Hummingbird rescue

A group of Summer School teachers gathered sadly as the buses departed for the day. "How I long to teach them for just a few more hours," sighed one. A friend patted her arm consolingly. "Don't worry, they'll be back tomorrow." Squaring their shoulders with determination, spines straight with renewed resolve, this team of educators returned to their rooms to pour over data, determine differentiated lesson plans based on individual student needs and interests, and triple their paper mache recipes so the children could create life-sized models of the human skeletal system.

"But first I've got to get a gander at that hummingbird," my friend Marcia said, marching into Jaime's room. "What?!?" I asked, hot on her heels, not sure of exactly what I'd be seeing. A student project? A toy replica? A charming Youtube video? Certainly not a REAL hummingbird. I entered the room to hear the familiar droning of a mosquito. A rather LARGE, panic-stricken mosquito. Yup...it was a REAL hummingbird.

One of the most charming (and infuriating) qualities shared by educators is that we are problem-solvers. Whether you want us to or not, we ARE going to solve your problem. Jaime seemed rather nonplussed about the appearance of a hummingbird in her room. But Marcia and I immediately became hysterical. Thank goodness it was a wayward hummingbird weighing four grams rather than a 63,000 pound beached whale. We might have injured ourselves.

Marcia and I sprang into action. "Shut the door," I snapped (before closing it myself because I don't like to be bossy). Marcia grabbed an umbrella. A perfectly reasonable strategy. Mary Poppins snapped those kids right into shape with hers. I waited, wondering if Marcia was going to break into a little dance number. I'm a big fan of "Chim Chim Cher-ee." Apparently more of a "Nanny McPhee" fan, the hummingbird wasn't familiar with the choreography so Marcia abandoned her umbrella idea.

"If only there was a net," someone lamented. Brightening with the hope that she might be able to get these lunatics out of her classroom, Jaime rooted through her stuff and emerged victoriously with a badminton racket. Marcia and I looked at her in horror. "Do you think she actually believes that a badminton "birdie" is a real bird when her family plays at home," Marcia whispered. It was too terrible to consider.

Suddenly, I went into spider-mode. A seasoned veteran of the capture-and-release of home-bound arachnids, I realized that my method might also be applied to hummingbirds. "Quick, I need a bowl," I ordered (before going over to empty Jaime's candy bowl myself because I don't like to appear bossy). Clutching the badminton racket (because she wanted to get it out of the hands of suspected bird-killer Jaime), Marcia spotted me for safety (and support as my legs are a little wobbly) as I climbed up on a chair to reach our little feathered friend. Using the bowl as a dome, I gently encased him. Marcia ditched the racket for a folder which I slid between the bowl and the window. Together, we leaned out the window and watched. As the folder was lifted, so too, did our hummingbird lift heavenward. It was almost a spiritual experience. Until we realized that the only thing Jaime wanted was for us to get the hell out of her room. You're welcome, Jaime (and thanks for the candy!).

The Adirondacks: Part Two-The Climb (Up)

 Brad assures me that, somewhere along the line, I had agreed to this. "This" being the climbing of what my friend Sarah called the most unmountainous of the High Peak mountains in the Adirondacks: Cascade, coming in at a measly, barely-worth-mentioning 4,098 feet. "It's a great starter hike," Brad said,  reading from author Lisa Densmore's guidebook on Hiking the Adirondacks. Let me be frank with you here:  Lisa and I will NEVER be friends. Her very name became a profanity upon my dry, chapped lips as I belly-crawled my way up boulders. This woman should sell used cars for a living. Proof-in-point: "There are lots of rocks and roots on the eroded trail, but they seem more like steps than inconvenient obstacles." 

"You did swear a lot on this hike," Brad observed. "I did?" I asked, surprised. I don't actually remember speaking at all because I was so out of breath. "Yeah, the trail would even out a bit and then we'd hit another incline and you'd yell, What the hell!" he said. "I don't know when I would have even had the chance to speak," I snapped at him, "You were so busy telling me how this was a perfect trail for small children, the elderly, and disabled dogs."

According to Lisa (please say her name with a disgusted, venomous snarl), the total hiking time should be around four hours. Obviously, Lisa has kept the location of the hidden gondola ride to the summit top secret because it took me almost that time to travel one way on this blessed mountain. I think it was because I was considerate enough to let the toddlers, pregnant women, centenarians, and the three-legged dog go ahead of me.

