Christmas at Camp

Another Fun Day of Snowmobiling (Yuck)


Chris' New Rabbit Hat


Bruce's Chinese Camp Tool Kit (Eat your heart out Snap-On!)


Too Much Excitement (Breena's new rug)


The Christmas Tree

Our Christmas Tree!

Charlie Brown Tree with Snoopy Breena

On Center Pond

Who's Guarding the House?

The security detail takes in a well deserved nap in the fall sun.

Who's Minding the Henhouse?

Last week B.S. (before snow), there was a commotion in the chicken yard and when I went down to investigate, this red tailed hawk had one of Chris' hens pinned under a rhododendron bush and was commencing to devour it. I was able to pry it off the poor chicken but he soon came back and roosted on top of the chicken shed waiting for another chance. The poor old hen survived, a little beat up but alive. But, then a couple days later "our" Goshawk showed up at killed another of the hens. They have been locked in since but have been too shook up to lay egss. There's always something down on the farm!

Marshmallow World? Humbug!

I thought I would share our first snow with you all. Please, come take all you want!

Oh, OK, I'll Play - 7 Sordid Secrets-

Everybody knows most all my stories (actually, not even close to all) but here are a few more tidbits:

1) I can play the bagpipes, enjoy a good Haggis and have had 11 Scottish Terriers in my life. (Makes you wonder, don't it?)

2) My dream car is a Ferrari 360 Spider.........with a 10' snowplow and tow hitch to make it useful. But......

3) Driving sucks.

4) I try to keep a vegan or at least vegetarian diet but it's difficult in a carnivorous world. Plus, there is that Haggis thing , Mrs. Dudley's cookies and Garland Store makes a wicked chicken salad sandwich. Anyway, I don't make a big deal of it. I'm actually just thankful that I have anything to stuff in my face.

5) Chris and I have seen 5 comets together: Halley, Hyakatake, Hale-Bopp, LINEAR and now Holmes. (Peyton should go out and see it now)

6) I am working on becoming a curmudgenly recluse.

7) I am working on becoming a better steward of my land.

5.

It had been many years since we walked the beach together so the letter came as a complete surprise. But the real shock was this letter was from Hamish, the cabbie. I feared it contained bad news, but I wasn't ready for the tale it told. In it he told a story of unimaginable terror on the high seas that I will relate to you here and call "The Saga of Donald McNish"

Young Donald was a seaman. He had signed on as crew and was standing second watch in the starboard bilge aboard a pseudo-research vessel out of Oban. The mission of the ship was to find evidence to support the theory that the Loch Ness Monster, "Nessie", did not in fact live in Loch Ness but spent most of her time feeding and nurturing her young and living the good life in the open seas away from the prying eyes of the world by shadowing colliers and tourist ferries as they passed through the locks at Fort Augustus, traveling down the Caledonian Canal to Loch Linnhe and into the Firth of Lornh around Mull. She would then repeat this trip when the time was right and return to Loch Ness for a "wee roll in the heather", so to speak , tease the tourists with a flash of skin then back out to the rich fisheries in the sea.

So far the evidence had been thin to back this notion which would, in fact, account for the lack of proof being found for Nessie's existance. None the less, the ship sailed on knowing that scientific investigation was mostly years of drudgery.

A good sailor always has his eyes on the horizon for signs of trouble and trouble found young McNish and his shipmates in the form of Fiona and her all girl crew sailing on an unflagged ship registered to a militant wing of the Royal Society for the Preservation of Scottish Folklore. Fiona and her companions had been taught since young school girls that Nessie lived happily in the Loch being a proud part of the majesty of the Highlands and it was Loch Ness' mysterious deep, dark waters that kept her hidden from the naysayers and cruel scientific "experimentation" and any notions to the contrary were akin to heresy. So it was with great excitement when they caught sight of NcNish's ship as this was their chance to make their voices heard and be fair warning to all that would follow.

