My Grandfather

I got Burma, Her Story published the other day. The short story, at least. My next project is to turn it into a screenplay.

This is a story that I grew up hearing. I can’t remember a time of my life where I didn’t know bits and pieces of the life of this dog. I was happy to find third person contemporary sources to verify this amazing journey.

My grandfather was a pilot. When he was a child, he told the story of looking up to the sky on his Kansas farm and seeing a plane fly overhead and deciding to be a pilot. Mind you, this was in the 1920s. When he was old enough to join the Air Corps (predecessor to the USAF), he was first rejected because he was a several pounds underweight. So, he went home and ate and ate bananas for two weeks. Then he went back to the recruitment center and refused to go relieve himself until after he had been accepted into the military. Apparently, he was very grumpy that day.

He was already in the military, training in Arizona, when Pearl Harbor happened. He also listed many of his other military experiences in this treasure trove of declassified journals that we found after he had passed. He was also in the top 14 finalists to be among the first astronauts ever.

He was always a pilot, until an ultralight crash when he was 86 years old. The power cut out just after takeoff and he had to glide to an emergency landing in a field near Pittsburg (I think on the Missouri side). However, one of the wheels caught in a power line and cartwheeled him into the ground. I saw the pieces and scraps of the wreckage and couldn’t believe that anyone could survive that.

He lived until he was 92. His wits and eyesight never failed.

When I was younger, he would fly up to town to pick me up and fly me back down to the farm. He didn’t believe in this newfangled GPS. He gave me a map and told me to keep an eye on the highway and the rivers. Also, I learned that “taking the wheel” in a plane is a whole different ballgame then in a car.

By publishing this story, I want to share with the world what kind of man my grandfather was.

Pyromaniac Kittens

Because the kittens tried to burn their owners' house down, they were adopted out to my ex-boyfriend's mother on account of my Facebook post.

My friends had taken in some week-old strays who were super sick from the abandoned lot next to their house. Winter was coming anyway and they needed help. Fast forward several months and they were out of town, and I was stopping by the house every day to put out food, water and clean out the trays.

Now my friends are renting an old house and it's far from in good shape. It's so old that it has one of the built-in floor furnaces. But no one was worried because it didn't work.

Well, until it suddenly decided to. I arrived at the house one afternoon to a very ugly smell. Burning plastic. The kittens had knocked a plastic tupperware-style container on it and it was melting through the grate and dripping molten plastic onto the furnace itself.

Step 1: pry off the plastic that I could.

Step 2: locate the thermostat and shut off the heat. First, those floor furnaces aren't connected to the thermostat (at least in this case). Secondly, there was no off switch. They have the exact same thermostat as I do, so I know damn well where the off switch is and it was not there. I popped off the lid and adjusted the mercury switch, but that really didn't do anything because it wasn't wired into the floor furnace anyway.

Step 3: call friends. Leave message. Call again. Smoke is still rising.

Step 3.5: get on Facebook on my phone and find friends that way and tell them turn on their phone. Finally get on friends and the smoke alarm goes off.

Step 4: climb up on couch to reach smoke detector. Pop it open to find that it doesn't have any guts. Find second alarm located on really messy dresser buried under a stack of books and other paraphernalia  Throw alarm outside so that it will shut the hell up.

Step 5: learn that furnace has no off switch. Apparently, one has to crawl down into the spider kingdom, I mean, the crawl space and blow out the pilot light. I didn't even know it had been lit.

Step 6: locate a pair of pliers and rip away the rest of the semi-molten plastic still on the grate and dripping.

Step 7: scold Mr. Fluff for trying to chew on the hot plastic pieces.

Step 8&9: repeat steps 6-7 several times.

Step 10: hang out to make sure the plastic has burned off and won't catch anything on fire.

Step 11: call other friend and leave a message saying that you can't make it tonight because you're babysitting pyromaniac kittens (and then not explain what that meant for 2 days).

Step 12: have spouse stop by the house the following morning (while I'm at work) to make sure it's still standing. Receive text stating, "Help! I'm being attacked by kittens."

Step 13: post semi-amusing text to Facebook and wait for my ex-boyfriend's sister (who still is a friend) to ask if they're up for adoption because her mother was looking for a kitten.

I think my friends for whom I was babysitting were more than ready to agree.

Also, the lightbulb in the room with the litterbox burnt out and I couldn't find any spares on hand, so I ended up cleaning it out with help from the flashlight on my phone, but the kittens thought that this was the best toy ever. At least my phone hasn't caught fire yet.