I would insist on small breaks every ten (or two) minutes or so because I could tell that Brad and the girls were tired. In a rare romantic mood, Brad insisted on holding my hand and then would turn on me like a snake when I used him for leverage as I nimbly climbed nature's staircase. "Let me pull you," he instructed, dramatically rubbing his shoulder like I'd pulled it out of the socket (on purpose). Angry, I'd drop his hand, refusing to allow him the opportunity to say that he'd pulled me up the entire mountain but eventually, I'd relent and let him hold my hand again. After all, Tarzan didn't curse the vine, did he? Besides, Brad couldn't take ALL the credit. There were more hands on my ass during this ascent than a bar waitress experiences during a power outage after midnight. Sydney and Savannah win the Loving Daughters Award as they took turns playing Rabbit to my Pooh Bear.


Legs quivering, ankles shaking, I continued to climb without complaint...walking when I could, crawling when I couldn't. "I believe that this may be the end of the trail for you," Brad finally said, horrifying fellow climbers who paused to take careful note of my appearance for the Missing Persons poster. I, however, rallied. Channeling Rocky (ironic, huh?), I quoted his famous words to his trainer, Mickey as it appeared that the underdog boxer was about done in (like me) and said to my husband, "You stop this fight, I'll kill ya!" Don't get me wrong...I was on the ropes. I was clinging to trees like they were respirators or bottles of tequila. But I was determined to make it...you'll see.

The Adirondacks: Part One-The Drive

Thank you
http://nara-chann.deviantart.com/art/Raccoon-Soldier-542484976

Nothing like traveling six hours to the wilderness to really bond with nature. We saw a bald eagle ravaging its victim, twin baby fawns peering out of the tall grass...and we hadn't even driven five minutes from home yet! Those long car trips really are the stuff of memories. Sydney asking "Is this Lake Placid" a million times, coinciding with every time we passed a body of water larger than a puddle. And you really get to know one another a lot better in the midst of travel opportunities. For instance, Brad made the mistake of telling us about a camping experience he had while in the military. Oh wait...the correct term apparently is bivouac. Anyhoo, Brad and his friends, or should I say comrades,...

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This blog has momentarily lost service as the writer is being unjustly yelled at for ridiculing military duty. This writer concedes that the Army is NOTHING like the Boy Scouts or a Russian gulag and apologizes if her writing style causes the well-intended content to appear misleading or misinterpreted as non-patriotic. I heart America and our boys in blue (and green and khaki and camouflage). 
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~oops...I heart America and our boys (and girls and ?)...~~~

Back to my story (warning:  parts may be censored)...

During midnight maneuvers...

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Wait! What's wrong with that?!? I swear that there is NO sarcastic tone here!
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...a well-organized and strategic attack came out of no-where (Well, technically, it came out of the woods...where they were...camping...bivouac-ing...how do you even pronounce that word?!?!). A rowdy regiment of raccoons swept the site, intent on the squad's MREs.

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"What's an MRE," Sydney asked. "Meal-Ready-to-Eat," I explained. She furrowed her brow. "Like NASA space food," I clarified. "No," Brad roared, red-faced and angry for no apparent reason, "NOT like space food."
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So Brad battled these bandits and eventually earned his forestry badge. The end. 
(I grew tired of being censored. I am currently taking a craft class to make an "I heart my First Amendment Rights" sign.)

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This blog has momentarily lost service as the writer is being unjustly yelled at for again ridiculing military duty. This writer concedes that the Army is NOTHING like the Boy Scouts. The writer DID wonder how the raccoons managed to sniff their way through the military-grade zip-sealed security protection of MRE packaging. "They knew we had them," Brad answered, suppressing a shudder at the memory. "Didn't they also know you had guns," I asked. Conversation in our van inexplicably came to standstill for about an hour. I think I stumped him on that one.
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Syd eventually re-directed the conversation to diving. As she and her father had recently been diving in the Niagara River, both were very enthusiastic about the large population of small mouth bass that they see on their excursions. They considered bringing a small bag of frozen baby shrimp on their next dive to feed the fish. "Wouldn't that make them swarm around you though," I asked, worried. "Well...yeah. Why?" came the answer. I hesitated, fearful of bringing up a sore subject. "I was just a little worried about Brad suffering from raccoon-initiated PTSD."

