Turkey Table Manners

Oh my goodness, I should have known those tracks in the snow weren't deer tracks, but peeping gobblers. Their table manners may be somewhat uncooth, and they do leave a mess and tend to just walk away without so much as a thank you. Do you know very many people who fit the same discription?

A whole flock of them stopped by again this morning. After ravaged the picnic table, leaving nothing for the other birds, they flew off in a hurry when I let Sarah out.

It started snowing not so long ago. It's coming down rather thick and heavy so I guess I should restock the picnic table and bring in a large load of fire wood to last through tomorrow.

December's Dream Team

Who's been peeking in my windows under the cover of night as I set at my desk writing? Look! They even left a trail of tracks in the snow to prove they were looking in my windows.
My four legged deer friends are always wondering about what I'm doing. Hay, it's good to know my friends care enough to keep an eye on me. I guess you could call them spy's, and yes, they are a little sneaky. Maybe curious is a better word for their behavior. Sometimes I worry about them, and want them to know I'm here to protect them so they can lead happy and healthy lives.
On Christmas night an unusual thing happened.
It was late in the evening and I was in the middle of a long conversation with a literary writer friend who lives in Baltimore. It was pitch black outside, and cold enough to freeze the boleadoras off a brass monkey. A vehicle slowly pulls to a stop out front next to my mailbox.
"Hold on a minute, I need to get my pistol." I said to my friend on the phone. "Somebody just pulled up out front."
I would tell you who it was stopping by to see me at such a late hour on Christmas, but you probably wouldn't believe me, so lets just say the person is friend of mine.
After explaining to my friend on the phone everything was okay, I hung up and proclaimed my joy at seeing my visiting friend. I usually don't get many visitors, and such a special visitor on Christmas night is always a sweet treat.
"You need my help?" I said, "Sure, I'll be happy to help you."
We worked together until the wee hours, stopping only once for several cups of espresso. I like mine with brown sugar and half & half.
Our task was not an easy one, and yet working together was a piece of cake. Because we had previous experience working together, we soon had the difficult situation under control.
Today my friend stopped by again with a present for me.
Now it just so happens that I've been wanting a coffee grinder, and sad to say, my coffee bean supply was running rather low. There is nothing like fresh ground beans to make a delightful cup of espresso on a cold winters morning to perk up ones spirit. My visitor's Christmas gift for me; a "new" Moulin Á Café (coffee grinder) and a bag of Sumatra Mandheling dark roast coffee. Yippee!
And in keeping with the spirit of giving, the next time I go into town, I'm going to stop by the feed store and pick up a bale of alfalfa and orchard mix hay, and maybe also bag of rolled oats to spread out on the picnic table for my four-legged late night team of friends. They enjoy stopping by to see me from time- to-time, and are always courious about my work. It's a comfort to know that even in the darkest hours, there are many loving eyes who are keeping watch so others may sleep in peace and safety. As friends, we keep an eye on each other you might say.
If you're a young hearted person who likes to make wishes on a far star during a cold winters night, please remember, wishes do come true if you work and ask the help of loving friends.

Driving Back to the Cabin

Woo Hoo! The tempature today was in the single digets hovering around zero, and it snowed. Just look at that gray sky, Mother Nature's blanket to keep the heat from falling to dangerous levels.
Sarah and I drove to town! What? You think thats no big deal? Ask Sarah. She loves to ride shotgun in the truck. I wish we had a horse and sleigh, because it was a perfect day for a sleigh ride.
I think it's going to be another warm night. Tomorrow is clean the stove pipe time, AGAIN.

-20 Below and Snow

After spending all day and a large part of the evening writing out a post, the program editor acts up. Bam! So much for machine programs. I'll try again later.
Hay God, if your up there somewhere and think your playing a little joke on me...UP YOURS!

Just in Time

Adventure!

It really is beautiful here. I love the snow even though at times it can be hard work keeping warm.

Today I'll venture into town for supplies for myself and a friend who lives not far away.

Clowning Around With Planet Earth

"Okey dokey pizza face, put your hands up. Higher! Reach for the stars, it's payback time. Which of you boozn' buffoons was laughing at my pink fuzzy pinafore? All you fat ass's now bend over and touch your toes, or take a zombie round between the eyes. Now reach for the stars. Now touch your toes again. Up, down. Up, down. Up, down."

"Keepm' busy Cheeta while I run a search on what these clowns have been up to. You boys better do what he says, Cheeta looks a little pissed off if you ask me, and he tends to have an itchy trigger finger."

Loud flatulent gas noises erupt as the clowns reach for the sky and bend to touch their toes.

"Ooh, peperoni and rotten' mushrooms! You nasty, nasty, boys. You're truly full of it. No wonder you're dressed in those over sized outfits." The monkey waves one hand back and forth to clear the air while still holding the automatic pistol in the other.

Marshall Elmo Hallberg and highway trooper Giuseppe Cheeta, cuff the fat arsed flatulent clowns and herd them into the back of a county police van.

Elmo shouts as the van drives away, "Don't worry boys, you'll be whipped into shape in no time, and I'll be keeping my eye on you when you return, so better mind your P's & Q's."

Giuseppe Cheetamozzi unzips his monkey suit. "I really dislike having to play the big ape part in these sting operations. I like the C.H.P. outfit better."

"You like to ware those polished motorcycle boots don't you?" Marshall Elmo laughs, "Stop by sometime soon, and I'll make you a cup of espresso with vanilla ice cream."

And so, as the afternoon light dims and snow falls gently on tall ciders , another days work is done. State Trooper Giuseppi Cheetamozzi and Marshall Elmo Hallberg have done their job of keeping the third planet from the sun safe from clowns who use, makeup, and sell drugs to children.

Bigfoot Country

The warmth of Indian Summer pivots.
Now the grizzly wheather is here.
Mountain highlands ware a shawl of placid white.
Days of blue skys and radiant starry nights,
Slow the sojourn tempered tempo to largo.
Bigfoot tracks her way to Winter's hideaway.
Home awaits in fur shared shieling.

Taking a Bite Out

"Woo Hoo" said Mr. Simpleton looking at his book, "You're blocked baby."
"Mr. Simpleton, are you afraid I'll intercept a van filled with contraband pink donuts?"
Simpleton scrached his spaceballs, belched, and ajusted his bandoleer.

