Life Imitates Art - Miracle Edition!

One of these days, I'm going to release my novel "Balms & Sears."*  The road goes ever onward, as they say.  And for nearly two years now, this photograph, taken by Nine Koepfer, was going to adorn the cover:

You see, the novel is about Alec Ewell, who from at least four years old, has had the ability to heal.  Over the years (he's fourteen when the book begins), he has used that power, which his grandfather calls Balming, to heal animals and people, to the point where he can bring an animal back from the point of death.

When I first saw Koepfer's photo, I knew that's the image I wanted for my cover: a dead or dying bird, being touched or held in the hands of a child.  And I still love that image.

However, while I was editing audio yesterday at the family cabin, I heard a sharp thump from the windows beside me, and as has happened multiple times, a bird had flown into the glass.  Sometimes, the birds are fine, but often, they break their necks or wings or spines, and I find their still bodies on the deck below the window.  Last time, there was a dead woodpecker there, and this time, I went out to check, and found a poor, sad gray and white finch or swallow (let me know and I'll change it) fluttering on the wood slats, an unsightly bulge in its feathers behind its neck.

I've watched them die before, and this one was surely a goner, so I picked it up so it could, I don't know, slip away in a warm hand, or pass away quicker due to panic in the clutches of a deadly predator.

It occurred to me that this was like my cover to "Balms," and I grabbed my phone and took a photo, thinking that it could serve just as well as a cover, not considering that a) the hands belong to a middle-aged dork rather than a teen or child, and that b) I couldn't very well hold the bird in my hands or touch it with my index finger if I had to hold up my phone to take the picture.

I set the bird down where the rays of the sun could hit it as it passed, and went back inside, just in case I'd better wash my hands (I don't know that birds aren't clean animals, but the fact that it was dying made me think I ought to, even though the cause of death was a shiny reflection).  When I went out to check on the bird, though, it had rolled over onto its legs, which surprised me, considering its injuries, and when I went out a few minutes later, the bird was standing up, and seeing me, hopped off the log where I'd set it, and ran to the edge of the deck, where it jumped off, and ran off into the brush.

Later on, when I was carrying my junk out to the car, I saw the bird in a tree, obviously recovered enough that it could fly.  So, just like Alec Ewell, and like Judd Nelson in an unsuccessful 1986 movie, I've got the touch, I've got the power.

*It was SUPPOSED to have come out in September or early October, but alas, Rish B. Outfield was involved, so no.

Two Strikes, You're Out

I'm at the cabin, and yesterday afternoon, as I was doing some audio editing (a Ray Bradbury story that's possibly his most famous, but one I don't like at all . . . so why would I present it on my show?), there was a loud BANG to the right of me.  I knew what it was immediately (it had happened before): a bird had flown into the window.  There have been a number of times when I've gone to the upper deck and found a dead bird up there, and no doubt, that was the reason why.  But this time, it startled the crap out of me, but I got up and went out there, and found a large brown and orange bird (I thought it was a woodpecker for the moment I saw it) awkwardly walking on the deck.  The second it saw me, it flew away, but it had left a telltale grey mark on the glass* and a couple of white feathers on the sill.  I felt bad for it (I feel bad for a lot of injured or dead animals, leading me to free the squirrels I caught in the traps around the building, and even going so far as to pity the yellowjackets I swat when they get inside and buzz around the east window), but was glad it was alright.

I kept thinking about how hard it hit the glass (imagining Alfred Hitchcock-esque scenarios), and ended up writing a story about it once the sun went down (one I'll surely never share with anyone, but pretty much wrote in one day), and that was it.  I wasn't going to mention it to anyone, and certainly wouldn't have blogged about it.

Now it's the next day, and I was reading instead of writing or editing (sorry), when, to my right, on a different window, came another meaty THUMP.  It startled me, though not as badly, and I got up to see if it had been the same bird.  

It was, but this time, he wasn't getting up.  It was fluttering its wings, its little claws opening and closing, its mouth agape, and a long thin tongue lolling out like you see in the movies.  Before my eyes, its movements ceased, and its eyes actually closed as it died.  There was another grey mark on the glass where it hit, but I swear, this one hadn't struck nearly as hard.  My guess is, the poor thing's neck was broken, but the time between flying into the window and being dead was less than a minute.  Unfortunate, beautiful animal, and now it was gone for no reason.  

The story I wrote last night was meant to be scary, since that's how I'd reacted, but if I wrote one now, it would just be sad.

*I tried to get a picture of it just now, but you just can't see it amid the mid-day reflection.

