My sister's boyfriend, emerging from the back seat, demanded "Tell the one about the cell phone in the sand!"

Ahhhh! I don't wanna, I don't wanna! I almost shoved my hands over my ears. If M laughed at me for my "going to Cork" story, he really really wouldn't believe this one! Even if it was 100% true.

To be Continued...

Seasick Sailor

A couple of my friends and I somehow scraped together the funds to visit Ireland and catch up with some of my old friends there. We also bought train and bus tickets to go sightseeing. Obviously.

Our excursion just on the ferry to and from the Aran Islands is a definite highlight:

These islands are so remote that
1) The signs are all written in Irish (vs English or a mixture of languages as on most of the island).
2) I saw a man holding a car tire. An old car tire. Like from the late 19th century! He had to board the ferry, travel to the main island, have someone there repair the tire, and then ride the ferry back.
3) There are no railings or warning signs or anything when you explore a 3,000 year old fort built/eroded into the cliff's edge. If you fall off of the massive cliffs into the crashing ocean below, it's your own fault.
4) And no one will ever find you.

But, that's not the story. That's the background.

We three Kansas girls were determined to be out on the back part of the ferry which is open to the air and sea. We were still hanging on to the railings despite that the ocean is freezing and spitting on us. We were going to experience the ocean, damn it!

When we finally came sight of the shore, a storm popped up from nowhere. Or is it called a squall? Can I call it a squall? Or is a squall a specific type of oceanic weather disturbance? I don't get to use that word in my common lexicon! And maybe this squall wasn't from nowhere. I didn't know how to read the ocean weather. But, being from Tornado Alley, I can definitively tell you that it was not rotating.

It was, however, causing the ocean to create a valley of rolling swells. I'm not even going to try to guess how high the wind was pushing the waves, but the ferry suddenly started to remind me of a roller coaster. Slow rise up the slope, and then a quick drop. Repeat. Many times.

The few other people daring the ocean's chill out back with us quickly ducked inside. We curled our fingers around the railings and gather a good grip for this ride. Up and down. Rise and fall. The ocean's spray hissed as it drenched us all the harder.

Up and down. Rise and fall. And it felt like side to side too.

Then, the rain also attacked. We still stayed outside. After all, we're already soaked and chilled, and we were going to enjoy the ocean. Even if the ocean didn't want to play nicely. That's fine. We're not going anywhere. We could wait.

Although, as we crashed down another way, we got glimpses of a closer view than I ever would have wanted...

The next time we stared down a swell, as it continued to rise up underneath the ferry below us, my cursed and blessed imagination tried to show me what it would be like underneath the waves. The calm as compared to the chaos above...

Still, that was just landlubber prairie talk. I trusted the crew running this boat. I mean, it was their job after all. I'm sure for them, this storm was nothing. I had no idea what ferries can and cannot handle. Wouldn't they have avoided this squall if it was too much? Or did it really just appear like a bad magician's hat trick?

Shortly after thinking that, my faith was rewarded as we passed free of the storm. The rain vanished, the swells smoothed out, and the ferry glided along gently toward the shore. We finally got to experience the crisp, salty air and enjoy the ocean's majesty.

My hand had been gripping the rail so tightly that it took me a couple of seconds to unclench my white fingers. That's when one of the sailors popped his head out back, and obviously, surprised we were still there, asked, "Were ye out here the whole time?"

(Cultural note: Many people still use 'ye' for second person plural and think nothing of it, 'cause it's still proper grammar. I haven't met anyone using 'thee' and 'thou' yet though.)

We nodded.

He paused. "Are ye sure?"

Nod again.

"And ye didn't get seasick?"

Shook our heads.

Then, he grinned. It was more glassy than cheerful. "Well, I did."
I finally started to wonder...

Been awhile

I haven't blogged in awhile. I can't use the excuse that "nothing interesting happened to me". The sign of a good storyteller is able to take an everyday story that could happen to anybody and make it something people will read with excitement.