Posh Porn and Blood Money

"Driving this baby will make heads turn." says the salesman. His greedy eyes glare at the well dressed women. A fast tongue quickly moistens his dry lips before showing a pricey chiclet smile that cost him almost a years salary.
"She's ah real beauty isn't she?"
"Thanks, but save the spiel. I already have a newer model collecting dust in my garage. I'm here to see my uncle Nick Cucci.
"Mr. Cucci is your uncle?" The salesman's voice has a quiver in his high pitched voice, he quickly adjusts his classic vintage silk tie that matches his London taylored suit.
"What are you a parrot?" The lady takes a deep breath and pauses a moment. "Please go tell my uncle I'm here, and that I need to speak to him right away. Can you do that for me?"
"Yes, of course. He's in a meeting right now and ask not to be disturbed."
"What's your name?"
"Tony. Tony Giacamozzi."
"Haven't been here long have you Tony?" The woman runs her hand over the showroom car's rear fender, her red polished nails and high heel shoes are shade darker than the convertible roadster's flashy paint job.
"A couple of months." he said.
"You're cute Tony, and if you're smart, you'll run along and tell my uncle I'm here on family business.

Come On Get Happy

Get ready! New possibilities are on the horizon. Things are looking up, and a new day is dawning for the United States of America.

A little hope can go a long way to encourage those who just need a chance to show what they can do.

The stage is set, on with song and dance of politics.

Do you have your ticket to the show?

Amaryllis For Winter Blooms

When a blanket of white covers the ground, and it's oh so cold and gray outside, the large blooms of an Amaryllis will make a colourful statement to warm my kitchen.

Bushpilots Playing Chicken

Ready to take a ride on the wild side? Grab your stick and push it forward all the way, then we'll see who pulls up first.

Quid Pro Quo/Trick or Treat

Fresh cut mystery meat, where spiders crawl, so beware the dare of witches and Halloween. They only comes out tonight, and you may end up on the midnight menu. With evil murder on their minds, she knows who they shot and left for dead, a trick of revenge.
Creepy, crawly, squirming maggots wiggle their way to dinner, or they starve for a treat.
In the shadows stands Mayhem Manor. Thunder and lighting, high winds of the storm shake and rattle lofty windows. Dressed in black, she steps into the darkness of night. With lurking searching eyes, she stalks the killers, hungry for her own brand of justice.
It's a beautiful night in the neighborhood.

Back In Time

Believe it or not, the outer covering on these old birds is canvas. Sitting behind the loud roaring propeller, wind whistling through the wires, and me wearing my uncle's WWI helmet.
Remembering.
Aerobatics!
The scariest, most frighting maneuver is called, "The Hammer." Pull the stick back and climb until the engine stalls. Everything is quiet except the pounding of your heart, then the plane slides down like an arrow coming down, only tail first, back-ass-wards as my mother would say. This is where you have to keeeeep your wits, or...ya make a big hole in the ground. Rolling over like a pigeon having a fun, the plane is still out of control until you restart the engine. Throttle out, throttle, throttle...the engine kicks over...thank the lucky stars! Slowly pulling back on the joy stick so as not to kill the engine again, you make a wide looping recovery, and it's smooth sailing until you decide it's time for another act of insanity.
I regret never being up in a glider, but my experience of flying a biplane is a treasure to remember. I still have the Thunderbird patch my uncle gave me, it's pinned to the sun visor in the truck. The helmet, I gave to a friend who has a military museum.
Like ÃÝË would say, Good Times!

The Carolina Cousin Connection

"Margret honey, you know damn well daddy would have a hissy fit if he were to find out what you've been up-to."

"Papa is never gonna know unless you tell him. You say one word Leroy, and I swear, I will skin you myself and have your onerous hide tacked on that tree."

After waving a graceful arm over the porch railing towards General Breckenridge, an old historic front yard tree). Margret ripes off her gardening gloves and drops them on the white wicker table-- almost upsetting her Rosenthal porcelain coffee service. She kneels to retrieve a silver spoon that had bounced from the table to the porch's wide plank floor, her face red with pent up anger. When her eyes were level with her twenty-six-year-old younger brothers, who sat leaning forward in an antique rocker, Leroy Hastings smiled with a devilish grin.

"Temper, temper, dear sister, or I'll tell that old sawbones you seem to think so highly of, that you are not following his orders."

"Leroy, papa should have drowned you like a sack of kittens as soon as he found out you were not his son."

Leaning back in the wicker rocker, Leroy Hastings Clark laughed, his smile showing an expensive picket fence of peril whites. His pretty boy fresh from the shower clean looks and that smile usually got him what he wanted. Rocabar Hermes aftershave mingled in unseen ribbons of the cool October breeze, along with the smell of fresh coffee. Leroy closed his eyes to the breath taking eye candy of several blooming Amaryllis, as well as a half-dozen other flowering plants in hanging baskets that lined the estates rap-a-round porch. He had to admit, his sister's passion for flowers ran parallel with his own love of gardening.

"Maybe so dear sister." He said. "But you are the one in hot water, and I know how to save your sorry ass, so you better be nice to me."

"Leroy, I truly despise you!"

"I know you do darln'. Daddy always did like me best."

A look of seriousness fell over his handsome smile, as if it were a veil from an underpaid Arabian Nights exotic dancer. In a voice much older than his years, Leroy Hastings jerked a thumb for his older sister to sit.

"Now you listen to me, we haven't come all this way to loose what we have worked so hard for have we?"

"Work! Why you lazy good for nothing, chippy chasing, whisky drinking, worthless piece of white trash. You never lift a finger around here."

"Spitfire! That's the spirit. Old Hickory would be proud sister honey.

Gently picking up a fancy silver spoon, Leroy taps several times on a pretty rose pattern sugar bowl as if it were the bell to signal the end of round one in a boxing tournament.

Sidewalk Poets

Under an Autumn sycamore tree,

Three friends share time together.

Warm hearts of passion's fervor,

With laughter, smiles, and adventure.

Loving their poet's vigor,

Sisters, my wealth of treasure.

Cedar Planter and Driftwood

I was given a small round of cedar to split up as fire kindling, but it was to nice to burn, so I decided to make a potted plant stand instead. Cedar is wonderful wood to work with.
When I'm finished sanding the pieces, I'll apply tougue oil as a finish; it helps preserve the wood and brings out the colour.