Fiona ordered her crew to come about and make course along side the scurvy dogs vessel. Unfurling the flag of St. Andrews Cross, they bared their proud, and ample, Scottish bosoms to honor Wallace and the ghosts of Stirling Bridge and boarded and scuttled the research ship and sent her to the bottom to "fatten the eels on the blasphemers bones".

As scuttlings go, it was a rather crude attempt. The crew had adequate time to abandon ship and man their life boats. Arriving back in port, the ragged and somewhat shocked crew was all accounted for, except one: Donald McNish could not be found.

Seen sailing off, bound to Fiona's fantail, wee Donald McNish was last reported cleaning the pigeon foulings off the decks at Fiona's Paddleboat Rental in the moat at Urquhart Castle.

The letter concluded: "she needs you"........Hamish.

4.

According to my watch, we should have been in Dubai two hours ago. Two hours ago, yesterday. Apparently my new watch had stopped working when I was still back in Rio. Probably happened during the lively bottom half of the Best Butt on the Beach competition that I was covering. Barely. Well, that's OK. The guy I bought it from assured me Rolex's have a lifetime guarantee so all I'll have to do is send it back to the factory for repairs. Actually, all it probably needs is a glob of grease on the gears or something. I should be able to pick some of that up in Dubai. But what I was really after was a barrel of oil.

I was once told by a highly placed oil company representative that from crude oil I could distill not only my own gasoline but I could get propane to fill my lantern, butane to light it with, napthalene to kill off the moths gathering around it, tar to patch my driveway, kerosene to clean up the mess with and more -ene's and -ane's than I could possibly know what to do with. In any event, my lubrication needs will be met. But more importantly, I will have my own little hedge fund in a can.

But I think I will just take this damn watch off and put it in the little bag in the seat pocket in front of me and hand it a flight attendant for disposal when she brings me another drink. Time, who needs it? Everyday that goes by sinks the knife of memories deeper in my heart and every scent of newly cut hay gives it a twist. After all this time, why does she still torture me so?

3.

Hamish was growing impatient. I always liked the cute little horn sounds on those cute little foreign cars, but Hamish had a way of putting an edge to it. He was already further off his normal route than ever. Her mother had spent nearly an hour giving him directions to the farm and now it was growing dark and he was getting nervous. He knew he was in an area populated by faeries in the peat bogs and he had no interest in becoming the subject of stories told by children under the covers on dark and stormy nights.

I had thoughts of slipping him a couple quid and sending him on his way, but what was the use? She was betrothed and I had to meet with the crew of avid but amateur sailors I had met in a rather seedy Clydeside bar in Glasgow for a trip home on their sloop rig.

The last thing they needed was a heartbroken, love sick passenger. So.. buck up, matey. There's more fish in the sea. It's better to have loved and lost than..... Foreign women are nothing but trouble. Hell, they can't even talk right. Floor it Hamish, I got a boat to catch.

2.

The taxi arrived right on time. It seemed like only yesterday Hamish, the driver had dropped me off. And now it's goodbye, I sailed with the tide in the morning. Where did 2 weeks go? I gathered up my things and said thank you to her folks for a wonderful adventure. I had to pass by her bedroom near the stable in their rambling, centuries old farmhouse. When I reached her doorway, there she was coming towards me and with outstretched arms we embraced in one of those magical, first young love moments. Her hair still had the sweet smell of fresh hay from the time we spent together earlier in the mow.

She had grown up in this little town in Ayreshire on the west coast of Scotland. She lived in a house that went back 10 known generations of her family and was now farmed by her brother. I'm not sure even the locals could pronounce the name of the town. Actually, most conversations in town seemed to involve mostly shrugs and grunts.