Like my ride to work. I do my best to ride my bicycle every day, with an exception for rain in the forecast. Even with a helmet, two inch an hour rain stings.  And hail, I've been caught in hail on my bike before. Yet, I still pedal the darned thing to work. Interestingly enough, it takes me 15 minutes in my car with rush hour traffic, but only 20 minutes on my bike.

It's cool in the mornings around here in early spring/late summer. Nothing a light jacket snuggling against my skin doesn't solve. It's so amazingly comfortable and needed! I can feel the kiss of the dawn's chill in passing. Of course, halfway through my ride, that same cotton film against my arm becomes twenty miles of stuffed wool while I'm trying to steer through the Gobi Desert. Obviously, it gets too warm.

So, while I'm riding along on the sidewalk... I should probably stop and explain: that is legal in the city, there are no bike paths and riding on the street is suicide by inattentive driver.

So, while I'm riding along on the sidewalk - the very lumpy, tree root infested sidewalk - I'm sweating like the Mississippi and fighting my jacket. I'm balancing with no hands, backpack wildly swing off of one shoulder while trying to get this thrice cursed, sweak soaked thing off of my other arm! I swear, this thing holds tighter than a clingy ex-boyfriend!

I free one arm. Halfway to bliss! Now, still pedaling with no hands, I transfer the backpack to my other shoulder and attempt to free my other arm from this slippery trap. Meanwhile, the sleeve that's been freed is trailing behind my seat and curls itself around the rear wheel and the chain.

Lurch! RIIIIIIIIP!

And, I walk my bicycle the rest of the way to work. Before I leave for home, I peel out pieces of that beloved jacket that always did such a good job of keeping me warm on my ride to work...

Tomorrow: repeat.

Tornadic or Straight Line Winds?

It's a common question out here on the plains after a storm. Sometimes there's rotation, but not a funnel cloud at which you can point your finger. There's always damage. My question is, was it straight line winds or tornadic winds that caused my Carpathian Walnut to attack my neighbor's house?

It started around 11:30 pm. I actually woke up to the thunderstorm. Usually, I am woken up by my yellow lab, who no matter what M and I do, is terrified of thunder. Without fail, he will wake one of us by the old wet-panting-dog-nose-in-the-ear trick. But, storms don't wake me. I slept through a tornado in a tent out in Garden City once.

So, having that fact established, to find myself waking up to a storm, it had to be an impressively powerful storm. I rolled over, and tried to determine if the pounding was stinging rain or hail.

M appeared in the bedroom door. "There's a tornado warning."

"What? In town?"

"Yep."

So, I figured that was at least worth tuning in to the local news. When I got to the family room, the weather map on the TV glowed red and purple as the weatherman fussed about the severity of the storm.

When you need crucial information, Murphy's Law will apply and the electricity will fail. The more you need that info, the more spectacular the power outage. In this case, the transformer a block away exploded and set the power pole on fire in the midst of an inch per hour rainfall.

Great. Now, we were aware of several "areas of strong rotation" and we didn't know where those were. For those of you who don't live in tornado alley, that's the politically correct way to saying, "Yep. Radar shows it's definitely spinning, but we have no idea if there's a funnel on the ground or not. 'Cause it's dark and it's raining."

I flipped on our little NOAA weather radio. All it says, of course, is that there is a severe storm and a tornado warning, oh, and floods too. It doesn't say for example, that the areas of rotation are in Highland Park, Washburn area, downtown, or Tecumseh. So, I don't know if it's safe to go back to bed or not.

Ah, well. I looked down at two dogs with impossibly sad brown eyes and tails wagging nervously. "Suppose we should play it safe."

If you don't have a basement, like we don't, there are still a couple of options.

1. Our neighbor across the street has a proper tornado shelter in his backyard and we have permission to use it. This is useful before the storm grows too dangerous to cross the street. Especially with two big dogs to drag along; one of whom is already terrified, and they're both howling at the warning sirens.

2. Hide in your bathtub and pull a mattress over your heads.

We half did that. Our bathroom has no windows (good thing in storms), but it's also a 4x4 foot box (excluding the built-in-the-wall bathtub). There's no way a queen mattress is going to fit in there. The mattress is literally larger than the room.