Mulberry Pie

I'd forgotten how GREAT fresh berries can taste! ...Or what strange looks you can get by picking mulberry trees in a public park.

Here is my mulberry pie recipe that I copied from somewhere on the net and adapted (sorry, person, for not giving you proper credit). I also inherited a lot of baking books from my grandmother, which is cool, but a lot of the old school cookbooks don't give ingredient amounts! They just expect you to know!

Regardless, here's PIE!

Fresh mulberries:
1. Verify what a ripe mulberry looks like (if you're not already sure)
2. Pick desired amount of mulberries - prepare to get your hands juicy
3. Freeze for a few hours to kill off all the tiny insects
4. Wash thoroughly
5. (Optional) De-stem mulberries (I don't bother with this step, you'll never know in the pie)

Pie:
Ingredient List
3 cups mulberries
2/3 cup white sugar
1/2 cup flour
1/8-1/4 teaspoon cinnamon
1/8-/14 teaspoon nutmeg
Pie crust package from store (2 crusts)
1/2 tablespoon butter

Directions:
1. Preheat oven 400F
2. Combine mulberries, sugar, flour, cinnamon and nutmeg in a bowl. Mix well.
3. Roll out pie crust in pie tin.
4. Add mulberry mixture. Dot with butter.
5. Add other pie crust on top. Squeeze edges of crusts together and tuck inside pie tin.
6. Bake 15 min.
7. Lower temp to 350F and bake 30 min.
8. Cool.

Serve a la mode with ice cream if you wish.

It's really that easy! And fresh berries = NOM NOM NOM.           

Making Mead

I will be continually updating this post for the near future from start until bottling.

This recipe is actually based on a mistake that was turned into a triumph by my friend and fellow mead-maker, John.

As of the moment, I'm calling this Baby Hellhound: Wayfarer Mead. Why? Because all my drinks will be under the label Baby Hellhound (after my dog), and Wayfarer...um...because that was what was first in my head.

It starts with making a dry mead and then straining through a sweetening tea at the end. Totally unorthodox, but it worked out fantastically for him. Let's see if I can duplicate it!

I'm writing down exactly what I did. Feel free to deviate from anything I added or did. Also, let me know how it turns out!

Baby Hellhound: Wayfarer, Attempt #1

5 gallon batch

Ingredients 
5 gallons of room temp spring water
11.5 lbs Ambrosia Honey, Colorado Western Slope (via amazon.com)
1 teaspoons yeast nutrient
2 teaspoons yeast energizer
campden tablets
1 package Red Star Pasteur Champagne Dry Yeast
5 1 oz packets Herbal Alchemy's Vampire's Kiss tea (1 per gallon)

List of Tools
Fermenting bucket (or carboy)
Carboy (for racking)
Paint mixer drill extension (that has been dedicated to only making mead/wine/beer)
Electric drill (make SURE your battery is powered!)
No-rinse sanitizer
Airlock
Mortar & pestle
Teaspoon
Tablespoon
Spatula
Coffee filters (not needed for months)
Bowl (or beaker) for yeast rehydration
Cleaning washcloth
Hydrometer

Day 1 (Friday, April 13, 2012)
Part 1 - Sanitize Everything.

Okay, back up. Start by CLEANING your fermenting area. Yes, that means the dishes from lunch and whatever that crusty stuff is. And those long dead flowers your spouse gave you. Give yourself plenty of room to work.

Follow the instructions on your particular sanitizer about how to use it. Follow those instructions on everything you'll be using today. Or boil items to kill off all the germs. List for me as follows:
Fermenting bucket (or carboy)
Paint mixer drill extension
Airlock
Mortar & pestle
Teaspoon
Tablespoon
Spatula
Bowl (or beaker) for yeast rehydration
Cleaning washcloth
Hydrometer

Part 2 - Dumping Everything in the Bucket

I went with the no boil method. If you choose to boil or otherwise heat your must (unfermented honey mixture), go for it. There are plenty of forums out there on how to do that.

At this time and only if you want to, crush some campden tablets (1 per gallon) in your mortar & pestle (or under a spoon) and stir into the must to kill all wild yeasts and bacteria. You'll have to wait 24 hours to pitch your yeast then, so that the sulphites don't attack your yeast too.

I'm taking my chances with Mother Nature. No boil & no campden tablets for me.

Rehydrate your yeast according to instructions. Place your honey in some warm water to make pouring smoother (but don't mix the honey IN the water).