Dancing To The Music

The Lady with the red sash is my friend Jill Marie. She lives in an enchanted forest and raises Navajo sheep. She is a powerful woman, a teacher that nurtures, and protects all within her world. I am truly blessed that she calls me friend.

Concord Grape Jelly

My friends Joann and Peter gave me a batch of Concord grapes from their arbor the other day. This morning I made grape jelly, or grape sauce for pancakes, depending however it turns out. Don't have any jars, so I just put the mixture in two stainless steel bowls, one for me and one for them, and that's not counting the spoonfulls I sampled. :)

It's mmm mmm GOOD!

The only drawback is my white kitchen wash cloth is now a beautiful colour purple. I like it too.

The Kettle River

The nights are cold now, yesterday I finally got the stovepipe put back together and started a toasty fire. Today I'll ware warm cloths, head up to the ranch for more firewood, and help my friend Johnna pick the last of this years apples.

First, I need to take a short walk and collect some "river sage" and "fresh mint" as well as pick up several pieces of drift wood. I found so many interesting pieces on my last walk that I couldn't carry them all back to the cabin, so I set them on the high bank about where the tall tree is the right side of the of the photo.

On Friday I spent some time shaping, sanding, and linseed oiling one piece. My friend Peter who also works riverwood, gave me a bunch of much needed sandpaper when I showed him what I was working on.

I plan to take some photos of some of them... that is if some trigger happy hunter doesn't shoot me. I have a red sweater to wear, but no red, or orange coat...so it's, be cold and be safe, or say, "What the Hell" and wear my blue down jacket. It's a gray overcast morning, which is good because the cloud cover keeps the ground and air warmer.

I'll be glad when hunting season is over and all the hunters go home. I already miss watching the deer in the field in back of the cabin, they are staying in the forest, coming to the river at night to drink. Most hunters don't walk far from their cars and trucks, they had rather sit in a warn vehicle and shoot a buck in the alfalfa fields. One of my friends who has land on one of the creeks up towards Canada paints orange spots all over her wolfhound to keep him safe. I plan to leave Sarah home this morning, she is white with black spots, a Dalmatian that looks nothing like a deer. Still I'm not taking any chances even though she loves to walk with me along the river.

Wish me luck on this mornings walk!

Reel Spool Tables

The line of ideas roll off what is possible.

Rounding every corner something new.

Turning cables, spools spin, the real deal.

Table top sets the stage,

Saving for the future race,

That was give away as waste.

Holding on to growing in light,

In comes old recycle of wood dark.

Sharing ideas of the future,

Thus your spinning top made new.

Rubber Boa

Here are a few photos of the Rubber boa snake that I found in my cabin this Summer. Although I write stories that most people would call fiction, some things are based on facts.

http://www.rubberboas.com/content/about.html

Fossorial...can you digg it?

http://www.northwestherps.com/bottae.html

Crepuscular...active in the twilight.

In Another World

Slowly pulling out her boot knife, she slipped it down between the wall and closet drawers, easily lifting the sparkling bobble from where it was wedged, and began softly humming a tune she had learned from her sister Jill Marie.

“There is treasure waiting for me,

There is treasure most can’t see.

There is treasure all a round,

What was once lost, is now found.”

Lifting a silver chain with a blue gemstone carved in the shape of a griffin, Jasmyn almost smiled. “This is very odd. I wonder what it is? It feels, it feels as if…” Suddenly, the built-in wardrobe seemed to move; actually it was sliding towards her. Quickly stepping back, a whiff of cool fresh air came from the opening in the panel wall.
“What the Hell?” she whispered.
Shinning the lamp into the darkness, a spiral staircase led down, down, down.
Picking up the kitten, again she gently placed it in the duffle bag and pulled the drawstrings tight, put on the black leather jacket she had found, and swung the considerable hefty bag over her shoulder. “It's time to go exploring, little one.”

She listened carefully for any of the tapping she had heard earlier. All she heard was the sound of the wind in the stairwell shaft. Still holding the chain and gemstone, she leaned against the cold outer brick wall and tucked the treasure trinket deep into one her thick pants pockets. Her calico passenger seemed nonresistant to her duffel bag confinement. Taking a quick mental inventory and without reservation, she darted down the spiraling steps with the supple fluidity of an animal.

She passed no doors, nor did she see any windows, the shaft was void of any light except for the small solar lamp Jasmyn kept focused on her boots and the descending stairs. The smell of the fresh air lifted her spirit even higher. From somewhere far below she heard the tapping she had heard earlier.

Then, suddenly from behind her, came a soft voice.

“Do not go down any further. Many who wish to kill you and what you carry, await below at the street level.”
Heart pounding in fear, Jasmyn spun around, bringing the pistol from shoulder holster to point into the face of a child.
“Who are you? How come I didn’t hear you behind me?” she demanded.
Without any fear or malice in her voice, the child answered, “Your weapon can not hurt me. I am not from your world. They know you are in the building, and are hunting for you.”
Quickly returning the antique 45 automatic to the shoulder holster, Jasmyn said, “Yah, I know about the police.”
“Oh no, not the police, they left hours ago while you were sleeping. You were smart to hide where you did. Not even the zombies would have looked for you there.” Dressed in a velvet robe with dark shoulder length hair, the dark eyed child put her finger to her lips, motioning for Jasmyn not to speak. She leaned in close and whispered, “They do not know about this secret stairwell. Follow me, I know a place where you will be safe.”
“Why in the hell should I trust you? Who are you anyway?” Jasmyn whispered back.
“I am from a different place. A magic place that makes the difference in time, the difference that makes the difference. Understand?”

“No!” said Jasmyn “How old are you?”
“Older than you can imagine, younger than you know. Please, we must go now. The evil ones will be sending out demons, and they are very nasty to deal with.”
Putting her hand on the brick wall, the wall began to shimmer with a pulsating glow of rainbow colours. “You must hold my hand, it is the only way you can step into my world.”
“Why should I trust you?” Jasmyn almost sneered, her voice as sharp as her boot knife.
With the heart of innocence, the little girl smiled back. “Because, I have traveled from another world to help you.”

From down below the tapping resumed, now much louder and with a quicking tempo . The metal staircase began to pulse with vibration. The brick wall swirling wider and faster in liquid colours.

Before Jasmyn could draw a breath to resist, the child pulled her through the shimmering brick wall.