So, I'm sitting in the bathtub with a labrador retriever who hates baths. M and the other lab sat outside the tub. I really don't get labs. Show them a creek or a mud puddle and they'll splash all day long. Show them a hose or a bathtub and they'll bark and buck like they're going to melt on contact.

The little weather radio squawked away like a parrot. Yes, a parrot because it just repeats the same information over and over without any detail. In a couple of minutes, the tornado warning expired.

I poked my head out of the front door and looked around. "Huh. Didn't hear that happen."

The winds had wrenched one of the two trunks of our Carpathian Walnut tree. A three foot bright scar clashed with the darkness around it. The trunk and tree top were resting at an awkward angle against our next door neighbors' house.

Damn.

Next morning:

Our neighbors were cool with the damage, and it wasn't leaking or anything. They hadn't heard it either.

However, apparent minimal damage aside, they still had half of a tree on their house.

What a fine time for us to find out that our chainsaw is busted.

I grabbed the little handsaw from the wall and set to work at the break in the tree. Part of the trunk was still attached to the rest of the tree. At least nature had split the work with me too. The trunk was already broken in half.

M put his hands on his hips as he surveyed the work before us. "Deb, that's not going to work."

I rolled my eyes. "Well, how did people do it for millennia before chainsaws?."

"Axes."

Ooh. He did have a point. The first tool known to humankind was a stone ax. And, I really don't get to use my flintknapping technique too often these days anyway.  Fact: obsidian is sharper than steel surgical tools and leaves less of a scar. Also fact: it dulls very quickly, and breaks easily when it's dulled.

Then again, I did already have a metal saw in my hand. Metal did replace stone as a medium for tools for a reason.

I set to work. I sawed and sawed, and kept sawing. Even I thought it was mind-numbing.

Meanwhile, M trimmed away on the smaller branches with the giant clippers. He cleared out most of the top of the tree while I kept sawing away at the trunk.

Over a hour and one ice-packed wrist later, he admitted that I was right.

Thankfully, the broken tree had only managed to knock off some of their guttering and the angle of the window a/c unit. Plus, we have firewood for next winter.

We came out of this storm very fortunately again. Many others in this town weren't so lucky with their houses. However, everyone is fortunate that it was only property damage this time.

The Graceful Spider

I saw a brown recluse spider crawling across my dashboard while I drove down the two lane road. Of course, this had to be on a narrow road with a high speed limit. Life is far too dramatic for me to be able to pull over and shoo the spider out.

I tilted and spun the wheel to navigate the road; and climbed hills and rapidly dropped down from them. The spider casually ambulated along in the sunlight.

That spider casually ambulated right down inside the air vent.

As I gripped the wheel, my imagination started to grip me. What if popped back out on myself or a passenger when I wasn’t expecting? What if it found its way through the maze and came out a different vent?

What if the spider had babies?

So, I turned the defroster on full blast. My thought was that the air would force the spider out; or at the very least, prevent it from going further toward the engine.

How right I was.

In fact, I was so right, that the rushing air cannoned the spider out of the vent into the air, exactly over center of the steering wheel and right into my lap.

Ten point perfect trajectory and landing.

Of course, now I had a poisonous spider in my lap with only a thin layer of denim between my skin and its fangs.

Memories of my childhood decided to emerge. The blindingly white lab coat of the doctor bubbled up. I was much smaller then, when the doctor told me that I was probably going to lose my thumb because of a spider bite.

At most, I lost my thumbnail. And that’s because when I noticed that it was starting to come loose, I grabbed a pair of pliers and finished the job. (Yes, that is a true story too.)

Today, I understand why people do that as a torture technique. I wouldn’t recommend it, even at a party. The nail never did grow back the same as the others either, and it’s still different to this day.

I was told that I was going to lose that thumb to a spider bite. So, what could that same species of spider do to my leg then?

I felt much smaller than the spider in my lap.

At this point, I decided to take my chances and pull over.

Gently, I wiped the spider out of my lap with an old fast food receipt. I shook the paper, and it glided down to the pavement. After all, it’s not its fault that it’s a poisonous creature. Besides, not being gentle at this juncture may have been bite inducing.