A beautiful child, she was the perennial winner of the Loveliest Lass of the Linklands at the local fair. A competition scheduled between the herding dogs and the caber toss to be sure and get a good turn out. The linklands are a narrow stretch of rather poor, thin soil and scrubby vegetation separating the fragile interior land from the often hostile sea. Aside from it's ecological purpose of a barrier/buffer strip, it's only other use was for coastal real estate development and golf courses. This fact flashed Pound signs in her father's eyes. Although not a sporting man, the thought of sea side condominiums replacing the worn and sagging docks and freeing the local fisherman of their rather dismal existence gave him the warm, fuzzy altruistic feeling that real estate developers were known for.

But, the condos had yet to leave the napkin they were sketched on. His actual occupation was owning and operating the town pub. Conveniently located next to the town health clinic, it had the friendly, homey appeal that kept a steady stream of customers. He had a fairly lucrative contract with a nearby bus company to provide "Hamely fare an' a dram" to the glassy eyed patrons of the "Burn's Country Motorcoach Tours". Although a mass feeding, the sheppard's pie with bashed neeps was actually quite tasty and the watered down whisky would appeal to any good Scot's sense of frugality. Her mother, a good, kind woman would lovingly pack a lunch for anyone going down to the beach for a picnic, carefully wrapping the simple sandwiches tightly in foil to keep the blowing sand out and with a wink would fill their canteen with "a wee samthin tae tak the chill off".

It was this atmosphere and a powerful thirst that drew me into this place. I was in the waning weeks of my "summer abroad" program from school in the states. My assigned project was to study the effects of muirburn, the burning of heather to affect regeneration, on the red grouse population. But I confess a good part of the time was studying the effects of fermentation on barley. I had taken a taxi down as far as Hamish knew where he was going and assured me it probably wasn't too long a walk into the next town, whatever it's name was. It was a typical dreary cold and wet day. My feet were soaked from the five mile trudge and my eyes burning from the coal smoke pouring from the chimneys. The flickering light over the pub sign caught my bleary eye and the sandwich board with soup and stovies on special drew me in. While warming the rest of my toes with the scotch broth and my brain with a second pint, a sparkle of light caught my eye. There she was, polishing the silver in front of the fire, the soft light of the flames highlighting her incredible beauty and her delicate touch revealing her gentle nature. It was all too much. Bold from drink and toes warmed by soup, I suavely approached her and blurted out "how do you pronounce the name of this here town anyway?". I only remember her giving me a shrug and a grunt before I hit the floor. Apparently my feet were not as thawed as I had thought and the effects of two pints and quickly standing had been my downfall. Literally. Fearful that a litigation crazed American could be the end of the family business, her folks had carried me over to the clinic where they were advised the best thing would be for her to nurse me back to health and get me back on my way with no ill feelings. With that kind of care there was no real reason to "get better" in any hurry. We strolled the farm together and she showed me the ways of her world. We were able to work on local pronunciations, the subtleties of the shrug and the intonation in the grunt long into the nights and practice them during the day while learning how to open local seafoods. Although I wasn't really sure some of the words she used were real, I was smitten. But there was a problem: Wee Donald McNish.

Shailagh's Samhain Celebration!!

Two Zero Zulu

I was passing the time in some professional's waiting room mindlessly thumbing thru old periodicals when I came across a Life magazine with the cover story of "The Real Right Stuff" with a picture of a line of flight suited figures with helmets, goggles and O2 masks in front of a jet fighter. On the next page was the same picture but this time the figures had their faces revealed and there was a line of "old" men with names like Scott Crossfield, "Fish" Salmon, Bob Hoover and Russ O'Quinn. Russ O'Quinn? I know him!

I first met Russ O'Quinn when he came into the shop at Augusta State Airport. He was escorted by my boss Bill Perry, a legend in Maine aviation circles. Russ had just bought a Meyer's biplane, known as a "Lil' Toot" from a person in Rockland who had built this in his garage. This was back in the day when homebuilding airplanes was still a fairly fringe activity and this airplane was built just from plans obtained through Popular Mechanics. The airplane was in pieces and Russ was looking for someplace to reassemble it and fly it back to his home in California. Could we help him ? I, of course, said sure. If Bill Perry, a man who knew more about airplanes and airplane people than I could ever hope to said this polite, unassuming man was OK, well then let's put an airplane back together.