Safe Hiding

Jasmyn stuffed several wads of assorted clothing against the closed closet doors; fumbled in a side pocket of the duffel bag, fished out a folding solar light lamp, and punched the activation button. Cool white light flooded the once elegant walk-in closet. Noticing the condition of what remained, she guessed the building had once been a fortress of a local big wig, a food dealer for the area. The lower floors of the building were probably used as barracks for gang, or soldier warriors. Like any other clan organization, a soldier could if he or she were smart and good at doing their job, climb up through the lower ranks to live on different floors of the building. The higher the floor, the higher the rank in echelon, thus the top floors were reserved for the elite. The elite were those who knew how to play the game of staying alive.

The concept was hard for Jasymn to understand although her mother had come from such a clan. Where money and power ruled there was always the need to fight to keep what was owned, or fight and steal more, even if it caused others to suffer and die. Growing up in the Free North West, Jasymn learned early that barter and sharing was the key to her survival. It was her father’s teachings before his death that had kept her alive so far. “Find a need and fill it to the best of your ability.” he would say, “…and you will always have a place to live, and friends who love you. People who need people will always help you if you’re lucky.”

Opening the drawstrings of the duffel bag, the calico kitten sat for a moment licking her paw and cleaning one ear as if he had been casually napping. Jasymn fed him a 3cc syringe of protein and vitamins that had cost her more than she normally paid for her own food. There were six syringes remaining and they had to last until they reached the border crossing. She remembered the first dog she had rescued. Gritting her teeth she cussed, vowing to fight even harder to find and store the precious life saving drugs the rich took for granted. Her food supply was running low: four packets of dehydrated apples and pears, and the rest a various assortment of dehydrated vegetables she had bartered for.
Each sealed packet held the equivalent of five to six pieces of fresh fruit. Even the elite did not enjoy such good food. Knowing the truth of where most food came from, sent a shiver down her spine. "Predigested" had been printed on a label of food cans she had seen in a glass cases of a building called a store museum. No wonder the plagues of illness came to wipe out most of the Americas population. They were eating processed shit with tons of poisonous chemicals to mask the product sold as food. Officials before the plagues came were selfish, uncaring and heartless. The Body Snatchers were called hospitals. In the many years of plagues that occurred between 2188 to the present date, many people died asking for forgiveness from what they called, " the sins of the far-there." Jasmyn's teachers said man-his-story was evil. She wasn't sure if the stories her teachers had told her were true. The one thing she knew, her animal teachers never lied. They always told the truth, and for that she was grateful.

Quickly counting her blessings while munching on a dehydrated ripe pear, the girl opened her laptop, entered the code numbers for the secret under ground channel and typed in a progress report, giving her location as, "The Hot Zone Central California." The keyboard had been damaged so typing wasn’t easy. Struggling, she finished the report and returned the laptop to the duffel bag, then covered herself with a black leather jacket she found in the corner of the cedar closet.

Sleep fell like feathers from the sky, Jasmyn dreamed of laughter with her friends, riding mountain trails on her horse, Stanford Major. Dreams of good times, when living was easy, and all the gentle animals that were her spirit teachers met in green fields of the magic flowers of long ago California were real enough to refresh her.

A tap, tap, tap from somewhere in the wall woke the young girl. Tap, tap, tap then silence, tap, tap, tap tap, again silence, tap, tap, tap. She put her ear to the cedar panel while holding the kitten. Not being fully awake yet, Jasmyn listened carefully. Standing up she started running her hand up and down the wall panel feeling for vibrations. She starting in the corner and working her way to the center of the closet where built-in drawers and shelves blocked the back wall. Switching the solar lamp to high, she stooped low looking at the carpeted floor. There, on the right side of the closet, the carpet seemed to have barely visible markings as if something had been slid across it and had snagged several carpet fibers. Getting on her hands and knees, she looked closely at where the built-in drawers met the back of the cedar panel. She could smell the faint order of fresh air. Then she saw it. A flash, a sparkle reflected back from the light of the lamp. Something was tightly wedged behind the wooden draws and the wall.

Roof Hopscotching To Rotten Leftovers

Sweeping her weight from side-to-side, young Jasmyn Sanchez scurried up the icy ladder in a swift motion spider crawl. Once on the bucking asphalt roof, she hunkered down behind a four-foot wall to catch her breath and think what her next move might be.
"That shooter on the roof across the street must be a rookie." she said, "and a very bad shot not to have hit me with so many rounds fired." She crab crawled with heavy duffel bag to the corner of the roof, then braced her back against the wet wall in the shadows. Quickly she lifted her boots from around her neck, pulling out the wool socks that were stuffed safely inside. Putting them on wasn’t easy with numb fingers. Her right hand fingers had been cramped so tight in a vice grip holding the Colt automatic, she had to pry them loose with her left hand. While lacing up one boot, and then the other, she began to feel the burning pin pricks of her feet and hands warming.

“Okay Francisco now what?” She wanted to check on the kitten, but already knew it was safe. Listening carefully, she noticed all the guns had ceased firing. SP squad units wouldn’t stop searching for her. The rain slowed to an icy drizzle, she stared into the dark night sky. Somewhere on the pitch black roof a generator kicked in, a window light flickered several times from the square block building that allowed access to the stairwell. The door was open.
In the distance came the faint throbbing of a flitter craft.

Running to the opposite side of the roof, she saw another fire escape. The lower roof of the adjacent building was a precarious jump. Scurrying down to the first turn about on the fire escape, she tossed the duffel bag to the other building then jumped. “Sorry about that sweetheart.” She said before slinging the bag over her shoulder once again. Running full out to the other side… there, just as before, was a fire escape and a lower roofed building. Four more times she repeated her hopscotch maneuver until she reached the tall building at the opposite end of the block. This time she jumped landing on narrow ledge that lead to a gridiron balcony with French doors. Pulling a balanced throwing knife from the human leather scabbard in her right boot, Jasmyn quickly lifted a pane of glass away from cracked and weathered woodwork.

The entrance was a piece of cake, as her brother would say. Cake! Jasmyn had never tasted cake in all her seventeen years. The old ones said their parents and grandparents had eaten cake. They said it made your teeth rot. Even if such a thing as cake really existed, who would want to eat cake if it made your teeth rot? “Thanks, but no cake for me.” She said, and slipped through the unlocked door just as the low flying flitter craft with yellow searchlight swept the building and passed overhead.