Take a break while your yeast rehydrates.

Pour in 2 gallons of water. Add all the honey. This will take time and patience to get almost every last drop. Add yeast nutrients & energizer. Fill with water up to the 5 gallon mark on your bucket. If you're bucket or carboy doesn't have nifty markers, I used a little under 4 and 1/2 gallons of water to make a total 5 gallon batch.

Attach your sanitized drill bit to the drill and go mad scientist on it. Maniacal laughter encouraged. Mix the honey until it's dissolved into the water. This takes awhile. I mixed for a good 5 minutes and then some. The must also needs lots of oxygen in it in order for the yeast to work its magic.

If your yeast is ready and your must is uniform at room temperature, pitch the yeast!

Lock down your fermenting bucket's lid -- or put the bung in your carboy -- and slide on the airlock. Crush a campden tablet and add that into water and fill up to your airlock's fill line. We don't want bacterial growth in our airlocks!

Pitching temp 79 degrees

OG 1.0803

Store in darkness and wait.

Day 3 (Sunday, April 15, 2012)

Sweet smelling carbon dioxide bubbles!

Updates to follow.

I got trolled

Now I wonder whom I ticked off. Or is this a random trolling? Then again, I have had some ugly fallings out with internet savvy friends. *sigh*

I was checking on what sites link to my ati site and I was very surprised to see a link to a gay porn story site with my little jpg of the dawn sword from this blog and some praise for the story. WTF?

Those are not my words. I don't care or judge what people do or write in their own time (as long as it's informed consent among adults anyway), but those are not my words. I'm most upset that someone lied in my name. That's dishonorable, and it's dishonoring me.

And the worst part of this is that there is nothing I can do. If I complain, more trolls will act and I don't want a "Santorum Google Problem" on my hands.

Once again, it goes to show that while humans have evolved over time, humanity has not.

Update - I should mention that the "suspect" had access to the computer I used. *headdesk* I should really, really stop giving some a-holes second (third, fourth) chances because they play nicely to my face.

In other news, wiping my hands and moving on. Life is but a learning experience, often painful.

Mead

This has always been one of my favorite drinks, ever since I was- Hey, age isn't important! Maybe it's because I like honey. (Who doesn't like honey?)

I am now trying to brew my own. I started with the amazingly easy recipe found in the Gotmead.com's NewBee Guide. Instead of using a glass carboy (I just added a new word to my vocabulary), I just stuck it back in the 1 gallon jug; and instead of an airlock, I used a balloon (as suggested by stormthecastle.com)

At least I didn't use the archaeologically traditional version and pee in the jug.

...Why do I know that?

Next step, making an acerglyn (honey-maple syrup mead), and then rocketing into space on a sugar rush.

A friend of mine also gave me an e-z-cap, so I can brew test batches in a 2-liter bottle. Hang on, I just got a great idea for a prank! What my unsuspecting spouse thinks is Mountain Dew...

I have NO IDEA what Kansas alcohol laws are, but I do know that Carrie Nation is buried in Medicine Lodge. However, I am not going to worry because none of this will ever be for sale. I also think I've got Christmas figured out for the next ten years. Score!

Severe Weather in Review

I drove through the 2011 Joplin Tornado storm. Funny thing is, I was on my way home from Oklahoma to examine my house for damage from baseball sized hail because of an entirely different storm. 

I guess it's a good thing I enjoy thunderstorms, and keep digital backups of important information. When I was in Nevada, I remember hearing, "I wouldn't want to live in Kansas. Too many tornadoes." My reply, "As if you don't have enough earthquakes?"

I challenge you, dear reader, to find a parcel of land on this wonderful planet that is not vulnerable to any form of natural disaster. I haven't found one. (And no, doomsday bunkers do not count! Stay in there long enough, and they're prone to famine. Also flooding if you don't inspect the plumbing.)

I never saw the funnel that struck Joplin itself. I was stuck in the creation of the monster.

A 30-40mph tailwind! I was absolutely thrilled to be leaving Oklahoma. Some clouds on the northern horizon, but no worry. I was going to get the best gas mileage ever! ...Until I crossed the Kansas border and ran into a 40-50mph headwind.

To make this tale stereotypical, I was driving by the original locale of "Little House on the Prairie". No joke. It's right off US 75 Highway.

I saw the clouds overhead growing darker and tumbling around like angry snakes in a bag. I know what this means.

I didn't know whether to stop and find a ditch or keep driving and try to escape.