Bent out of shape at yoga class

 "You bought what?" my husband asked, clearly astonished. "A yoga mat," I mumbled again. I understood his shock. I am a commitment-phob. I will volunteer until the cows come home but once my signature is requested, I am OUT-THE-DOOR. Even verbal agreements make me break out in hives. And when it comes to physical exercise...watch out. I do not respond to rewards, threats, praise or even planned ignoring. You can be enthusiastic, apathetic, or apoplectic...makes no difference to me.

My neighbor down the road is like the Jedi Master of yoga teachers. "See," my friend, Kelly, scolded, "this is why I worried about getting you involved. Yoga is an ancient mind/body/spiritual discipline that should not be mocked."

Let's get this clear. The only one I'm mocking here is me (and my friends, Cassie and Kelly...a little). But there is no getting around the fact that my addled brain is going to connect yoga-to-Yogi-to-Yoda. So if I say that yoga is no picnic...you know that I am speaking in a certain cartoon character's distinctive dialect ("Hey Boo Boo...pic-a-nic baskets may be good on the lips but they're a lifetime on the hips!"). I can't help it. And don't tell me that Yogi Berra wasn't born for yoga with his often-deep philosophical meditations: You can observe a lot just by watching. Even so, Kelly kept a close watch on me last week for my first class of Beginning Yoga.

Kelly's been trying to get me to take yoga with her for over a year. Lots of talk about flexibility, stretching, Charlie Brown's teacher's voice:  Wha wha wha wha...wha wha wha wha. Easy to ignore until the voice of reason finally spoke up. "You're going to love it," raved my friend, Cassie, "For the last ten minutes, you lay on the floor with a scented eye mask on your face and listen to soothing music." Wait. What? Okay...I'm in.

Until I met the teacher and then I was almost out. Brenda is pure sinewed muscle. She can fold herself in half and then into quarters. She is happy and positive. I glared at Kelly. Kelly knows that the two traits that I detest more than anything are "happy" and "positive." "We carry a lot of stress in our shoulders," Brenda told us, standing before me like a slender, graceful crane. "Does anyone know where else in our bodies we carry stress?" "I tend to carry my stress in my fists," I responded, standing before her like an irritable, ungainly orangutan.

For my first class, I worked a lot on opening my pelvic floor. I sat on my yoga pad and chanted (to myself, because Kelly kept glaring at me), "If the pad's-a-rocking, don't be a-knocking." I was proud of myself because I realized that I'd developed a mantra (and it was only my FIRST day!).

Brenda has a lot of nifty yoga gizmos to help me with my balance (and to make me not feel bad when I can't touch the floor (or my ankles or my knees) when asked). I mastered Mountain, turned into a Table, and didn't truly destroy Downward Dog. But Pigeon Pose kicked my a$$. Brenda gave me a bolster cushion and I promptly flopped off of it. But you know that old adage, "When you fall off your bolster cushion, you need to get right back up on it again." I simply slid off the other side. It was like the Rolling Log event in American Ninja Warrior. Disgusted, Kelly eventually wrestled me into position.

Sydney went with me this week. I wasn't sure if she went for the health-and-wellness opportunity or if she went to catch a rare glimpse of her mother in the most unlikeliest of habitats. Kind of like the time Hillary Clinton visited the Wyoming County Pike Fair and spoke in a cow barn. Not something that one sees every day. "How did I do," I asked her when I got home. "Well..." she answered, "aside from when you made your group of foam blocks topple over like dominoes, I thought you did very well."

The evening's theme was "Full of Grace," which applies harmoniously to (most) religions. I listened with interest as the Hindu philosophy of grace was shared, nodded and smiled with my hands poised in prayer before silently concluding, "And Jesus said, Amen!"

Mind.............check.
Body.............check.
Spirit.............check.

Well worth the investment of a five dollar yoga mat.

Yard Sale fun with Brad

Steady yourselves for a big shock:  Brad Mosiman does NOT enjoy shopping at yard sales. I know...I know...you'll never be able to view him in the same light now that you've seen the dark side of the moon. As you might have guessed...it's put a real burden on the marriage.