From her left boot she pulled a red filtered pin-light, replacing the knife to her right. Flexing her trigger finger several times, she pulled the 45 automatic from its shoulder holster. The room smelled rotten with decaying bodies and mildew. Stepping over the decomposing bodies she slipped several times in oozing viscous liquid. No one in their right mind would look for her in this room. The SP regiment boys wearing full combat gear were pussies when it came to facing death in the face. No, they would be combing the areas outside, thinking she would run for safety in the outskirts of the city. Laughing she opened a double door closet. Two bodies sat propped up against the back wall of the large ceder-lined closet. Setting the duffel bag down, she grabbed the pant leg of what looked to be a Catalina gang member, yeah, the tats were distinctive. The two-hundred-pound corpus was stiff and hard to move. The other dead weight was a woman dressed in black leather and fishnet stockings. When Jasmyn yanked on her foot, her head thumped like a ripe melon falling from a counter top, and arm and leg had been taken. Cannibals?

Ladder to Freedom

Two shots and then a single shotgun blast, after that, all hell broke loose. One second after the first shot was fired Jasmyn lunged toward the desk grabbing the 45 automatic. Quickly stuffing the laptop into a military duffel bag sitting upright next to the un-slept-in bed. The kitten crouched and pounced on the bedspread, it’s ears flattened back against raised shoulders. Hurriedly, it too went into the duffel bag, mewing in protest as the drawstring was cinched tight.

“It will be all right little one. Someone has just saved our bacon, as momma would say.”

The rain had not stopped pouring down in over two weeks which wasn’t unusual for early-December, soon the snow would come and blanket California from the mountains to the now SP controlled coastline. She shivered and took a deep breath against the cold rain that drenched her as soon as she opened the window, the icy wind cutting like sharp knifes.

A hail of large caliber automatic machine gun fire ripped an arch pattern from the bottom to the top of the bolted steel door, Jasmyn observed just before she stepped through the hotel window and onto the fire escape. The alleyway for some reason was clear of any local government’s Special Forces Police goons. Still barefoot, she slung her boots around her neck, her best pair of heavy wool socks tucked safe inside the toes. While juggling the duffel bag over her shoulder another spray of bullets peppered the door, punching holes that looked like smoking poker chips. She had lost track of the number of rounds fired, but quickly calculated there must be at lest five, maybe six other shooters in the hallway, not counting the four she had see through the peephole. Two people were firing automatic machine guns. The police didn’t carry machine guns any more. Guns were worth their weight in gold during the first plague ten years earlier, most weapons had been confiscated, or stolen and then sold to rich countries who could afford the outrages prices. No, someone in an underground group was fighting the SP Police, and right now she was still alive and breathing thanks to them. Whoever was in the hallway shooting was giving her the chance to escape. Having a computer, a pistol, and a pet meant a trip to the work camps, or a bullet in the head for being a rebel to the Unified Western Regional Government. Jasmyn Mariana Francisco Sanchez had squeezed through some tight places before, dodging capture as nimble as the animals she had freed in the Green Zones to the North. She prayed this time would be no different.

Starting down the ramshackle fire escape, gunfire erupted below. She could only see the flashes of three barrels firing toward the alleyways entrance. Again she said a short prayer for their safety, and started climbing up toward the roof. If she could make it to the roof, of course she could make it. “Think positive.” She said out loud. Water came down in sheets of cold rain. Ice was beginning to form on the rungs of the metal ladder. “Get you sorry ass up on the roof Francisco.” She said gritted her teeth and wanting to cry. Red neon flashed, blinking from the hotel sign below. The electric humming buzzed like an old Frankenstein movie she had once seen.

The duffel bag felt like a ton, the shoulder strap dug deep in to her bones like the cold rain. Her foot slipped. “You want to die here. No! No! No! Not Here… Not like THIS.” Holding on with all her strength, she carefully felt for and found a rail with her numb toes just as sparks flashed next to right hand. A bullet ricochet, she felt the reverberations shake the cold steel she was gripping. The next bullet exploded into a brick, sending shards flying. She felt a warmth on her cheek and knew it was blood. Exhausted, she struggled with Herculean effort. Looking up, she stretched to grip the rail above. Hearing soft mewing from the duffel bag made her remember she was not alone. With bullets slamming into the wet bricks she continued to scale the slippery fire escape.

Passing Summer Days

The pulling pulse of Summer,
Warm hazy afternoons,
Where blue skys drift,
In ribbons of scent.
Remember?
Sweet honey,
Breeze.
Cottonwoods along the river,
Leaves twist and shimmer,
Moving in rythemic motion.
Pitch in tune with,
Dance of pinecones's bough.
Devotion this musical mystique,
Strumming humm of joy,
Passing Summer days,
"And you My Lady..."

You Talking To Me Punk?

This is my protector Sarah, an Angel sent to me from heaven. She is most loving and friendly, and yet very brave when it comes to defending me. She even puts up with her little brother Micky, the Irish wirehair fox terrier who thinks he is the boss. He has learned the hard way, when she gives him "that look" it usually means, "Mom! He's pushing my buttons again."

I no longer chain her up, nor does she ware a collar. She has earned her freedom as long as she doesn't chase deer. It was hard for her to understand that she doesn't own all the land around here to protect. I keep the truck door open during the day so she can sit in the passenger seat and pretend she on the road again. She loves to ride shotgun in the truck.

How Do You Like My Screen Door?

What the hell! Those fancy french door curtains I saved did come in handy this Summer. The good news is, next year I can tack up another clean one. The brocade drapes I give away, they were to nice to get dirty.

I have another pile of wood like the one by my front door, only that one is stacked on pallets. Small rounds burn well in my stove and will last through the long Winter nights. It's no fun waking up to a cold house, and having to start a fire from scratch. Once the cold weather hits, the stove is pretty much going twenty-four-seven. I even clean the ashes with a fire going, using a large stainless steel restaurant mixing bowl, my welding gloves, and a wide plaster spatula.

I praying my Micky Boy recovers his health and stays with me through the Winter. He has been really sick, even puked on one of my language dictionaries...didn't need the dust jacket anyway.

I spoon feed him a gruel made of chicken stock and oatmeal, and let him drink all the slippery elm water he wants. He is a tough little guy and gets right back up when he falls over. He's comfortable and not in pain, and that for now is enough to make me happy. I think both of us, and Sarah too, have had a peaceful day, even the chainsaw worked well.