The whole situation reminded me of another time had stopped a hotel in Nebraska during Tornado Season. My mother and I walked across the highway to local fast food joint. There was a thunderstorm. Big deal. When we came out, the massive American flag on the west side of the highway was blowing north. The equally big flag on the east side was blowing due south.

So, what did we do? Ducked our heads in the wind, walked back to the hotel and passed out. I have no idea if there was a tornado warning that night not.

I also had the flag thing happen to me again in the panhandle of Texas. My roommate and I had pulled into a rest stop because the wind was just too crazy and we wanted some information on this storm (this was before the proliferation of smartphones). Same thing, flag on the other side of the highway was going a totally different direction.

And then it hailed. Well, it looked like hail, but it was spreading out into little white shrapnel when it hit the ground. It was snow! It was snowing in huge chunks that splattered when they landed. I walked out in it.

And then there was that time on I-35 when I was driving 90 mph to escape the oncoming tornadic weather, and I was passed by a cop! I guess we both knew how badly we needed to be somewhere else at the moment. Plus, everyone else was driving that quickly too. My poor car still has scratches from pebbles and other little natural projectiles that day.

That car and I left the "Little House on the Prairie" sign to the mercy of the wind as we whizzed by.

But, Deb, I screamed at myself. This is no time to think of other stories! What are you going to do this time?! I was too busy trying to wrestle the car in a straight line to try to pull up radar on my phone.

There was no rain or hail, or even thunder unless I couldn't hear that over the roaring winds. There was just wind strong enough to shove my 3,000 lb car around with relative ease. I'd be off the road if a gust hit me just right.

I didn't know if I'd outrun a funnel by driving or race straight into one. Or maybe both because these storms often drop several twisters.

What did I do? I kept on trucking. After a white-knuckled twenty minutes, I was able to breathe easier. The storm had lumbered off to the east. Black and purple and bloated. I remember thinking, 'Someone is going to get creamed.' And I was right.

As I review 2011 from this NWS report, I wonder what 2012 willl hold.

I drove over 140 miles that day, and I could still see the clouds from that storm when I arrived home.

Confusing the Neighbors

There I went, confusing the neighbors. But it was gone in a matter of hours.

UPDATE 1/8: Made Art of Trolling Homepage

Katy Trail

Last month, MV and I did the Katy Trail, a rails-to-trails path across Missouri. We loaded up our bicycles, shoved them in the back of an Amtrak train, disembarked in St. Louis, aimed our bikes at Kansas and went for it.

starting out

And the Missouri River looked like this the whole way. Actually, at this time, the river hadn't yet crested.

After we passed, parts of the trail were actually closed. Thankfully, most of the trail looked like this.

In the mornings, there was always the mystical scent of the forest that no matter what they may claim, laundry detergents just can't replicate.

Oooh.

Ahh.

Of course, just like anywhere in the Midwest, storms just hide behind trees and bluffs and suddenly jump out from behind you and throw everything they've got at you. And no matter how many water pistols and water balloons you bring, you will be outmatched by the storm. Also, the lightning will not turn its bass down for nothing.

There we were, innocently peddling along under the shady trees and clouds when ...rumble...

Me: "Was that thunder?"

MV: "May have been a truck. I don't know."

Storm: "RUMBLE!!"

MV: "Yeah, that was thunder."

We checked our map - we were about a mile away from the Tebbetts trailhead, and its little information depot boasting its solid wooden roof. It was the fastest mile we probably made the whole trip.



arriving in Tebbetts

But Fortune was with us that day, not only did we get to park out bicycles inside the Turner Katy Trail Shelter, the town was throwing its annual picnic! We waited out a furious 30 minutes chowing down on hot dogs and hamburgers.

The rain was so tremendous that we couldn't see the cars across the street for a good 10 minutes. Everyone was happy to chat with us, and commented on how lucky we were. In fact, if I hadn't of had a flat tire that morning, we would have been past Tebbetts and peddled straight into the teeth of the storm.

So we carried on. This is near Cooper's Landing. At least 4 cars passed us on the road to the left of the trail.

We were lucky with storms again. I had to book a room with the Hotel Frederick in Boonville (awesome place to stay) because there was no tent camping nearby. I'm glad I did, because at least two severe storms rolled through in the early morning hours. How do I know they were severe? One, the thunder waking me up was a clue. I've slept through a tornado in a tent before so you can safely infer that thunder usually doesn't wake me. Two, well... this:

MV is less than thrilled about our cycling adventure at the moment

We climbed over 23 trees in the short stretch between Boonville and Pilot Grove before we ran into the DNR clearing crew. Happily, they informed us that it was clear all the way to Sedalia.

