Turkeys Don’t Like Shadowfax?

Imagine our chagrin!

There we were, enjoying a little music during lunch, only to learn some people…well…harrumph!

Okay, so it was Turkeys, not people.

I’m not sure when I first encountered Shadowfax. I suspect it was early-mid 1980s. A radio station out of nearby Peterborough, NH, played progressive rock, progressive jazz, and fusion all under the title of “new age.” I learned of Clannad, Peter Gabriel, and many others through them.

Every Friday they did a “Be the nth caller…” thing. They offered all sorts of things from coffee mugs at a local Gas-n-Go to Peter Frampton tickets (back when he started touring again).

For whatever reason, I was the only person who ever called in. I’m not talking “I was always the nth call,” I mean “I was the only person who ever called in.

And I won all sorts of things. The DJs and I got to know each other over the phone (it was the 1980s, remember?) and it got to the point that I would call, give the answer, we’d chat, and I’d tell them to hold the prize for some other giveaway.

Then one day I entered my office, turned on the stereo, and country-western came out of the speakers. I spun the dial. Did another station walk all over them? I called. They completely changed format. None of the DJs I knew were there anymore. All in one day’s time.

I asked what caused the change. New owners. I talked with a tech I knew. Nobody knew it was coming. Everybody came in and were handed a two-week’s severance plus any accrued vacation time.

Life can suck at times. If you let it.

And by the way, Turkeys, it seems, don’t like Shadowfax.

Go figure.



Earlier this year we met Felicity, a young mother-to-be.

She’s a cutie (as are they all) and stopped by for a little gnosh.

The night before we were entertained by a few females rebuffing one male, Rosco, whose belligerence increased as more and more womens decried, “Hit the road, clown!”

Rosco was not amused.

But what fascinated us (and sorry, we didn’t get any pics) was the females grouping together so Rosco had no opportunities with any of them.

Kind of a “Girls Night Out,” that.

You Go, Girls! You Go!


Raccoon Pig Pile

Sometimes things get hectic.

Some nights things get very hectic.

Not as hectic as they could be or have been. Once we had over twenty raccoons in our backyard, all with forelegs across their chests, tapping their little raccoon feet, while we put out dog food, peanuts, cookies, and assorted other treats for them.

One night we had fox, raccoon, opossum, skunk, coyote, … it was Grand Central.

We loved it.

But this night it was raccoons only.

Maybe it was a union thing. We don’t know.



Spring Kits

We’re happy to report Hyacinth and her kits made it through another winter. They woke pretty much on schedule and came for their…umm…dinner?

A bit late for breakfast or lunch.

Unless they’re working 3rd shift.

Which is possible. Raccoons are usually nocturnal. At least around here. Except when they’re preggers and/or nursing. Either one, they come around for a good helping of protein and fat (dog food and peanuts).

We’re happy to be of service.

The Wild gives so much.


They ain’t tiny little raccoons no more

Children grow.

It is the nature of things.

Wonderful cliche, that, don’t you think? It is the nature of things? Alternately fatalistic and dismissive. An admixture of “that’s the way it happens” and “big deal.”

I don’t accept fatalism or dismissiveness.

I know they exist. I know other people have them as part of their raison d’etre.

I do not.

Celebrate while you can, that’s me. Live it up. Enjoy. Our moments are precious and few.

Rejoice in the continuation of life. It will not always be there for us to savor.

And in the meantime, our children grow.

My concern?

Who will care for The Wild behind our home when Susan and I pass.

For that matter and due to the construction on the other side of the wood, will there still be wildlife here when Susan and I pass.

I’m reminded of those last few scenes in Silent Running (a classic).

And for now, they ain’t tiny little raccoons no more.