The project went along pretty smoothly. I was absolutely floored that someone actually built this thing in their garage. Russ was modestly explaining the workings of the design and it slowly became clear that he had analyzed the engineering of it and his plans were to get it home to his shop and further modify the airplane with such things as and additional set of ailerons on the top wing which should give it a roll rate in excess of 720 degrees a second. Wait a minute, you're going to roll this thing twice around in one second? Just who do you think you are? Some jet test pilot or something? Well, actually, yes. Russ was in fact a retire Air Force test pilot and his "shop" was a refurbishing facility known as Skyfox that took "obsolete" F-104's and rebuilt them with more modern engines and equipment and sold them as trainers to developing countries. He said that he and his team of pilots were on a 5 day duty rotation because it took that for your brain to get back to normal after wringing out these rebuilt airplanes. Geez, and I was trying to impress him with my vast aviation knowledge and newly printed flight instructor's license!

Well, the day finally came. Lil Toot was ready to fly. After a few ground checks, Russ got in and took it back into the sky. We stood around on the ramp waiting for him to show his stuff but it was a fairly normal first flight check out. After he got out, he came over to me and said that it seemed to fly pretty well but would I take it out and see what I thought? Are you kidding me? Me, fly that? Bill Perry was standing there and urged me on saying that I could handle it. Russ was more philosophical and just said "when are you ever going to get a chance like this again?" So, my heart pounding, I strapped in. The airplane did not have a working airspeed indicator, which is a fairly important instrument for landing and he told me to try a few stalls and listen to the flying wires sound. Their "singing" will get lower as you get close to stall. Oh, great, not to add any pressure to the moment or anything. So Russ gave me his helmet and gave the propellor a swing to get it started. I taxied out to the runway and turned onto the centerline, gave myself a last word of encouragement and advanced the throttle. The tail came up quickly and shortly after the mains were off. I was flying. The rather large helmet was sucked up off my head by the lift and was a fairly uncomfortable feeling. The airplane flew pretty nicely but not having airspeed indication was a little unnerving especially never having listened to wires before, I mean, who was I, a Wright brother?. So I flew around the airport a while tried some slow flight to "listen to the wires" but was a little uneasy about doing an actual stall. Actually, I found the helmet to be a better airspeed indicator; the higher it was sucked off my head, the faster I was going. I was getting somewhat comfortable now with the airplane and had some thought about going over and buzzing a friends camp but I had no idea of fuel onboard and I knew Russ wanted to get ready for his trip home in the morning. So I entered the traffic pattern for a landing. The thought of this got the heart rate back up again. The airplane is rather short and had the potential to be a little twitchy on the runway. I turned on final and set up what seemed to be a pretty nice descent rate. The helmet indicated speed was about right, maybe a little fast but this was a sporty little number so I let it have it's head. This was real jet fighter stuff, Russ would be proud!

Lined up with the centerline again, I crossed the numbers for runway one-seven. I began to flare and started pulling the power off. The mains gave a satisfying squeak and the tail wheel came down nice and easy. Whew! Boy, that was fun! But then, the tail came around in a snap and I was skidding down the runway sideways. I started dancing on the rudders and tapping the brakes but I was now in a classic ground loop. She leaned over hard on the left wing and I watched as the wing bent in half. We finally came to rest by the side of the runway. My heart was as broken as the wing spar. Russ came running over and the only thing I could keep saying was "oh my god Russ, I'm sorry" "oh my god Russ, I'm sorry" over and over again. The only thing he said was "come on get out of there, you're covered in gas". The broken spar and punctured the fuel tank and there was fuel everywhere. To say I felt like absolute shit would be an understatement.