I also noticed a thorn in my front tire at mile marker 199. The tire lasted all the way until marker 216 when the thorn finally fell out. I also learned that you can't patch an inner tube with fix-a-flat already inside of it. It oozes out of the puncture hole so the glue on your patch won't stick. Even when you duct tape it onto the inner tube.

The Death of a Tire

Despite a couple of setbacks, the trip was awesome and we spent more time laughing than cussing out a couple of flat tires. We also discovered a couple of very tasty brews and wines at the many local wineries. Everyone we met was nice and courteous, including locals and other cyclists. I couldn't have asked for a better summer vacation, and one so close to home!

I'd recommend checking out the official website http://www.bikekatytrail.com/ for history, mileage and other very useful information.

Hopefully, the Kansas Flint Hills Trail will be up to this standard soon. We're working on it!

All photographs are copyrighted by D. Dalton 2011. All Rights Reserved.

Changing Another Tire

The last changing a tire story resulted in a point for the men in the war of the sexes. This one, it's a point for us women.

I jogged down the stairs to warm up my car outside my apartment one freezing morning. It was so cold I had an icicle hanging off my nose in about a minute. Now, I know that some cars don't have to be warmed up in the winter, but mine gets a little sluggish if I don't. (Also, I've been driving the same car since I was 16, and I'm STILL driving it to this day.)

A few empty stalls away, one of the downstairs tenants was fumbling with a flat tire. I'd seen him around, but hadn't really said anything to him before. He had his long hair pulled back in a very neat ponytail and his forehead was banging against his car's paneling as if he was about to cry.

He'd gotten his jack underneath the car and had raised it so that the tire spun every time he tried to loosen a lugnut. He was also thumping his little stick tire iron against the lugnut, unable to generate enough torque to actually move the damn bolts. And the tire spun again.

I popped my trunk and pulled out my cross-piece tire iron; it has much better leverage. "It'll go quicker with this," I offered. "And, uh, you really want to loosen the nuts first, and then lift the tire off the ground."

And I wound up teaching him how to change a tire. We fitted his donut wheel on, and I tossed my tire iron back in my trunk.

He pushed his ponytail back behind his shoulder. "Thanks for not making fun of me. I know, I'm a guy, but I'm a philosophy major."

As if being a philosophy major was an argument against not knowing how to change a tire. That logic is fallacious.

I smiled and replied, "No problem."

"Yeah, I usually try to get these tires before they go completely flat. Now I gotta drive to the shop, again."

I paused, halfway through closing my trunk, and tried to think. I licked my lips, already cracking in the sub-freezing air. "When was the last time you checked your tire pressure?"

"What's that?"

And I didn't have the courage to explain it. The poor philosopher was already so embarassed because a woman had to change his tire for him that I just couldn't do it. I couldn't tell him that you don't have to drive around on your tires until they go flat of their own accord.

That is one of the minor regrets I have in my life. If I could do it again, I'd be honest with him. But all I can do now is hope that he's learned, and do better next time.

Oh, and whatever repair shop he ROUTINELY went to, the mechanic must've been either a) amazed that every flat tire this guy had didn't need to be patched or b) an asshole.

Changing a Tire

I worked one summer out in the deserts of northeastern Nevada as a shovel bum. For those of you not immersed in the underworld of archaeology that means someone who spends her time surveying and excavating potential or real archaeological sites.

I once was asked by one of husband's cousins what I did, and I replied, "Well, I'm kinda bumming around with archaeology right now."

He brightened up. "Oh, my daughter loves dinosaurs!"

"Umm, that's palaeontology. Archaeology is human only."

For awhile, I volunteered in Kansas and then drifted away from archaeology. I regret that. (Mostly because I couldn't afford graduate school.)

Anyway, this post is about the battle of the sexes. Gender and its role is various societies is of course fascinating to anthropologists/archaeologists, sociologists, psychologists and psychotics.

How does the battle of the sexes figure into Sunshine Valley, Nevada? (Among one of the many places we surveyed.)

Let me try to paint how remote this was. If you think rural Kansas is out of the way, it's civilization compared to rural Nevada. There's usually a gas station within a 100 mile radius.

When we were bouncing along in the van down the dirt (not gravel) road, I looked out toward the distant mountains. I couldn't see the range's base because of a vast, hazy mirage. It wasn't a mirage of anything, it was just liquid, wavy tans and browns. Suddenly, a massive brown mustang leading a pack of wild horses burst out of the illusion and ran distantly alongside the van before melting back into the mirage.