I'm not sure if it's a missing chromosome, a backwards twisting DNA strand, or a latent childhood psychological trauma but Brad Mosiman is unable to generate even a smidge of excitement when I come bounding into the house with a large cluster of orange glass grapes that I acquired for the miraculous price of ten cents. "What are you going to do with them," he asked, puzzled. What is WRONG with him? How did I NOT know about this significant deficit when I married the man? Why is yard sale compatibility not part of standard pre-marital counselling? "You are going to use wire cutters to separate them," I told him in complete exasperation, "and then we will use the orange grapes to fill up our glass pumpkin." "Of course we will," he muttered, walking off in search of his wire cutters.

So imagine my surprise when Brad decided to join me Saturday afternoon when a nearby town hosted yard sale days. I was so nervous. Like...first date nervous when you order the small salad rather than the rack of ribs. "What are we looking for," my husband asked. Usually, I'm a browser but on this particular day, I was searching for small novelty toys to fill my classroom's Derelict Prize Box. I had inadvertently stumbled upon a way to generate student enthusiasm when Sydney finally cleaned out all of her and Savannah's old (and sometimes broken) childhood toys. I brought them in, housed in a dented cardboard box and the kids went wild. "Who would like an old, dirty broken toy?" I'd asked and was almost trampled as the crowd surged forward. Hence, the Derelict Prize Box was born. It was reminiscent of the old "Let's Make a Deal" show where some poor contestant would choose Door #2 and end up with a rooster instead of the RV.

The prize box was getting a little low. "Who would like a snack-sized bag of sour-cream and onion potato chips that I accidentally sat on," I enticed my would-be writers. If one-word written answers were any indication, then it was definitely time to go shopping.

Brad paused at a display of small toys laid out like a sacrificial offering. Fifty cents a piece. "That's highway robbery," I whispered. "We want toys jammed together like just-cut cord-wood...labeled with a group price." Nodding, Brad methodically moved on while I eyed up a stein shaped like a Colonial American man. "It's fifty bucks," Brad muttered, materializing suddenly at my elbow and leading me gently (but firmly) away, "Stay focused."

Our first score was a quart-sized storage bag stuffed with Shrek and a stretchy rabbit, among other fabulous scholarly incentives. I got my tiki guy for ten cents and the lady threw in an over-sized plastic mosquito for free! "Is that John Cena," I asked, hurdling a tarp of golf clubs and snow boots to snatch the figure out of Brad's hand. He may have just found the Holy Grail of old, dirty broken toys. Talk about your beginner's luck!

Just to show that he wasn't just all business, Brad also found a stretchy dachshund Christmas ornament. "How much is this," he wondered, clearly willing to pay any price for this treasure. Twenty-five cents later, he placed it in my waiting hands. A dozen red roses couldn't have made me happier.

As yard sale dates went, this one was clearly a winner. "Look at what we saved!" I smiled, "We managed to fill my prize box for under five dollars!" I thanked him, again and again, for joining me. "It was totally worth it," he admitted. Awww...what a romantic. "If I hadn't been there," he continued, "you'd have spent FIFTY-five dollars and bought the stein too."

Reasons for NEVER visiting Aunt Amy

I adore ALL of my nieces and nephews but have resigned myself to a lifetime of adoration from afar as they are scattered from Alaska to Pennsylvania with just a few living within an hour's reach. That frustrating hour has thwarted me, again and again over the years, as the busy lives of children and the hectic schedules of adults have made it seem like they live in a another country rather than just a another county.

But then...it happened. My beautiful twin nieces, Alea and Alexis, passed their driver's tests (Did I mention that they're brilliant as well?). ROAD TRIP! Destination:  Aunt Amy's!

Those who call Wyoming County home are aware of the ever-constant conditions that keep drivers sharply cautious. Tractors, deer, dogs, deer, golfcarts, gators, deer. We won't even talk about winter...but it never occured to me to warn the girls about weeds. I take full responsibility for Alexis's mild mishap. Having never actually driven to my house herself, she first drove past it, up our seasonal dirt road. I walked out my front door and watched her, in the distance, execute a flawless k-turn...except what Alexis took to be a flat field of grass was first met by a two foot deep culvert filled with three foot tall weeds. Perfectly understandable. "Do you have your shoes on," I yelled in to Brad and heard him sigh.