Being Real

She Has an Ax!

"Those casablanca fat cats are in for a big surprise if they think they can pussyfoot around in the dark."

Getting Ready

Saturday, time to haul in more wood.

A big stack of wood gives peace of mind.

This is no time to skirt the issue, the work must be done before Winter weather sets in.

Kindness From a Friend

A better friend than God, my Dog.

Oh, the years we spent together.

Through Spring days,

April's wind and rain.

"Just look at those muddy paws!"

Remember hot Summer days?

No park paths for us.

We cross open fields,

You running always just ahead.

We had a ball playing.

The falling leaves of Autumn.

So many colours raining,

And you running, so alive.

Chase the race of time,

Combing the woods, adventure.

Winter's cold, our foot prints,

Deep in mountain snow.

Hours spent by the fire,

Warm dreams of December.

I will always remember.

And the years went by,

Moments following each other.

My gratitude for your love,

A gift from above, in Spirit.

Honor, Faith, and Friendship.

And here we are again

My friend.

Night are getting cold,

And we both now old.

Again, you go before me.

Aglio e Olio

Trinacrian Chief Giuseppi Cucci is world renown for his Bistro recipes.
"Good cooking is no accident" he says, "A good meal is not difficult to make if you love to eat."
What! You're going to argue with an hot blooded Italian with a sharp knife?

Aglio e Olio with Thin Spaghetti
An easy one, two, three recipe.

One large pot of boiling water, one large sauté skillet, and a large platter. The platter is optional if you're tutto solo.
If you love to sing, all the better...Che gelida manina, or La rivedrá nell'estasi depending whither you like Puccini, or Verdi, both are nice to inspire a mood.

Clear away all unnecessary tools, chainsaws, etc. and arrange fresh ingredients on a clean counter top. Use the best that you can buy, or barter for. Were talking about Garlic and flat-leaf parsley, red peppers, extra virgin olive oil (the best pressed olive oil can't be purchased, or bartered for, it can only be a gift of love. Sorry it's a family thing, I hope you understand.)
Unless you live by the sea and have family members who fish... open a can of tuna packed in spring water (tuna fish packed in oil? It's a long story...companies use cotton seed oil, and cotton seed oil is not considered a food, so it could contain... poison pesticides.) If you have ever taken a cooking class from Mary Provenzano's Palermo home school on how to made and jar tuna fish in olive oil (a long process taking weeks to prepare) concider yourself truly blessed indeed. You may want to try a package of vacuum packed tuna, if so, increase the amount of olio in the recipe.

While your pasta is boiling, mash five cloves of aglio with the flat side of a knife. Heat 1/2 cup of olive oil, and sauté garlic until golden: golden, not brown, not golden brown, not burnt and bitter. Add in tuna fish and stir. Drain thin spaghetti and return to pot, and add oil and garlic. Isn't that easy?

Now you know how wonderful fresh sautéd garlic smells? We're talking vampire loathing comfort food. Toss in a hand full of chopped flat leaf parsley, diced red pepper, two or three twists from the pepper grinder (white pepper corns are best) and salt to taste while mixing.

If you like capers, add them. If you have a real wedge of Parmigiano, or Reggiano, grate on top. For God sake don't use the stuff that comes grated in a can, or Giuseppi will protest rather violently and wop ya with the broadside of his knife.

There is no need to be fancy if you live alone and spend much of your time in front of a computer screen. If you live without hot and cold running water, and doing the dishes is a hardship, by all means grab a fork and eat out of the pan, save the platter for sweets.

Aglio e Olio is a fast and cheap meal, best of all it's comfort food. If you're really blessed and have friends who give you loafs of "out of this world" Focaccia, and a bottle of their "primo" homemade wine. Hon, trust me when I say, "Bella Perfeziona."

Snake Eyed Dragon

This little dragon gale of ocean arm,
Spirit whispers the fist of fury, pain,
Winds sweep ahead of crying game.
Fighting remains of a Southern cross,
Higher shines in Northern sky, low,
Waves of unseen tears wash ashore.
More die innocent of love in rage,
Back! They cry to the unfurled big wind.
Spin, energy enters the fists of dragon.
Dream ghost fighting it's nature.

Hip Deep In Jurisdiction

Sheriff Wilma Reed had just made her second graceful long looping fly cast. The Kettle River’s calm meandering waters reflects gold coins of light around her bicycle patched hip waders. At 7:30 on a Monday morning when most lawmen would be fighting city traffic to get to the office, Sheriff Reed is busy fighting a big rainbow trout. Her fishing vest pocket carries an Altoids mint tin of beautifully made gray-hackle mayflies, a Christmas present from her eight-year-old granddaughter, Magen.

The radio in her Jeep Cherokee parked on the shoulder of road squawks several times before her cell phone begins ringing. She takes a quick glance at her Swiss Army watch and continues reeling in the trout.

“ Let me guess, a rich coasty woke up this morning to a yard full of open range cows and they want me to rush right out and solve their problem.” She grumbles just as the trout clears water and shakes the hook free.

“Good for you my friend, now I’ve got work to do.” The sweet smell of the cotton wood trees reminds her of fishing with her father along the Feather River in California. Securely tucking her dad’s 1940’s split-bamboo fly pole under her arm, she bends and grabs a handful of fragrant river sage growing out of the damp rocks and gravel before climbing up the bank to the Jeep.

The Cherokee’s dashboard is littered with an array souvenirs’ from a woman who loves nature: a hornet’s nest, several turkey, cider waxwing, and yellow tipped flicker feathers. She lays the sacred river sage next to the hornet’s nest and picks up the radio mike while wiggling out of the hip waders.

At fifty-four, Wilma Reed is still built like a brick shit house. Her Doris Day drake’s tail haircut may show the gray, but no one in their right mind would say she was past her prime.

“What’s up Julie, and it better be good?” Reaching under the driver's seat with her free hand, Wilma feels for a small whisk broom.

"Sheriff, I just received a call from Sandy Berky out at the McMansion at the lake."

"Yeah! Come on Julie, I'm waiting."

"I'm looking for the code card."

"To hell with the code card Julie, just tell me what happened."

"Sandy Berky says he thinks that city dude Carl Edwards has been murdered."

"Okay Julie, find the code card. Did Berky call you on the office line? "

"Yes!"