We pushed the airplane off the runway and over to my hangar where I kept my 172. Russ asked if I would give him a ride back to the motel. On the ride over his words of wisdom were "Well, you just had a flying lesson. You did real well but you gave up on her on roll out. Always remember, never get into an argument with an airplane. But if you do, be sure you win."

When I dropped him off at his room he added "Tomorrow, the guys will probably give you a hard time about this but just say 'if he had given you the chance, wouldn't you have taken it?'"

I headed off to my secret fishing spot and just sat. I don't think I've ever felt that really rotten. Nobody ever said anything to me. Didn't need to.

A couple weeks later, Russ' son who was becoming a missionary pilot came up with a trailer and picked up the pieces. I never heard anything more about the airplane until a couple years ago I looked up a Lil Toot website where there are pictures of all of them registered and there was old 920Z in new paint still registered to Russ O'Quinn. Damn nice llittle airplane.

Jungle Larry and the Iguana

Lest anyone get the idea that I have no personal contact with exotic, foreign animals, I present this to dispel that notion.

-Preface-

For those under 50 or who did not grow up in northeast Ohio, a bit of background information is needed. Jungle Larry, aka. Dr. Lawrence Tetzlaff, was a naturalist, conservationist, animal trainer and educator. Originally from Michigan, he and his wife, Safari Jane established a small zoo at Chippewa Lake Park in Medina where he would teach people about creatures of the wild. Although he had become primarily a big cat trainer, his background was in reptiles. He was combat deferred in WWII because a snake bite as a teen left him in a leg brace. He instead worked at an Army facility in Florida milking snakes to make anti-venom for our troops serving in stinking, godforsakin,reptile infested swampland. Like Indonesia.

His good friend, Ron Penfound, had a daytime children's TV show called Capt. Penny's Noon Show and Larry and Jane appeared over 800 times on the show between Three Stooges films. He would also travel to area schools teaching the kids about animals. The one thing he always stressed was: don't bother the animals! Unlike later TV personalities who preferred to poke them with a stick to see if they were grumpy. Which of course they weren't until they were poked with a stick.

Larry and Jane later moved their operation to Cedar Point where the show had become a major attraction. Eventually they settled in Florida with their own zoological park. Larry passed away a few years ago, Safari Jane retired but their son David still carries on the tradition.

-The Iguana-

One of the requirements for 9th grade biology students at Eastview Jr. High was to enter the annual science fair with a project assigned by the teacher, Mr. Morse who picked topics out of a hat. Mine was "Behavioral Thermal Regulation in Reptiles" What!?!? Well, the first thing to do was to get a reptile. Strangely, you could usually buy some kind of lizard at Woolworth's except when it came time for me to acquire one, they were sold out. My mother recommended that I call Jungle Larry. Wow, calling Jungle Larry! Pretty intimidating stuff. Well, Larry was nice enough to offer to loan me an iguana and we drove over to his house in Medina where he had quite a menagerie in his garage. But first I had to listen to his lecture on the proper care of animals.

Back home with the beast, we proceded to torment this poor creature with all manner of "scientific experimentation" under the tutelage of Mr. Morse. We subjected it to extreme temperature fluctuations, injected it with epinephrine, painted it with liquid crystals and generally did things that Jungle Larry would of had a fit about.

Mercifully, the torture ended. It was time to take "Iggy" back to Larry. We had him in a large dog crate in the basement and when I opened the door to put him in a smaller box for travel, enough was enough and he flew out of the cage and up under the foundation of the house. The only thing visible was his tail dangling out from behind a floor joist and nothing could get him down. He was stuck. Left food out for him and tugged on his tail and even had Dominick try moving the joist. Nothing worked. Eventually Iggy died stuck up there with just his poor tail hanging down. Oh my God! What was Jungle Larry going to say! Thankfully, my mother did me a huge favor and she called Safari Jane, sort of mom to mom, to tell the sad tale of the dangling, dead tail and I received a lecture on the proper care of animals.....again.