"What a great car," I said in admiration as Brad wiggled underneath it to hook up the tow chain. "From what I can see of it," I went on, "it looks quite stylish...even tilted at 45 degrees." Still a little out of breath from jogging back to the house, Alexis smiled uncertainly as she looked at her angled automobile. She held up her phone like she was testing for wind direction. "I still don't have a connection," she marveled, like we were in the middle of the rain forest rather than in the middle of a farm field. Brad and I glanced at each other. I had to actually bend over to successfully complete this maneuver as he was still under the car. Despite all the commercial promises, only ONE cell phone carrier semi-reliably works here in the heart of Wyoming County and obviously, my nieces were not customers. This is important, friends, as it comes back into play soon.

Thanks to the presence of my beloved nieces, Brad and I successfully towed out Alexis's car without any yelling, screaming and swearing on Brad's part or huffing, puffing, eye rolling or stomping away on mine.

We oohed and ahhed over Alea's successfully parked car...marveled over trunk room, ignored the cat hair in the back seat, and pondered appropriate mneumonics to memorize their license plate numbers. Savannah called from Connecticut during our euchre game and demanded to Facetime as my partner until I realized Brad could see my cards on the screen. Then, Savannah wanted to tour the cars so we walked her out with me holding Brad's phone awkwardly so the camera was pointed kind of in the right direction until, disgusted, my niece ripped it out of my hand and showed me that I could "flip" the camera and see what I was showing Savannah at the same time. "That's marvelous," I said.

Turns out that the younger generation doesn't know as much as they think they know about cell phones though when Alexis had to borrow mine to check in about her evening plans. "How do you text on this thing," she whispered to Sydney, staring dumbfounded at my little flip phone.

With Alexis off to play volleyball in a car that was resting at a comfortable 180 degree angle on the road ("I was named All-star in highschool," I told her, "Do

you want me to come play too?"), the rest of us headed to Letchworth State Park. As we toured "The Grand Canyon of the East," I remembered one of the twins had admitted to not really being much of a sight-seer. "That was Alexis, Aunt Amy," Alea assured me, accustomed to my idiot blunders. After a lovely visit at the park, it was time for her to go. We waved as she confidently drove off in her car, following hugs and promises that she would visit again soon.

As luck would have it, Brad and I needed to drop my truck off to be inspected in town so we were on the road not five minutes after Alea had left. Imagine my surprise when, a mile down the road, there she was, parked along the side. I rolled down my window. "I think I need some help," she said.

"I'm glad you came along," Alea admitted as we watched her uncle crawl under the car. "I couldn't get any cell phone connection and I thought I was going to have to walk back." After another successful tow, Brad signaling me in the rear view mirror to slow down, move over, or stay steady but NEVER using his middle finger in the process, we drove Alea home. "Well...that was certainly a...fun...visit," she said as we said good-bye (again). We waved as we drove away. "They're never coming back, are they?" I remarked to my husband in the darkness. God bless him, he just laughed.

Sinkhole/Pothole, Potato/Patato

We all know how Savannah tends to exaggerate. So when she told me that her parking spot was resting on a sinkhole, I immediately told her to look up the definition of "pothole" as she was obviously confused. Knowing that arguing with her mother was both futile and disrespectful, Savannah dropped the subject. A few days later, I decided to tease my daughter a bit, asking her about the state of her "sinkhole." "Well, the apartment complex people partitioned my parking spot off for now," Savannah reported. I sighed. "For a pothole? Really, Savannah! What is society coming too!" Savannah, again, let the matter drop.

During the seven hour drive to Connecticut, it was tough to determine whether I was more excited to visit Savannah or see this so-called "sinkhole" of hers. As Brad and I pulled into the parking lot, I immediately spotted the barrage of florescent orange traffic cones congregating around Savannah's assigned spot. "This is just ridiculous," I grumbled, stomping over to inspect the erosion-infected area. Maybe stomping wasn't such a great idea. "Brad," I said, bouncing up and down a bit on the driveway, "the ground feels spongy." He grabbed my arm and pulled me aside before testing it out for himself. We peered cautiously into the cavern and I let out a cautious, "Hello in there..." which was immediately echoed back.
"Do you keep rappelling rope and a helmet in your car," I asked Savannah who had, at this time, joined us as we debated the possibility of fitting a spelunking expedition into our trip.