"Damn! Okay Julie I'm on my way. One more question. Has there been any squawk on the Beritta Boy's channel? " Standing in her stocking feet, the Sheriff tosses her sand covered hip boots on to the passenger side floor mat along with the whisk broom and reaches for her work shoes sitting on the seat.

"Yes! There may be a crowd already there Sheriff."

"Double Damn!" she says , "Okay Julie I'm on my way, eta in less that twenty minutes."

Northwest Blues

The Curlew Lake Murder/Chapter One

An early morning rains had blanketed the lake and surrounding mountains with much needed relief from the heat and bone dryness of late August. Thick gray clouds began to break-up by afternoon. The wind blew in forceful gusts from the North West, pine trees sway as if slow dancing to the music of an unseen band. By nightfall the stars were shining with a brilliance few city folk have the privilege to experience.

Driving fast on the winding road over Sherman Pass and turning at Pine Grove Junction, Carl Edwards was oblivious to any beauty Ferry County had to offer. As a city man born and raised, his thoughts tended to focus on only one thing. Money! How he made money, when and on what to spend money, and where to get more, even if he had to steal it. To Carl, money was a game. He never lost because he never played by the rules. His business dealings were always kept strictly confidential.

The new light blue Fox Audi glistened in the moonlight. He punched the gas peddle hugging the inside curve of a sharp s-turn, pushing the car down a short straight-a-way at seventy miles an hour. The car responded smoothly as he did the same thing on the next turn, barking the tires leaving the outside turn. His smile vanished at the sight of several Mule deer caught in the headlights. Swerving into the other lane in order to miss them, tires squealing, he fought to control the Audi by not touching the breaks. His screaming vulgarism went unheard.

“Not tonight, you son’s of bitches. Nothing tonight is going to spoil my celebrating.”

With a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels remaining in a vice grip between his inner thighs, he reaches for the cigarette lighter, fumbles with a pre-rolled fat joint. A pink plastic bag of newly purchased porn CD’s had scattered across the passenger seat and lay helter skelter on the Audi’s dark blue carpeting.

Three startled bucks with trophy racks, leap down the highway embankment and trot into a clearing. They stop for a moment to watch the fast moving car, weaving tail lights disappear around a tree lined curve.

“Almost Home.” He sighs, slowly releasing the long held drag. Driving back from Seattle via Spokane and Colville, most of his weekend had been spent with lawyers signing multiple copies of court papers. The rest of his time spent on phone calls to business associates, dinner, and the night with a high price hooker. He wasn't looking forward to being alone in his almost completed three thousand square foot lakeview log home. A Montana contractor was working on exterior finishing touches, while Salon24, a British Colombia company worked to finish their designer furniture placements. The way he saw it was like this: he would call his real state contract lawyer first thing in the morning, call Highpoint N.C. about the custom-made leather sofa chairs that were late in shipping, and maybe get a few hundred dollars shaved off for his aggregation. Both companies were behind seclude. He took another short puff, held it, exhaled while fingering the window buttons on the arm rest, and flicked the three quarter joint into the night sky.

“Something for the locals.” he sneered and turned onto the newly graveled driveway.

The log cabin with a massive rap-around porch looked like a lodge brochure from a fancy Vale Colorado ski lodge. True, the view of the lake from his hill top perch was worth much more than the rock-bottom price he had paid for the property. What he had spent building his summer retreat, “The McMansion”, the locals called it, was between him and his account. At eleven o’clock on a Sunday night several smaller homes around the lake were dimly lit.

The peaceful stillness seemed spooky to Edwards. In the past several weeks he had stayed at the cabin, he still couldn't get used to the quiet. At night he played the cable entertainment channels to keep himself company. Music blared to the early hours of the morning.

His high-rise apartment in Seattle had already been leased to a Los Angels oil company’s hotshot executive. That deal was a little to smooth to suit his bird dog noise for trouble. Another conspiracy scheme to mull over, because something about the deal just didn't add up.

Driving into the three-car garage, he bumped the front bumper into a low stack of plywood lumber he hadn’t seen.

“Shit! Stupid contractors.” He slurred his words in an evil tone. “If there’s so much as a scratch on the bumper, I suuuu the fuckers.” Business deals, Atlanta, Boston, Baltimore, and San Francisco, were swimming in his alcohol-befuddled mind. Stepping out of the car in the darkness, the whisky bottle shatters on the concrete.

“I’ll makem’ pay for that too. Why in the hell didn’t the weekend crew leave a security light on? It’s piss black in here.” Unhappy at the thought of getting whisky on the souls of his new Italian loafers, Edwards slams the car door and walks around to the passenger side, opens the door and gathers up the scattered CD’s.

“This” is for that local weasel subcontractor Sandy Berky and his dysfunctional wife. He holds up a glossy jacket CD. Gag Factor #2, the title is easy to read in the Audi's dome light. "Give him an idea what I think about him, the money-grubbing son of a bitch. Thinks he can screw me? Hah!”

Thirty-seven-year-old Carl Edwards slams the Fox Audi’s passenger door at the same time a flash appears from the far corner of the garage. gggGun! He spins around seeing, one, two, three more flashes of light with a sharp clapping sound accompanying each flash. The stack of porn CD’s cascade to the concrete, making a louder noise than the silencer on the Victor High Standard 22 automatic. Edward’s knees stiffens as he jerks. Pissing, he’s dead before he drops to the cold garage floor.

A wide red flashlight beem sweeps back and forth, stopping at spent brass casings. One, two, three, and four, each 22 longrifle cartridges is picked up. The red beam is switched off. The smell of gunpowder, sagebrush, and pine trees, mingle with the smell of fresh blood and urine.

A lone shadow weaves through the sagebrush below Edward’s highpriced garish McMansion. Softshoed footsteps crunch on hard gravel, mingling with coyotes singing in the moonlight.