Return To The Cabin In The Woods

Because of the huge amount of snowfall this winter, we haven't been able to go to the cabin yet, and my brother thought it might not be till the end of June.  But he was going to drive up in his truck last week and see how far he'd get, and then walk the rest of the way, to check on the condition of the cabin (because of the record snowfall, there was a worry that the roof or the deck might collapse, or at least there'd be damage to the cabin).  But on Sunday, he told me that not only had he driven up with barely any difficulty (except for a couple of downed trees in the road, which he cut and moved out of the way), even my little car would make it just fine.

My cousin has a family reunion this week, which meant we wouldn't be getting together (to watch anything or have lunch on Wednesday), so I decided to go up around noon on Tuesday.  Of course, I couldn't get everything done quite on time, but I still made it there around four o'clock.

There was one cabin I saw that the snow had done a number on (my brother said he saw one where a window had been broken in, presumably by a fallen tree rather than the snow), and its deck was pretty much a representation of my opinion of Pauly Shore.

So, for my first trip up to the cabin, it's surprisingly cold for June (there's still snow on the ground in places where the sun rarely shines).  I couldn't remember how much stuff I left there last year (I had meant to clear everything out when I came back from Europe in early November, but my brother had already closed up the cabin for the winter before I came home), so I bought a bunch of food, as well as blankets, clothes, and supplies.

I needn't have bothered, because there was more stuff there from last year than I would ever have guessed, and there was little in the way of spoilage (there were mouse droppings on the floor and on my box of food, but no evidence any had gotten into my food . . . I think the mice might have just now gotten into the cabin, since the thaw), and I had way more than I thought I would. 

Also, the only damage to our place was the back deck had sunk a foot into the ground (from the weight of all the snow), and the benches around the fire pit had also been driven into the ground, and one had snapped neatly in two.

Even though I love going to the cabin, the cold (luckily, I still had dry wood, kindling, and paper to make fires left over from last year), the fact that the lights wouldn't turn on in the living room, on the stairs, or the outside deck, and the unfortunate timing of the gas stopping working as I was making some rice, made it a little less enjoyable than usual (the next day, when it was light, I started the barbecue grill up outside and used it to cook and to warm up some water so I could wash myself . . . but it was still not the same as what I'd grown used to over the past three years).

As usual, I went to the dam to do my run and watch the sun go down (I started the tradition in 2020, and hey, the photos still come out great, despite my lack of that year's romanticism), and saw that the lake is the highest it's ever been, only two feet or so from the top of the dam.  The water was dirty and ice cold, otherwise, it would've been fun as a teenager to jump into the lake from the dam (it occurs to me that the lake is about fifteen feet higher than it was my first trip last year, which would've been in May rather than June).  

I only saw one or two deer in my travels, but there happened to be an entire get-together happening at the cabin above ours on the hill, so people were noisy and active, and sleeping in tents right there where the property line ends.

It started to rain that night, and rained on and off for the next eighteen or so hours.  At one point, it started to "movie rain" (a term I've given to when it's absolutely pissing down, unlike the last ten rainstorms you saw*), and I wondered if the dirt roads I drive in and out on might not become mud roads.  I didn't like not having hot water and food I didn't make in the barbecuer, so I packed my stuff and headed home.  It was already dark, even though it was hours before sundown, due to the stormclouds, but once I got down the mountain and out of the canyon, the sun came back again.

But ah well, there's always next week.

*Big and I were extras in a movie a lifetime ago, and there was a rain scene where they set up this giant sprinkler-type machine to dump hundreds of gallons of water onto the set (and those unfortunate enough to be under it), because you have to have that much downpour (or backlight it correctly) for any rain to show up on camera.

10-27

Day 4

Today was Jeff's birthday, and I don't think I ever wished him a good one.*

I asked him, years ago, if he had ever been to the Black Forest, and he said he hadn't, but his wife likes to go.  So, when we were compiling a list of things I'd like to do when I came over here, the Schwartzwald was on it.  It was going to be an all day thing, so we loaded onto a train that went to the main station, then onto another train that went out into the country.

The trains were so clean, it blew me away.  At the same time, because I was facing backward, I got motion sick.  Emily told me that I need to always face forward if I didn't want to be sick.  After we got off at the station and walked through a town with the ridiculous name of Bad Wildbad, I was feeling much better.

Jeff and me.

Apparently, they call it the Black Forest because the trees grow so closely together that it's dark around them, NOT because of the unspeakable presence of great evil within, or the atrocities that have been committed there over the years, or even that the bark of the trees is black.  

But still, it was enjoyable.  The most visually impressive thing about the forest was the green lichen that grows over the rocks and tree trunks.  I openly defiled the spirits of the woodland by taking pictures of the damn-ed Yo-Gabba-Gabba dolls that were unfortunately still at the bottom of my backpack.  But I have a sickness (many, I've been told).

I particularly liked the layers of orange/brown leaves all over the ground, that made a great contrast to the green of the trees and the moss.