I am happy to report that, vocabulary-wise, I was right.  According to dictionary.com, a pothole is a hole formed in pavement while a sinkhole is a hole formed in rock by the action of water. "Wait, how do you figure that," Savannah interjected. "With your definition, I say potato/patato." She thumbed through her fancy electronic gizmo. "See," she said, pointing, "the definition has to do with what's happening under ground. Not above it." We peered warily into what WAS beginning to look like a sinkhole. Savannah was right. ("What did you say," Savannah asked, "Could you say that again, please.") Savannah was right. ("That's right," she nodded.) A pothole can be patched but this heavily-guarded guy could be advertised as the Guinea Pig Grand Canyon of Groton, Connecticut. Guinea pigs from across the nation...no, make that the world, would flock (Crawl? Scamper?) to Savannah's evacuated parking spot, don safety harnesses, sign a liability release form and tour the dark and mysterious recesses beneath acres of asphalt. "Why are you limiting this fun-filled excursion to just guinea pigs," Brad wondered (and then wondered WHY he had wondered). "Hamsters have wheels," I explained, "What do guinea pigs have?" He nodded, tiring of looking at a hole in the ground after driving seven hours. "Yeah," he said, "I guess you're right" (What did you say," I asked, "Could you say that again, please?").

Sailfest Fun 2016

Not surprisingly, my self-diagnosed attention deficit issues really ramp up when I'm either (a) tired or (b) excited. Oh boy. Because we were in Connecticut visiting our daughter Savannah, I was really excited. And because we were in Connecticut visiting our daughter Savannah and she tends to schedule grueling eighteen mile sightseeing hikes, I was also extremely tired. Let's throw a firework extravaganza on top of that, as well and stand back.

The day started at New London's Sailfest. My family first became aware that I was becoming a tad too stimulated when my neck could no longer withstand the weight of my many head revolutions as I tried to take in the impressive k-turn of a giant ferry boat, the lifting of the many-masted Mystic Whaler as it began the day, the rumble of the commuter train behind us, and, the cherry on top, an over-head drone buzzing overhead. "Let's go get you a snack," my husband said, not realizing he was trading one problem for another.

On our way to the oven-fresh cinnamon rolls slathered with frosting, I was sidetracked by "Simply Cannoli." When it comes to cannolis, I am a traditionalist at heart but the "Simply Cannoli" menu was enticing. Filling flavors, topping varieties, dipping garnishes...I was immediately transfixed and rendered incapable of making a decision. Our capable hostess gently led me through the process and I ended up with two traditional cannolis (ends dipped in mini-chocolate chips and dusted with powdered sugar), an apple-walnut filled cannoli drizzled with caramel, and a Mounds cannoli dipped in grated coconut. "So much for the cinnamon roll," Savannah shrugged as we waved good-bye to the "Simply Cannoli" lady. "What cinnamon roll," I muttered, my mouth full of delicious cannoli.

After Sailfest, Savannah took us to the Niantic Boardwalk. Sandwiched between the Long Island Sound and a fenced expanse of train tracks, the boardwalk boasts vistas both big and small. One might be riveted by rolling waves, rocks or the railroad. I wasn't even out of the parking lot before I squealed with excitement, spotting a crab shell, just out of reach beyond the fence. "How do you think it got there," I wondered as Brad fought to keep his eyes from rolling before suggesting a bird
as a possible means of transport. Apparently, I've been watching too many crustacean cartoons. The idea of a crab trying to reach the train to begin a cross-country journey didn't seem that far-fetched. But now I was hooked. My discerning eye roved the rock piles, spotting shells of all shapes and sizes. And even more. "Look! A sock," I shouted drawing Brad and Savannah's attention from the boring beach. And then the train came! I leaped up on the bench for a better look. Brad jumped up after me to make sure I didn't topple off.  Savannah pretended that she didn't know us.

We got to the end of the boardwalk. "Wait, I've got to walk a mile back," I asked, feeling betrayed into unnecessary exercise. "How about some ice cream first," Brad suggested. Sold. One look at the ice cream flavor selection menu at "Gumdrops and Lollipops" and I knew enough to immediately walk away and let Brad deal with that. I am one of the rare people on the planet where too many choices are a bad thing.

