Our Concern for the Turkeys

We take such comfort from our guests.

Knowing they feel safe means so much to us.

Long ago…okay, not really all that long ago…a neighbor told us we’re known as the “safe house” in the neighborhood.

“All the parents tell their kids, if anything happens and you’re not sure what to do or just scared, go to Susan and Joseph’s house. They’ll help you.”

Note we were never asked if this was okay with us. It kind of just happened.

Left me scratching my head. “Huh?”

I think it started when we first moved into this neighborhood. One young lad, Ollie, always came over after school to talk with me. I thought he sought academic guidance as we often talked about school happenings. Each visit, he politely asked where Susan was.

I noticed his visits were shorter on the days Susan wasn’t around.

Then one day he confided, “You’re wife’s awful purdy.”

Thank you, Ollie. You do understand she’s with me, right, kiddo?

Ah, the stirrings of adolescent infatuation.

And meanwhile, the turkeys take comfort with us.


A Summer Turkey

It is one day past the american Thanksgiving as I post this.

This video, however, is from mid May of this year. A few days past, really.

We are visited by Turkeys often.

It is a source of joy for us.

This year we saw juveniles, both Tom and Hen, and mature birds, but no Turklets.

This is a concern.

The loss of habitat I keep mentioning. We wonder if the predators got to the eggs. We won’t really know until next year.

And by then it’ll be too late.

It is a hard thing, to accept The Wild as it is. The Wild serves its own, knows its own ways, suffers us but only for a little while (in the scheme of Nature’s time).

People tend to forget we’ve only been on the planet a (very) little wild. Our kind – homo sapiens – has been on the planet about a quarter as long as Neanderthals walked about.

Some say they’re gone, extinct.

I honestly don’t know. They had bigger brains than us and were better adapted to northern climates than we are or have been. That much smarter, maybe they simply hid.

Do you know you wouldn’t recognize a Neanderthal if you saw one walking down the street or in the grocery or in the mall if they wore modern clothing? Forget what you were told about how they looked, they looked much like us, only more solid, more muscular, more body hair.

Did I ever tell you I’m on record as having benched 350# ten for ten?

Or that I like the cold?

Or that Susan (wife/partner/Princess) won’t braided my back when I was asleep?

Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?


Sydney, Maeve, Blanche, and End-of-Day Cappuccinos

Everybody has an end of day ceremony.

Or should.

Ours is cappuccinos with a little something sweet (besides kisses and cuddles).

We also play a two-handed solitaire called “Russian Bank.”

No idea why it’s called “Russian Bank,” only that such is the name we were told and we’ve used ever since.

We play a unique form.

We work to help the other person win.

That way, regardless of the final outcome, we’re both winners, nobody loses.

At the same time, we improve each other’s game, each other’s skill level, by helping them see moves they missed.

Funny how cooperation achieves goals competition can’t even recognize.

Cooperation creates community. It must because cooperation requires more than a single player and requires all players benefit from the result.

It even allows disagreement. But not stasis. Whoever’s turn it is makes the final decision.

If the decision is faulty? Excellent. Something to learn from.

And if it’s not? Excellent! What we learned worked.


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.


Strutting to Bach

Sometimes I want to get Susan’s attention.

A special kind of attention (wink wink, nudge nudge).

That’s when I strut.

Our neighbors can tell when I’m a’struttin’ because they hear Susan laughing hysterically.

Yeah, I’m a good strutter.

But I’m nothing compared to these fine young chaps.

Especially when they be a’struttin’ to Bach.

Susan really gets a treat when I be a’struttin’ to Bach.

You can tell by her gasps of joy.

Or laughter.

No problems. I’ll take what I can get.