There were not a lot of people out and about, so we had plenty of privacy.  You could feel like you were alone out there.  Every once in a while, there would be other hikers, or somebody on one of those electric bicycles, but all you'd have to do would be to walk off the path and into the woods, and never be seen again.

Jeff has foot problems, so he needed to stop and rest from time to time, but I quite enjoyed walking the trails and seeing the many, many, many options at crossroads and new trails (guess that's the difference between woods that have stood for a thousand years and ones only indians used a hundred fifty years ago).  There was also a raised platform up in the treetops where children could walk (and the occasional Ewok), complete with a slide down at the end of it.  We did not take that path, though.

There were some cool carvings for the kids at the end, but nothing creepy or morbid.  Unfortunately.

There were thousands of mushrooms, mostly white and gray, but this one was the coolest one I've ever seen.  Emily's picture turned out much better than mine, though.

Oh, I almost forgot.  This was the coolest vista we saw, with an open section that seemed like a special effect on a green screen.  I took two photos of it, but am posting the one that isn't hampered by including me in it.

I took many pictures, and the quality of the light was such that they all came out fairly well.  At the end of the trail was a restaurant and ski chalet, and nobody spoke English there, so I had to have Emily translate the menu for me.  Nothing sounded familiar to me (turns out they had German pancakes I could've eaten, but ah well), so I ended up getting potato salad and sauerkraut.  In a dozen years I wouldn't have guessed I'd enjoy such a thing, but I ate it all, and it tasted unusual, but fine.  Everybody was drinking beer, and Emily told me that the drinking age there is sixteen . . . if you're alone.  If you're with your family, you can chug all you want, even when small.

Eventually, we made our way down the trail, choosing a different path this time (many led to the same place, just with different distances on the signs), and the weather was great, neither cold nor hot.  We had ridden a tram-type thing to get up there, and had to wait for it to go down again, and by the time it came, there was a big group, and I guess I've been spoiled my whole life by not having strangers jammed up next to me every day.**

The countryside was pretty, but the train moves so fast, it's hard to get any pictures or look at any one thing.  Nobody has Pepsi here, so every place has Coke, but they also had Coke Zero Sugar, which I probably drank a hundred dollars' worth of.  In other words, four bottles and three cans.

I had started feeling sick during the day, but didn't want to complain, and hoped I could just tough it out for as long as it lasted.  Jeff wanted to see SEE HOW THEY RUN at his local movie theater, but the trains kept getting delayed (first ten minutes, then fifteen, and on and on until one hour, to the point that he was worried we'd miss it unless we took a cab).  When they finally got sorted, the train was very packed, but we made it to the station in time to take another one to where his theater, the Corso, is.

The movie was alright, not great, not bad, but the little movie theater was cool, and both the employees (one was the owner) spoke fluent English.  I wanted to ask the female employee if she had seen SMILE (it was playing after our film--they show four movies each day, but only one showing each, on two screens), but they were too busy.  The tickets were a bit cheaper than we'd pay in the States, but the concessions were considerably cheaper, the kind of prices I would actually pay in the U.S., instead of simply sneering at the folks that had forty dollars to spend on popcorn and a Coke.

Riding the bus in the States (even in places like Chicago and Salt Lake), you get the dregs of society (those who are particularly dirty, mentally ill, or out to make trouble), but here, everybody rides it, and they keep it much cleaner and well-maintained.  There's something kind of cool and comunal about that, but what do I know, I may have misspelled "communal."

We got home around eleven or so, which is insanely late for Jeff, but not so much for me.  Even so, I fell asleep rather early, which must mean jetlag has some truth to it.

Exercise: Yes (26)

*A good thing too, as his birthday is actually on the 29th.

**I know what you're saying: Of COURSE you've been spoiled your whole life.  But sometimes these are hard to see from the outside--like that little girl sitting near me here at the bus terminal who keeps whining about the cat ears her mother has provided her for her costume.  All of these old Europeans, Asian youths, and corpulent Americans are jealous of her, despite her complaints.

8-6 thru 8-9

8-6

I went on a hike with various members of my family today, and even though I left to get there at the time we were supposed to meet, I still was the second one to arrive.  We walked around in the mountains, then drove to a lake, where those of us still with energy walked around it as well.

There was a very small waterfall at the top of a trail, and people lost their minds and stood under it.  I had a bit more self-control, and got a picture in front of it.

I could've hung out longer (there were squirrels and chipmunks that weren't very afraid of people, and we kept throwing them peanuts and pretzels and Valtrex, and I could've watched that for another hour or two), but some folks were tired and had things to do, so I drove back down the canyon by myself, then stopped at my sister's to mow her lawn, then went home, showered waaaaaaay too long (my feet were so caked in mud, we'll probably have to have the bathtub burned), then ran to the library to get some writing done.  And now I'm typing this (and some stuff for yesterday) instead of writing.  Silly me.