Iggy's tail hung there for years. I was more determined than ever to not bother the animals and Jungle Larry still remains a very fond memory of my youth.

-The Lesson Learned-

For all you kids at home, behavioral thermal regulation is why cold blooded animals, like iguanas, lie in the sun during the day. Seems like Mr. Morse could have saved a lot of trouble. And.....nothing likes to be poked with a stick!

It might also be appropriate here to mention the classic morality lessons from Capt. Penny:
About the 3 Stooges: "We all laugh at the things they do but we don't do those things they do"
And at the end of every show: "You can fool some of the people all of the time and all of the people some of the time, but you can't fool Mom"

From Unc's Kitchen

Now, I know all you young whippersnappers are poking around my pantry looking for some of my special lemonade. Well, you aint gettin any. Instead, we're making pickles again. This is a simple recipe for dills. They're easy and a damn fine pickle, too.

Boil and cool:
1 qt. cider vinegar
3 qts. water
1 cup salt
1 T. alum

Put cucumbers in jars ( wide mouth quarts probably best) with a dill head and a clove of garlic.
Pour cooled liquid over cukes and cap jars.
Best in about a month.

Soon it will be time to start preparing the feast for the Equinox. Stay tuned.

What Tags Along With Fall

Yea Summer!

2nd Hay, Take 1

We baled a 2nd crop of hay yesterday, but the yield being a tad disappointing , we're planning to do the whole thing again on the other half of the field just as soon as we get 3 days of drying weather, which gets harder all the time as the days grow shorter. We'll keep you posted. Maybe by then I will have figured out how to move pictures around. Drives me crazy!

From Unc's Kitchen

Overrun with cucumbers from the garden? Here's a fairly easy solution for your bountiful harvest and makes the worlds best sweet pickles:

Ruth Luzzi's Brine Pickles
(from an old friend of Chris' in Delaware)

As written:
6 lbs. cucumbers
1 qt. cider vinegar
8 cups sugar
2 2"cinamon sticks
1 T. whole cloves
2 T. alum

1. Put cucumbers in a brine solution that will float an egg for 2 weeks. (soaking solution gets pretty scuzzy in 2 weeks but will wash off)
2. After 2 weeks, drain and rinse cukes. Cut into strips or chunks as desired. Cover with cold water and add 2 T. alum and let stand overnight.
3. Next day drain and rinse cukes. Mix the syrup (sugar/vinegar/spices). Boil and pour over the cucumber pieces.
4. The next 3 days, drain the syrup and reheat and pour over the cukes again.
5. On the 4th day, put pickles pieces into jars, boil the syrup again, pour over pickles and seal the jars.
6. Enjoy!

Like dill pickles, too? Keep watching for an even easier dill recipe.

1.

I read once that the sound level in the passenger cabin of airliners is scientifically designed to give a consistant "airline experiance" to sooth the tattered nerves of the unfortunate souls who find themselves trapped in the sealed pressure vessel, not unlike the San Quentin gas chamber, filled with irritating children with Game Boys and the airsick elderly. This is much the same as how your allocation of mustard on your McBurger is the same in Duluth as it is in Tierra Del Fuego. Comforting.

"Just another way the airlines mess with your head" I thought as I fumbled with the controls on my Gulf Air business class fully reclining vibrating seat featuring a personal entertainment centre. I thought that was the vibrating system.

Fully reclined, the seat was oddly cozy but I wouldn't be down here for long. My hand was gently trembling on the "Lo" setting as I reached along the second tier of the service cart over the warm cans of flat Coke into the tray where they kept the bourbon. Empty! Damn! The cart sped away so quickly I was lucky to get away with the minor injury I did let alone get the chance to check for gin.