And For The Republic For Which It Stands

Yesterday while driving into town, a U.S. jet swooped down and come in low behind me. At the time, I was the only vehicle on a short stright of way on back road into town. If you have ever had a military jet drop out of the sky from nowhere and make a pass over you as if you were a target..the noise and fear factor sends a message not soon to be forgotten. Later in afternoon, I crossed the border to see if I could pickup a vacuum cleaner bag, I had forgot it on my list of this to pick up while in town. I have never had any problems crossing the border in four years that I have lived here. "I only know what the computer tells me." he said. "You." He pointed his finger in my face. "You have a FBI file that says..."I said, "Look at me. I am not lieing to you. I have no reason to have an FBI file. I have never done anything wrong to have a FBI file."He ask me many questions. I answered his questions with truthful answers.He said, "Get it cleared up."Coming back across the U.S. border, I explained why I had left my country for twenty minutes. "I went to the hardware store looking for a vacuum clearer bag."The crossing guard told me to order anything I needed on the internet because it saves on gas.When I get my courage back up, I will write more, who, what ,when, and where. I don't like to be told to keep my mouth shut, stay at home, etc. Granted I live in the HOT ZONE where many people do as they are told. I am not one of them. I was born and raised in the United States of America, and I will fight for my rights as a citizen of the Republic.I maybe be shaking in my boots with fear from the things I've hear that are going on in these mountains, but that will not stop me from doing my best to write about what I see, hear, and think.  

Yellow Bucket Seats

Opening the glove box, insurance papers, a 1984 BMW owners manual, and a small peril handled 32 automatic spilled to the convertibles clean carpet floor, the pistol nearly breaking one of the imported beer bottles in the six pack that rests between Mary Jo's pink plastic shoes.

"For Christ sake mom, why are you carrying that in the car?"

"Protection honey, it's just for protection. Your father gave it to me, said it was a lady's gun."

"Why did we ever move here?" Twisting her blond hair into a knot, Mary Jo smooths her hair behind her head and fastens a stunning blue and gold native bead work clip.

"You know why, as well as I do." Heather's blue eyes behind Italian designer sun glassed are fixed on the curving mountain road. The scent of the pine forest is as strong as a newly opened air freshener, and the early August afternoon is perfect for a drive over the pass to one of the regions smaller lake resorts.

"Mom. I saw dad in the store." The seventeen-year-old turns her head away from her mother, a wall of evergreen trees blur by. Tears roll freely off her cheeks to be swept away in the hot mountain wind.

"Did he say anything to you?"

"Of course not. That preacher Vandyke was so bug eyed, as if he had never seen bouncing tits before. Sam was as creepy as usual, neither one of them saw the look on dads face, they were to busy watching my ass."

"Please Mary Jo, you've been taught to use better language. Vulgarity is common."

"Sure mom. Whatever! Do you want to hear what happened or not?" Pulling down the visor she flips up the mirror and dabs at her smeared mascara. She pulls a cold beer from the six pack.

"I was going to pick up a couple of bottles of ice water, but dad looked like he was going to loose it, so I swung opened the fridge and grabbed the first thing on the shelve. I was watching dad in the glass door"

"How did he look?"

"What do you mean,"How did he look?" He looked like he had been stabbed in the heart. That's how he looked mom. Like he was going to cry, that's how he looked."

Heather McAllaster bit her lower lip keeping back rising emotions. Her two hands griped the top of the wood grained steering wheel hard, hard enough to dig her perfectly manicured peach pink nails into her sweating palms, the diamond rings on her fingers reflecting light as if under a jewelry showcase.

"I wanted to hug him, tell him how much I miss him. Mom... I didn't pay for the beer. If I had stayed one minuet longer, I would have blown his cover, so I just ran out of the store."

At the top of the summit the convertible pulls off the road to a shady parking area, a small park with picnic tables under a grove of shimmering aspens. Mile marker signs on newly painted posts point to several hiking trails leading off into the forest.

"You want a beer mom? I'm drinking one, I'm thirsty. There cold if nothing else."

"No honey, I don't want a beer. I want my life back." Heather's suntan face shows fine lines of worry beneath her heavy makeup. Her hair is short, wind blown, a beautiful natural red with blond highlights."

"Why did we stop here, don't we have to be at lodge before sundown? Mom I don't want to drive on that dirt road in the dark, it's dangerous." Opening the car door and wiggling sideways on the BMW's yellow leather bucket seat, Mary Jo leans over putting on a pair of red high top tennis shoes, then flings her maryjane clogs in the back seat one after the other. She picks up her beer, brushing off wet aspen leaves stuck to the bottom of the bottle.

"We have time, lets enjoy the afternoon. It's nice up here. I could use a walk, grab the camera and walk with me. I need to think."

"Okay, okay, hold on a second. Where's the trash can?" Mary Jo's voice is strained with agitation.

"Put your empty and the rest of those beers on that picnic table over there, and grab my purse." Pointing to the picnic area covered with aspen leaves, Heather stands in front of the signpost, reading trail names...Grizzly Ridge 7.5 miles, Ridge Top Loop 5 miles, Deer Creek Loop .4 miles.

An old 1960's 2.5 ton military truck is parked in the shade at the edge of the parking area. It's guard rails bulging with stacked firewood. Several chainsaws are strapped down on top of the tamarack load. A blue heeler cattle dog watches with his chin resting on the cab's open window, as Mary Jo places the six pack on the picnic table and hurries to catch up with her mother already starting up the winding trail. The truck owner is nowhere in sight.

"I put Elliot Ness in your purse mom, just in case we meet a really Big Bear." Mary Jo laughs, and hands her mother the thin-strapped silver purse.

"Elliot Ness isn't for protection against bears sweetheart. He's for protection against two-legged predators. Now tell me everything you remember that happened in the store."

"Look Mom!" A doe and two fawns leap across the stream and prance up the trail, their white tails waving from side to side. "What time is it? I want to call the lodge and tell them we'll be on time. The barbecue doesn't start until 7:30 and I want to make sure ass hole is bringing Isabelle."

"Mary Jo, I'm not going to tell you again, stop with the vulgarity, please. And why do you call him that anyway? He's a nice man. He's trying to help us."

"It's his job mom. He doesn't give a rat's ass about us. We're just a case number to him and you know it. Even Isabelle thinks he's a cold hearted bastard, and she should know."

"I'm sure Isabelle loves her father just as much as you love yours."

"Sure, whatever, but my dad isn't a federal agent."

Heather McAllaster's eyes squint shut slightly. "Honey, the cell phone doesn't work in this area, I've already tried."

"Shit!" In a fit of anger, the girl hurries past her mother. The scenic trail ahead looks like a page from Nation Geographic magazine.

Looking like it just rolled off the show room floor, a dark coloured Yukon SUV slowly coasts to a stop next to the open convertible. If the agents behind the heavy tinted windows were trying to be inconspicuous, they were clueless to the forest of sharp eyes watching them.