Only got 570 words.  But I was really enjoying it when they did the announcement.  Would've gotten double that with an extra fifteen minutes.

This is just a picture of the folliage that I thought looked cool.  If I had time, I'd stick a "Where's Waldo?"-type cameo in it.

Audiobook or Writing or Exercise: All Three

8-7

I went to the movies (to see BULLET TRAIN) with my cousin last night.  It was a lot of fun.  There was also a trailer for a movie called SMILE that was so terrifying, they had to hose off my seat mid-way through the Coke commercial.

I also took an hour or so to record two more chapters of the audiobook.  I'm starting to worry that my voice for Halvery is indistinguishable from my voice for Lyndi.  But maybe I'm being too self-critical, since Abbie tends to write, "said Halvery" and "Lyndi asked," which should help.

Audiobook or Writing or Exercise: Audiobook

8-8

I have been forcing myself to sit and record at least one chapter of "Arcove's Bright Side" each night.  At this rate . . . well, I'll still finish it sometime in 2024, but I'm trying.

Got a chapter of Arcove in, then did a chapter of "But Now I'm Found" (just to switch things up) and that gave me 301 words.

I also went for a run, promising myself some pineapple sherbet as a reward afterward.

Arcove or Writing or Exercise: All Three

8-9

I mostly worked today, though I did take the kids to a stream to catch minnows for a half hour.  It's that time of the year where there are simply thousands of tiny fish, and they're easy to catch.

I haven't been to the library in a few days, and that's when I tend to do my blogging.  Today, I worked on "The Washer Whispers," managing 637 words, while earlier in the day, I sat down and recorded the last chapter of "But Now I'm Found"*, which came to 114 words.  

My heart's not really in the writing right now, but I remember somebody somewhere saying that, when the whole book is done, you won't be able to tell which bits were written when you were excited and the words were really flowing, and which bits were absolute torture to get out, with absolutely no inspiration.  We'll see.

Arcove or Writing or Exercise: Arcove & Writing

*It was a really weak chapter, making me question the whole endeavor.  But what can you do?

Blog 8-3 and 8/4

8-3

Once again, I'm at the cabin, and though I got here a full hour earlier than last Wednesday, before too long, I had finished editing my audiobook (didn't get a single chapter recorded on mine before starting on Abbie's, and only got the introduction and title done on hers), and the sun was getting low in the sky.  

As I was driving here, there's a long stretch of road where the highway goes in between two farms, and at a certain time of year (namely, right now), the grasshoppers tend to swarm or flock or congest that part of the road, often splattering themselves all over the windshield (and sometimes jumping right into the car with me, if I have the windows down).  Well, today there was something else I hit on the drive down, some kind of tiny swarm of little bugs that covered the front of my car and smearing the windshield with an orange goo that was bad enough I stopped at the next town and wiped down my glass with all the napkins I had in the car.

When I got to the cabin, I looked at the front of the car, and you can see the little spots where I hit thousands of these little bugs.  Sadly, I have it on pretty good authority that one of those now-deceased bugs would've become President of the United States had he lived.  SadFaceEmoji.

Big and I recorded a Dunesteef episode on Monday (did I blog about that?), and so that was what I chose to focus on this trip (I also recorded some lines for the last of the HorrorAddicts stories I was asked to do--easy work, for the most part, and fun).

From the library, I watched THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER for the first time in thirty-two years (was it '90 or '89 when it came out?).  I had never really liked it, except for the clever gimmick of the Russian characters speaking Russian, then transitioning to English for the rest of the film.  But in the intervening years, I read the book (and the subsequent three books), and my understanding expanded.  

This poster is great...but it's the WRONG COLOR!!!!!!!!!

I quite enjoyed the film, actually, especially Connery, who was typically compelling, and wonderfully brilliant.  Heck, Alec Baldwin, who I simply could not take seriously in dramatic roles for, jeez, this whole century, is charismatic and charmingly understated throughout.  John McTiernan directed it, who directed one of the three (maybe two) best action movies of the Eighties, and now I can't think of the last time I saw his name on a movie.  I wonder if he's retired, or has made too many enemies, or is still in director jail for LAST ACTION HERO or something* (I started listening to the audio commentary before I fell asleep, and it was great to hear him criticizing the decisions he made throughout the movie, saying stuff like, "I didn't really achieve what I set out to in this scene," and "I hope what they did makes sense to the audience, but I'm not sure I did it right").