So, with a job well done, myself and the spider both unharmed, I closed the door and drove off.

I think I may have run over it.

Dalton Reed now = D. Dalton

My name isn’t Dalton Reed, it’s Deborah Dalton.

I hid behind that fake name for a couple of bad reasons. One, the main character’s name is so close to my own. Two, it’s the internet and I didn’t want to spill my identity all over it. Okay, maybe those are actually justifiable, but I didn’t come up with them until after I’d already chosen a pen name.

The real reason was that I was afraid. Of what? Everything? Nothing? My own shadow? Criticism could bounce off a fake name. No one would know it was me. No one could recognize me (and who recognizes authors anyway?).

As mentioned above, one the reasons I stuck with my sobriquet was that I choose a name so close to my own for the hero. That’s technically bad form. Originally, she bore the appellation Dylan. However, I was still strolling through the ‘D’ section of a baby name’s website (which earned me some awkward questions from friends) and came across Derora. Angels sang, the heavens parted and I’m pretty sure that pond in my parents’ back yard split to allow some squirrels passage to escape from the neighbor’s dog. “That’s it!”

Mental brakes screeched. I couldn’t use a name so close to my own. So, I ignored it. And I kept ignoring it. I kept ignoring it so much that it was all I could think about. I emailed some friends asking which was better, Dylan or Derora? I bet you can guess how they replied.

The other main reason for adopting a pen name is that I didn’t want people to know it was me. I didn’t want to be me. Not just in writing, either. I gave up on soccer, fencing, Tae Kwon Do and running. I let myself get addicted to sugar. I’m at a dead end job far below my college degree. Why? It was the easiest path. I like the people here; but I’ve always voluntarily passed up for a higher grade position. The thought of it makes my brain feel green. You know it’s an ominous indication when you’re thinking in colors.

That’s what I’ve been doing. Following the easiest path. Water follows the easiest path, and water always winds up on a downhill slope.

I’ve learned from my characters. They’re not stupid like me. Der is honest to herself. She knows what she wants to do, and doesn’t let the odds deter her. She knows there are catastrophes in the life she’s chosen, but she doesn’t hesitate anyway.

I was eight years old when I realized that all I wanted to do was write. I haven’t found any other career that I’ve really liked. Or maybe it’s because I’m too interested in everything, and wanted to try a myriad of careers. Nothing stuck.

I wrote the story that eventually morphed into Crown of the Realm when I was eight. In its most basic form, it was the same story, although with a completely different cast of characters and obstacles. The sword has always remained the same though.

I grew up telling myself that I couldn’t make a living as an author. Few people can. Well, now, I’m tired of working at a job I loathe and I’m too exhausted to hate myself anymore. I’m riding my bicycle to work, going to the gym over lunch and eating grapes instead of cookies at home.

I actually have my dog, Saxon, to thank for that. He ate all my cookies. He shouldn’t have been able to get them. Reality rarely deters this animal. Somehow, he managed to sneak them out from behind the countertop appliances, unwrap them and then immediately dispose of the evidence to his crime.

Whenever I imagine this, Grieg's In the Hall of the Mountain King plays in my head.

That night, he showed me that I could make it through one full day without any sugary trash. So, the next day, I told myself one day. Today, I’m telling myself one day. It gets easier every day, so maybe downhill isn’t always bad after all.

I can learn from the dog too. Not in the binge eating way, of course, but in the fact that he knows what he is. He’s a dog and he loves to run. To him, it’s not a chore. Running is an expression of freedom; or maybe he thinks he really can knock that bird down from the sky. Running didn’t used to be a chore for me either. I can rediscover that. Sometimes, I think that writing is a chore too, when really, it’s my expression of freedom.

These days, I want to be me. That means being a writer and using my real name.

Please note that there will be a long transition between switching names because I can’t afford to print new editions of the novels with my real name at the moment. I’d also like to correct any grammatical errors, accidental misspellings, etc that myself and Mr. Szott have missed. Feel free to point these out to me. I can’t afford line editors, so I need all the help available. I really have to thank you – for reading this post, and just reading my works in general. That means the world to me.

Honestly,
Deborah Dalton