It looked like things were hoppin' back in the smoking section where the cart and nearly half my arm was headed. They seemed a rather vulgar lot; joking, laughing, pretending to have a good time, all the while not realizing that unsynchronized vibration causes a condition known as fretting corrosion on fasteners in stressed skin eventually leading to failure and there were probably 50 passengers with a certain contented grin in my section alone pulsing to different beats just humming along the friendly skies. Who could blame the smoking section for drinking all the whiskey.

My arm started throbbing with a deep joint pain and I was certain it was a pressure drop from shearing rivets but instead it was the band on the Rolex watch I had gotten a good price on in Rio cutting off the circulation in my already traumatized hand. I wish I had remembered those seditives I got from the vet when my dog had surgery. It was going to be a long trip to Dubai. But why? Dubai? A Woman.

Secret Formula Revealed

After being overwhelmed by requests for the Corn Pudding recipe, for which a written recipe does not exist, here you go:

1 can whole kernel corn, drained
1 can tomatoes, drained
1 can cream corn
About 1 cup brown sugar. More if desired
About 1 cup chopped sweet pepper
About 1 cup chopped onion
Good dose favorite hot sauce to taste

Mix all together in baking pan. Should be "sweet/hot"
Cook until done. I usually start at about 400 until it starts to bubble then turn it down to 350 or so and cook until it is thickened but not (too) gooey. Should take 1-2 hours.

Recipe can be increased proportionally as required.
If using home canned vegetables, just wing it.

This is an easy "shure hit" side dish. Bon Appetite!

Lughnassadh Feast Report

After a night of violent thunderstorms, damaging winds and a much needed rain, Saturday dawned bright and clear and became a beautiful Maine summer day. Chris and I headed out to camp early to prepare the feast and assure that the horseshoe pit conformed to the Marquis of Queensbury specifications. Chris then threatened to "whup yo butt" in a warmup game. Giddy with anticipation of that prospect, she was on. I took an early lead then with a double ringer Chris began to catch up. And then, the first of the revelers began to arrive. Drat.

The day being so lovely, it just didn't seem right drinking beer and pitching horseshoes. So, everyone grabbed their boat and went drinking beer and kayaking. Everybody except Bruce and Marcel ("Mack"). They decided to go fishing aboard the Miss Inclined, our new multi purpose watercraft. This wasn't all that much fun. Mack is a fairly hyperkinetic individual and put a fly rod in his hands and keep your head down. The flaying of the line overhead with barbed steel hook was downright dangerous. With my face flat on the deck I convinced Mack that we had to go back and light the fire. The battery status lights on the electric motor were on the "head to shore" level and we were still several hundred yards through the lilly pads to home port. Finally, the propeller stopped turning. and we were dead in the water. We hollered to Margaret on the dock to bring us some paddles and out she came with two kayak paddles lashed to her boat and we were able to row ourselves home. Sans fish.

This would normally be about all the fun I could handle but this was a cross quarter day of some importance. So, with the fire lit the feasting began. Our corn offerings for the first harvest meal were Chris' old family corn bread, my old family corn pudding and corn chips. Also featured were Maine red hot dogs. I don't know why since we basically live meatless. But it just seemed like the thing for a picnic.

I guess I just can't think of anything else exciting that happened. The evening wound down with everyone enjoying Chris' "Rafting Guides Brownies" under the gaze of my latest birthday present, a mounted buck Jackalope. After bidding everyone farewell and be careful, Chris and I reposed upstairs and watched as a bright orange waxing gibbous moon rose over the lake. Very cool.

So now we have until the Equinox to regroup and prepare for the next gathering. I hope you'll all be there!

Happy Birthday Bruce!

Welcome to your home away from home! This brand new, handy dandy blog site is all yours to do with as you will- change colors, titles, pictures...whatever! This is an excellent way to update friends and family to the happenings and adventures of the Wilson clan. Have fun!