Arcove or Exercise: Exercise

8-4

So, Big and I "got together" on Monday, and finally recorded that last (story) episode of the Dunesteef.  I had been putting it off for more than a year, but he pinned me down and it got done.  It was a long time in coming, but now that it was recorded, I chose to focus on editing it today, so Big could get it up as soon as he could.  At one point, he quoted (or perhaps misquoted) "Beast of Burden" by the Rolling Stones, and I decided to put that in there as the outro music, since I happened to have that song on my laptop anyway.  It's a really solid track from a band I never particularly appreciated, but there's a downbeatness to it, which I thought served the goodbyes well.

I got my exercise bike down, for only the second time, and focused on riding on it, even turning the difficulty up to the second-highest setting.  I read some of a new Houdini book while riding it, and kept saying, "Okay, one more mile then I can stop."  To my surprise, I got pretty sweaty with it, and my legs were a bit wobbly when I finally got off, which I'm sure means I did something good.

There were kids driving around on four-wheelers at the cabin (like there usually are on weekends, but not on Wednesdays and Thursdays), and they were so noisy that I left the computer and investigated what they were yelling about.  There were three deer in the woods in front of our cabin, a mother and two fawn.  The kids were pretty ecstatic about the discovery.

And a moment later, I thought, "Have I become so jaded by seeing them literally every week that I am no longer able to observe them with joy and wonder?"  So I went out on the deck and watched them.  All three deer looked up at me with mild curiosity, but did not run away.  I wondered what they were thinking, and if deer could ever be so accustomed to people that they would approach and let you feed them.  Hmmm.

I drove back, and didn't record a podcast for the first time in living memory.  I did record one with Marshal, though, when I got home.  I guess I'll have something to edit for next week's trip.

Arcove or Exercise: Both

*Oh, I forgot, McTiernan also directed the disastrous THE THIRTEENTH WARRIOR and the somehow even more disastrous ROLLERBALL.  Guess that makes three strikes.

Blog 5/7 & 5/8

5/7

DR. STRANGE IN THE MULTIVERSE OF MADNESS was a Sam Raimi movie.  I found that pretty entertaining.  It also had nothing to do with SPIDER-MAN: NO WAY HOME, but was much more a follow-up to "WandaVision."  That surprised me.

It went pretty dark, with gruesome scenes that I felt tiptoed up to the edge of what you could get away with in a PG-13 movie.  Thematically, it was really dark also. 

I had tried to avoid social media in case of spoilers, and for the most part, I succeeded (going by the trailers, I wasn't sure even know who the villain of the film would be). 

It's my mom's birthday, and a bunch of the family members are giving her a surprise party in the park, like we did last year, and the year before (though it was in her backyard in 2020), but I jetted off to the library beforehand and tried to work hard on "Balms and Sears."

And you know what?  I got it to 39,000 words.  Easily too.

It's only the seventh, and it'll be 40K by the time the moon is full again.  Cool.

WRITING OR EXERCISE: Writing.

5/8

My four year old nephew likes watching this inane YouTube channel where a bunch of twenty-somethings destroy walls or electronics or art, screaming like castrated howler monkeys all the while.  It bugs the crap out of me, but since I'm not his parent, I can rarely force him to mute or change it, just because I want him to (I'm not considered an authority figure, for the most part).

This afternoon, though, his mother heard I Castrati Urlanti, and made him turn it off.  He was upset, complaining about being bored, and so I said, "Let's play a game.  You go out in the hall, and I'll hide your stuffed animal in your room.  Then you come back in and look for it."  He was hesitant, but I had already grabbed the stuffed fox, so he went out eventually.

I hid the fox, and told him he could come in now . . . but he didn't come.  

I went looking for him and found him in my room.  "Hey, come find the fox," I said, and he found the fox in about thirty seconds in his room.  I told him I'd hide it again, then asked, "Hey, what were you doing in my room?"  

"Hiding your wallet," he said.

(I absolutely ADORE this picture.  It's probably the greatest photo on the internet . . . barely edging out that one of the sailor kissing the nurse in Times Square on VJ-Day)

We went into my room as fast as possible, and I said, "Where?  Where's my wallet?"  He told me I had to look for it.  But my room is not like his room--my room is like the final shot in RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK, but instead of recovered artifacts, it's filled with thousands dirty socks and used handkerchiefs.  I couldn't find my bed, let alone a 3x4 wallet.  "Okay, I give up," I said, "Where did you hide my wallet?"

He concentrated, shook his head, and said, "I don't remember."

Late that afternoon, I took the boys out for a drive.  My uncle had mentioned "a turtle sanctuary" a couple of miles away, and we'd talked about going for weeks.  He gave me directions, and we actually found it on our first try, but there was no turtle sanctuary there.