Other people saw them too. I hope that answers that question bubbling in your mind: well, weren't they part of the mirage?

One of my friends I made on this trip was a local bank president in nearby Elko, and she talked about how she and her husband used to trap rattlesnakes for dinner.

You'd think the women out here would be pretty tough? Well, not all of them. This was our first clue: at lunchtime, a pencil thin girl unfolded a bandanna and sat on it so she wouldn't have to sit her butt against the sandy ground. We - both male and female - did our best not to laugh. At least where she could hear us.

Another day, we were rattling down another dirt road between the sage brush and tangled junipers. Today, a couple of the girls were stating that women were of course superior to men. Oddly enough, the men in the van were ignoring them. So were I and the bank president.

I guess I should clarify my personal opinion - there are too many idiots on both sides and in between the gender fence to be able to decide. I personally believe that it doesn't matter what sex, nationality, skin color, creed, blah blah blah, you are - you can still be an idiot.

Or you could be brilliant. At least, I hope you're brilliant.

And these girls kept prattling on about their inherent superiority, and how they don't need men to survive.

Well, in the van, a totally unsurprising thing happened. We got a flat tire. I think a rattlesnake tried to bite the van. Why not? It'd be more dramatic.

So, as I'm climbing out the van, I glanced back at the chatterboxes. Their faces suddenly paled. One quavered, "I've never changed a tire before."

Me: "What, in your whole life?"

She shook her head and licked her lips. "No."

"Then what do you do when you get a flat?"

Reply: "I just call my husband."

I wanted to head-desk the desert. So it was up to me, the boys and the bank president to change the tire. Which we did with practiced ease.

Grudgingly, I think this is a point for the males in the battle of the sexes.

I also thought of a great idea that summer: the archaeology diet. You can eat only what you can carry, deep in the middle of the Nevadan desert. You'll be tan and skinny in under a month! Downside: work, heat, dirt/sand, rattlesnakes, scorpions.

Here's a picture I took that summer with a disposable camera. My digital one had melted.

First Book 4 Rant

I started working on Book 4, Stone & Bone, today. I’m not going all out on it yet. I’ve still got some other stories to craft before I’m ready to hit the accelerator on this one.

When I started outlining these stories way back in high school, vampires were not popular (except among us gaming nerds). Even back then, I’d always rather play zombies (or more accurately, someone killing zombies in new and creative ways; although now, I will admit that the exploding egg bombs were a bit of a stretch).

In the present, I kind of regret including a vampire character because they’re just so goddamn popular now. And it sucks because I get the impression that most of us like Tom, and I’m not sure he’d be the same if something fundamental had changed.

In this book, we’ll meet more vampires too – but happily, they are mean, nasty, manipulative and in no way anything like what has become mainstream. They don’t see the point in getting to know their food, except maybe to play with it. I’m even putting the sign “No Sparkling Allowed!” on their clubhouse door.

Alright, that’s a lie. Because doing that might indicate where their clubhouse door is. Oh no, I think I’ve said too much!

Okay, rant done. Back to the grind!

PS – Does this make me a fantasy genre hipster now? Noooo!

What Happens in the Car Wash...

...goes on someone's blog.

I try to keep my car clean. It's not easy in the transition between winter and spring, when it's 80 degrees F on one day and 30 on the next with snow on the ground. All this results in me dropping an entire paycheck's worth of quarters at the car wash.

And here's what I saw.

Two stalls were open, but I noticed there was something sitting on top of the drain in one of them. So, I pulled into the other and then peeked over. It was a box of Remington bullets. On the drain in an empty stall. Okay, weird.

Yet not as weird as the over-sized load in the bed of the pickup truck today. First, I thought it strange that a pickup truck would have a load in the car wash. I "dropped" a couple of quarters, and then had to drop a couple of more because the first ones didn't roll far enough.

The owner of the truck was just finishing spraying down his hot tub. It was too big to fit flat in the bed, so it was propped up over one of the sides of the truck.

I've always drooled over owning a hot tub, but I always assumed that cleaning it wouldn't involve manhandling it into your truck and driving to the car wash. Also, I figured that the electronic controls are waterproofed to some degree, but to a high pressure sprayer on the exterior paneling?

What kind of party did that man have where it became necessary to load up his hot tub and take it to the car wash? On second thought, I'm sure that knowledge would disturb me.

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.