One mile and a four hour nap later, I was ready for fireworks. I had been bragging about the Sailfest fireworks show for a full year, finally convincing Brad to take a day off from work so that we could go. As we sat waiting for the show to begin, I was plagued with self-doubt. "I may have exaggerated this a bit," I whispered. "You?" my husband said, shocked, "Never." According to him, the trip had already paid for itself in entertainment value as he and Savannah had enjoyed watching me scale the Fort Grisewood Battlefield hill to gain access to a sentinel of porta-potties. "You were like a little billy-goat," Brad said with admiration, "even when you got lost." "Thanks," I said grimly.

The fireworks were incredible. Folks on both sides of the Sound would tell you that. "I can't believe they're able to make letters out of fireworks," Savannah marveled. "I know," I agreed, "I didn't even mind that the "S" in "USA" was backwards sometimes." I caught Brad and Savannah glancing at each other, rolling their eyes. "Dawn's early light decided to illuminate my dim bulb of a brain, "Oh...are you saying that was so BOTH sides could see?" Forwards, backwards or upside down...it was quite the star-spangled day.

To "bee" or not to "bee"

Talk about your party crashers. As the Mosiman family lounged around the camp fire, awaiting the arrival of their 4th of July guests, Sydney squinted up into the overhead branches and uttered the words that EVERY party hostess longs to hear:  "Is that a swarm of bees?"  "As they are not actually airborne, I believe the more accurate term is cluster," her father calmly corrected her while I ran screaming around the yard, ripping my hair out.

This has actually been an on-going problem, three or more years in the making. An impressive hive of bees had taken up residency in a nearby tree and no amount of coaxing, caulking, or cementing was going to convince them to move. We Mosimans pride ourselves on our neighborliness...having been known to treat fellow Hardys Road inhabitants with runny fudge, half-cooked chicken dinners and occasionally, chocolate raspberry pie. We approached our new bee friends with caution, adopting a "live-and-let-live" policy that worked well until our little dachshund suffered a sting on her paw and Brad began to view lawn mowing as a stunt sport.

The hunt for a bee whisperer was on but our phone calls, emails, and sky-writing messages went unanswered. We realize that killing a honey bee is the second greatest sin after kicking a kitten but we were getting desperate. After having someone remove bees from her walls, my friend Sue shared her bee guy's number and we got the answer we were looking for even though it was NOT the answer that we wanted. Apparently, just like my intention to regularly exercise, it is next to IMPOSSIBLE to remove an established hive from the depths of a tree. "Is it an established hive," the bee guy asked me. "Well, they put out a welcome mat, have an engraved door-knocker and host a weekly bible study," I told him, "Is that considered established?" I heard the sigh on the other end of the phone and then, in a lowered voice, the bee whisperer whispered to me. "You may have to take more euphemistic measures," he said softly. I gasped, "You don't mean...?" but the line had gone dead.

So with heavy hearts, we began the sad process of evicting our neighbors. Each morning, Brad would climb the ladder and bend over the humming hive buried in the tree to dump a bucket of warm soapy water over it. A cloud of bees would rise like confetti around my husband. I swear they were sporting shower caps and clutching little loofas. Day after day this would occur, leading up to our Independence Day party set for 7 pm. Nearly thirty people invited. No one showed up...except the bees.

Two hours later, as our (human) guests finally began to trickle in, I quickly served up hot dogs, pasta salad, watermelon, chips and yes, the chocolate raspberry pie...trying to hurry things along to move us out to the open field for the evening's culminating event. But people were content to rest and relax by the fire, not realizing that death loomed overhead. "It's like The Hunger Games out there," Savannah whispered, as the branch swung alarmingly under the weight of the bees. We eventually told our guests about our unconventional party pinata and our friend Than shared that he, too, had a guy. Yeah...whatever.

Except he did. Have a guy. Unfortunately, that meant that Than would call me at 6:45 the following morning to bring his bee guy over. The bee guy climbed a ladder. The bee guy cut the bee-covered branch. The bee guy held the bee-covered branch over a box. The bee guy banged the bee-covered branch over the box. The bees then bounced into the box. "There's about two or three pounds of bees here," remarked the bee guy. How much does a bee weigh," whispered Sydney. "One tenth of a gram," I whispered back, because I know stuff like that without having to Google it. Google is making us stupid. "How many grams are in a pound," she wondered. "454," I answered. I shook my head. What are the schools teaching kids these days? "These sure are clean bees," we'll pretend my bee guy said.