Years ago, it was the bad part of town with lots of trees and dark shadows that young people called Rape Avenue (I can't imagine why).  But in the decades since then, they'd beautified it, landscaped, put in lots of lights, and now young people go there to sit on picnic blankets and teach their children to fear universal health care.  And somebody built a duck pond complete with a fence around it to keep (most of) the children from drowning in it.

Apparently, there were turtles there in years past, but now there were posted signs NOT to dump your turtles and goldfish in there (it said nothing about dogs and cats, though), so there were no turtles to be found.  There were many ducks, though, and families were giving them breadcrumbs and Quaker oat cereal.

Still, we all missed the turtles, to be frank.

I left writing too late today, and nearly failed completely.  It has been pissing rain since before the sun went down, so I wasn't in a hurry to go out running, but now it's 1:39am, and I haven't written a word.  I sat down to write, and grabbed a container of peanuts while I did it.  Well, I've never been allergic to peanuts before, but I certainly had an allergic reaction tonight.

Now that I've taken two Benadryl, and my sneezing has subsided (my throat is still itchy, and my eyes are still swollen), I'm gonna get a few words in, and then call it a night.

WRITING OR EXERCISE: Writing

September Sweeps - Day 585

I nearly didn't come to the cabin today.  I was here for the weekend, and felt, I dunno, lazy or indolent or something to return after two days.  But it occurred to me a little while ago that I won't be able to come next week, because there's a convention out of town (the first since the pandemic), so it's a good thing I'm here.

My mom had left me a list of chores to do every time I came to the cabin, and one of them was to take the remaining pile of gravel beside the house and spread it out in wheelbarrows along the driveway.  The next door neighbors had done so a couple of weeks back, but they'd used a machine to spread it.

I only managed five wheelbarrows full of gravel, but it was so darn hard to wheel them down the hill without it rolling out of control that even five was an accomplishment.  If I do five every time I visit, I'll have the whole driveway completely done by, say, January (despite November being when we close everything up for the year).

Sit-ups Today: 100
Sit-ups In September: 905

On Monday, I had my oldest nephew re-bait all of the traps around the property because I hadn't been able to catch anything with the stale peanuts I loaded them up with (in fact, my brother moved one of the traps, leaving the peanuts on the ground, and they were still there a few days later, the animals deciding to steer well clear of them).  And to my surprise, there was something in the biggest trap waiting for me as I pulled up to the cabin: my friend the badger from a couple of months ago.*

I think I mentioned how pretty an animal I thought it was the last time I saw it, but that its dog-like growling disturbed me.  Well, I still feel the same way, that it's an interesting mix between a rodent and a dog, but when I got near, it raised up its nose and growled, producing a long stream of saliva from its mouth--something I've only ever seen in movies featuring wolves or vicious dogs (slavering, I believe the word is).**  

It was a large animal, between two and three feet long, and shaped unlike any other animal I've encountered, with their wide, flat body and stubby legs more turtle-like than rat-like.  Anyway, I didn't dare get very close, just because I'm a coward, but I did take a couple of pictures, and then decided to drive up to the dam to ask my brother what I should do about it.

See, I figured he was just going to shoot it, but that you could also choose to drag the trap into the sun and see if the heat would kill it (like it does to woodchucks or ground squirrels), or maybe drown it, like we sometimes did to skunks on the farm.  But I also thought that there might be value in leaving the animal undamaged, so that it could be stuffed and displayed, since I've never encountered a badger before, and thought it might make a cool . . . what do you call it, taxidermy trophy.

But my brother said that they're greasy, stinky animals, and it would be like trying to preserve a skunk, and was worried that it would pry up the cage and escape if I just left it there for him to retrieve on Saturday (it occurred to me that I could have dug a hole and buried it alive in the trap, if I didn't have access to a rifle that he keeps at the cabin).  He said, if I wasn't able to shoot it***, that I should put logs on and around the trap so it couldn't get away, and he'd deal with it on the weekend.

Well, the sun was going down (it gets dark earlier every time I come here, sad as that strikes me) while I was talking to him, so I told him I'd take care of it, but I'd better race back before it got too dark to shoot anything.  I did ask him how many shots it was going to take to kill it, and he said, "One, if you get it in the head."

So, hey, skip two paragraphs ahead, if you don't want to read about this bit, okay?  I drove back, but it was already dark by the time I got to the cabin again, and the animal was completely hidden by shadows.  There are no outside lights at the cabin, and I considered just leaving it until tomorrow, but I worried that it would escape during the night, and I'd have let both my brother and myself down.  So I pulled my car up in front of the cabin, turned on the headlights to point toward my prey, and went inside to get the rifle.  I'll not pretend to be tougher than I am: I was a little bit afraid to shoot it, having a delicate constitution, and remembering my brother's botched execution of a skunk a couple of years ago****.  But time was wasting, I chambered a round, walked right up to the trap, and put the barrel inside one of the spaces between the bars.  