According to my calculations (and NOT a Google search), three pounds yields approximately 3500 bees. Holy honey bee, Batman! How many bees must STILL be in my tree?

In case you were wondering about last week's bee bible study topic, it was from Psalm 118:

They surrounded Brad Mosiman like bees; They were extinguished with soapy water as a fire of thorns; In the name of the LORD I will surely cut them off.

I hope this isn't a prophetic warning about my tree. Sigh. Something's got to go.

It's all part of living in the country

It's all part of living in the country.

Fresh air. Sometimes NOT-so-fresh air. The hum of tractors. The lazy drone of insects. Waving fields. The flash of lightning bugs. The sudden appearance of a 1200 pound roll of hay in the middle of your road.

It's all part of living in the country.

FLASHBACK:  20 years ago.

"Honey, are you aware that there is a cow on our garage?"

Yes...you read that right. Not IN. ON.

It's all part of living in the country.

I've heard, in the cities, residents worry about getting robbed of their wallets. In the country, we have to guard our rhubarb.

It's all part of living in the country.

So what is one to do when a 1200 pound roll of hay appears in the middle of your road? Well...as we no longer have a guinea pig, there wasn't much point in keeping it. We handled it as though it were a baby animal we'd encountered in the woods...admire it...take a few pictures...and trust that whoever loves it is nearby and will come back to retrieve it once we've left.

And sure enough, a tractor cautiously made its way up to the lonely "little" hill of hay. Holding our breath, we watched, hidden behind our living room curtains, as it coaxed its lost load onto the lift and carried it off to safety. Relieved, we returned to our normally scheduled routine...realizing that

It's all part of living in the country.

Brad having fun on the 4th at the Royals game

I'm not one for sports-talk. "Oh..." I said, nodding with understanding, "did our pitcher get kicked out of the game for accidentally hitting the guy batting." "No," Brad replied glumly, "it's not a discipline issue...it's more of a speed and accuracy issue." And while others were busy keeping their eye on the ball ("Is that where that saying comes from?" asked Sydney excitedly.), I was busy keeping my eye on the food and beverage vendors. And, as usual, Brad was busy keeping one eye on the game and one eye on me. "Boy, that sun sure is bright," I commented. "Here...take my hat," he said watching Morales with a 3-2 count. "Wow...the temperature really dips when the sun goes down," I later observed so Brad helped me to first find my coat and then wrestle me into it as Escobar made it to first base seconds too late.

Taking note of my Royals shirt, a man next to me scolded my choice of team alliance. "If you're from the Buffalo area, why wouldn't you be a fan of Toronto," he asked. "Because I'm American," I bristled back, waving my little flag patriotically in his face before Brad decided to switch seats with me. "Where's your drink," Brad asked as I choked on a peanut while Dyson snagged a fly in center field. "I can't reach it," I gasped as Brad rectified the situation. Later, my husband expressed some amazement when he realized my snack was gone. "I didn't realize you enjoyed peanuts so much," he commented as Hosmer stepped up to bat. I quietly admitted that I'd dropped the bag so Brad was belly-crawling underneath stadium seating as Hosmer hit his homer. Kansas City got their scoring run and I got my lost bag of peanuts!

"This was so much fun," I exclaimed as we joined the throngs of people streaming out of the stadium. Brad gently nudged me in the right direction, again and again and again, as I wondered where we'd parked the truck. "What was the score," I asked, weaving among the thousands of happy, singing Toronto Blue Jays fans. "6 to 2," my husband answered, boosting me up into the Titan. "Here," he said, handing me my bag of snacks. "have a peanut." I watched my guy as he walked around the front of the truck and swung into the driver's seat. "Did you have fun," I asked. "Yeah, I had a ball," he smiled at me, throwing his empty glove between our seats before starting the truck for the three hour drive home. "I can't wait until the Royals play again," I said as Brad maneuvered his way through bumper-to-bumper traffic. And in the darkness, he sighed.