The animal, meanwhile, was hunkered down, hissing and drooling, its razor-sharp teeth bared, its eyes black with threat, and I thought, "I'm going to miss, aren't I?  Even this simple task is beyond me."  But I aimed, right above its eyes, steading the weapon, and squeezed the trigger, expecting a deafening blast.  But it was just a POP!, and then, the animal flipped over, like a dog playing dead.  A ghastly noise issued forth from the badger, and a pool of bright-colored Dario Argento blood spread out from beneath it, it shuddered, and went still.

I have to admit that I was disturbed by it, and the experience was something I did not enjoy.  It makes me a bit sickened to describe it here, and most upsettingly, it reminds me of watching my father die.  I went to the car, turned off the lights, and took the rifle back into the cabin.  I'll take care of the corpse tomorrow, since I had no desire to dig a hole in the dark.

Push-ups Today: 217
Push-ups In September: 1095

I had intended to record a piece from a new book of short stories I grabbed from the library today (one which hopefully has normal-sized print in it), but ran out of time.  I did get my lines from the second-to-last episode of "The Deadbringer" audio drama recorded today, though.  I guess I should plug that show better than I have been.

As far as my writing goes, I think I have one more section, or mini-section (like a couple of paragraphs) to write, and I'm done.  That's nice, and I know if I just did a few jumping jacks, I could find the energy to write those paragraphs now, even though it's 2:11am.  But I'm going to go to bed, resting assured that with my book 99% finished, tomorrow will be The Day.  See you then.

Words Today: 592
Words In September: 7901

*My brother had shown me on his motion camera that it had been lurking nearby again, and something that torn open one of the traps to get at the potgut (squirrel) that was inside, so he put two and two together.

**Xenomorphs apparently do this as well, in a strikingly similar, mechanical way.

***There was an implicit criticism in this statement, that I wasn't man enough to kill the animal myself, but that he could do what I couldn't when he came up here.  It didn't insult me--hey, I'm not a macho dude in any way, shape, or form, and have been known to sing Air Supply and Elton John songs with gusto.

****Which I retold almost exactly in "A Sidekick's Errand."

August Sweeps - Day 566

It's hard to do everything, kids.

I should know, I do hardly ANYTHING, and yet I find it hard to write and exercise and blog every day.  Take now, for instance. Hope you don't mind if this one is a few days late.

Today was the one day during Big Anklevich's visit that we could get together.  We had several possibilities of things we could do (from making a video to seeing a movie, from going to an amusement park to recording a final Dunesteef episode), but there wasn't time for all of them . . . there was barely time for one.

We did get lunch together, and later went to the same Denny's we used to hit after a movie every couple of months.  But the majority of the day was going to the Bonneville Salt Flats.

It had been one of my goals for the year, and I had wanted to go last year when my family visited the Great Salt Lake, but I had never been.  In fact, I didn't realize that it was right on the Nevada/Utah border, and a journey of hundreds of miles.  Whoops.

I found my "Late Night with David Letterman" t-shirt, which I hadn't worn since the two of us last went on a road trip (it's a vintage shirt, and won't survive continued machine washes), and picked Big up in the morning, trying to fit him in my overstuffed-with-junk car.  He's here to drop his daughter off at college, but had been too busy to get together until today.  

It was good to see Big Anklevich again.  But wow, I have not written today, and I really want to just call a time-out and say, "I'll write tomorrow, okay?  I'll hit the library until they kick me out.  Just give me a break right now?"

But I can write, say, 100 words, can't I?  That I can do, then I'll go to sleep (I was going to set my alarm to wake me up early tomorrow, but hey, if I do 100 words, then maybe I'll let myself sleep an extra half hour to reward myself.  Why not?).

Sit-ups Today: 111
Sit-ups In August: 2154

It was much farther to get there than I expected it to be, but at least I got to hang out with my friend again.  This will probably be the last time I see him before one of us is eaten by rodents, but even a full day was asking too much, apparently.*

There were some tourists there, though not too many (plenty of places to park, and lots of space to take pictures without another soul in them . . . but still enough folks around to ask one of them to take our picture).  We parked, I dumped out what was left of my water from home in the drinking fountain, only to discover that it wasn't turned on.

There was a young woman with blue hair playing the guitar and singing, hoping to cash in on those high tourist dollars, and because I no longer live in the big city, I hadn't seen somebody doing that in years.

Big and I walked out onto the ice.  Now, I know it's not ice, but it sure looked like it, even to the point of there being parts that were cracking, and bits where you could see through it to the ground below.  The further out you went, though, the thicker the ice was (someone had dug a hole with a shovel at some point, and hadn't found the earth beneath the salt).

The sun heated everything up, and before too long, both Big and I were sunburned from the reflected light off the salt.  Even worse was trying to keep your eyes open (without sunglasses) for a photo.  Even worse was, I lost an arm-wrestling contest to a thirteen year old . . . at my own grandmother's funeral.  The hits just keep on coming, kids.

I guess I had considered the Salt Flats to be kind of a sacred place, but I don't know what I was expecting.  It's certainly a strange place--a long flat area in the desert with no life, only salt, as far as the eye can see.

All in all, I'd say it was the most alien place I've ever been.  Though I can't imagine what would be number two on my list.

Push-ups Today: 70

Push-ups In August: 2448

We walked a ways out on the saltfield (whatever you call it), trying to take pictures with the little Hot Wheels AT-AT and AT-ST that I'd brought, making them look in scale with us (it never really worked, mostly because you had to put the camera on the ground, and you couldn't see through the viewfinder to take the picture because it was so bright--you just had to take a picture, look at it, then try to reframe for the next one.

I cannot adequately convey how bright it was.  Sometimes in winter, you'll get a little snowblind, with all this sunlight reflecting off snow and making it hard to see, but this was unlike what I'd experienced before, so white in every direction that you literally couldn't keep your eyes open for more than a second or two before they'd tear up and close on their own.**

After a while, we did walk back, admiring three or four cars that were driving around on the saltfield, and wondering if it would damage my little Toyota to go out on it.

Turns out, it was quite easy to get out there, and there was even a road of sorts--just a section where the salt had been "paved" down in a straight line for several miles.  We went out there, and found a mound of salt, like a wall of plowed snow, and an entire second section of flat salt, on the other side of which was the Bonneville Raceway section of the . . . park?  Would you call it a park?

There were other vehicles out there, some doing donuts, some with trailers and campers, one guy had laid out a blanket and was sunbathing there in only shorts, and there was a stretch where people were driving as fast as they could, which looked so strange from our vantage point, because the heat reflected off the ground made it look like every truck, car, motorcycle, and train had no wheels, but were hovering like Luke's landspeeder in the distance.

At one point, miles away from anything--you could literally go out there far enough to no longer see people in any direction, if you wanted to--the CHECK ENGINE light came on on my dashboard.  There was a good second or two there where I thought, "Oh no.  I've damaged my car somehow, it's gonna break down, and we're gonna be stuck out here."

And I had dumped out my water.

I didn't any anything to Big, though, because he's got enough problems, what with the man-eating rats he's got waiting for him in Texas.  However, I did discover on the drive home, that the bastards at the oil change place had set that up so that it would come on the second I'd reached the number they'd designated on the odometer.  

Anyway, I parked the car and we got out.

There was a little pond of semi-opaque water in the break in the wall, and it was impossible to tell how deep it was.  We tossed in big rock-sized chunks of salt in there and watched them either sink or dissolve.  A family was there, having fun climbing and enjoying a picnic, told us a truck had tried to drive through it, and it was two or three feet deep in one section, and the driver was lucky to have gotten through it.

After a while, we got back in the car, and drove all the way back to the main road, impressed by all the white, but not really sure what else to do out there.

And Big needed a drink, so we went back the way we'd come.

We talked quite a bit, and admired the scenery, which was really cool (there's long stretches of ocean-like desert out there, and enterprising people had put out markers and decorations, including one making it look like a sea monster was emerging from the "water," and one with a shark doing the same thing.  I was driving, so I couldn't get a picture of it.

I wondered what would happen if you crashed your car out there, and Big said that he used to do stories on the news about truck drivers who fell asleep on that long stretch of road.  And within minutes of him saying that, we passed by a semi truck that had gone off the road and was half-submerged in the mud right alongside Interstate I-80.  Cops were there, and a big tow machine was hooking up its winch and cable to pull the semi out.

There's not much more to say about our day.  Big had to get back home (his daughter, it turned out, could move into her new apartment/dorm today instead of Monday, so hey, free labor, if Big could get down there), but I dragged my feet, and when we finally got to his sister's house (where his family was staying), they had all left already, so the two of us hung out in the front yard until he couldn't stand it anymore.

We had planned on doing a number of things during his visit here.  But we did manage one.  And not a bad one.

Words Today: 377
Words In August: 13,344

*Even so, I get that I'm not his family and that I am seen as the enemy, which, in most respects, I am.  So what can you do?

**Big had forgotten to bring sunglasses, so we'd stopped at the dollar store to get him a cheap pair, and that was probably the best single dollar investment since Charlie Bucket bought those Wonka bars in the book.  Even WITH sunglasses on, I got a headache pretty quickly, and there was some minor sunburning with the reflected light from below, just from what little time we were out on the sno--er, salt.