I don’t have much exciting to report. I live in Raleigh. Most days I just go to work and then come home. I write silly things like this. Sometimes I watch movies — stupid action flicks almost all of the time. Oh, I’ve spent so much time just playing the guitar that I now have arthritis and carpal tunnel syndrome! I guess that’s what happens when you spend so much uninterrupted time playing the guitar.

One instrument I don’t play is the ukulele. My sister does, and I’d like to learn at some point, but no one’s ever given me one.

I don’t draw that much. I used to love to, but now it’s just frustrating because my skills haven’t improved since my first few art classes in college. If someone had encouraged me to pursue it more seriously I would have. Sometimes I think I really missed out there.

College, by the way, wasn’t the highlight of my life so far.

So, I didn’t marry you three years ago, but maybe I wish I had. Almost all of my friends are married. I have a few really good friends. I could stand a few more, but it’s harder to meet people on your own, don’t you think? I need some sort of cute counterpart that puts people at ease. Maybe if I got a dog? Right now, I don’t have one.

I haven’t traveled much. Doing it alone is daunting for me.

Money isn’t tight for me. Nothing much for me to put it towards. I do buy way more tools than I realistically need. I mean, way way more tools than I realistically need. Like say there were a guy who owned a house and had a few things to fix and tended to pick up two or three extraneous things whenever he went to the hardware store…I’m twice as bad as him.

I don’t own a house. I live in an apartment that is decorated in an “industrial” style. You know, big wooden wire spools as coffee tables, that sort of thing. Not much color or pattern in the place. And my dishes are always dirty.

I don’t drive a truck or anything cool like that. Just this ’88 Chevy Nova with a dented front fender, as I don’t know anyone whose father owns a body shop.

I don’t garden.

I have these certain thoughts and ideas and dreams that I can’t talk to anyone about. I’m almost embarrassed by how foolish they seem. Yet when I think about how I’m the only one who knows them, I get so worried. Those things are a part of who I am. If I forget them somewhere along the way, I don’t have anyone to remind me.

I didn’t marry you three years ago, and I don’t know what it’s like to look at someone and feel cared for and inspired, and to feel happy for at least a few minutes, every single day.

The last time he came to visit us as at our house was a little under a year ago. I had just raked and their was a large mound of leaves in the corner of our yard. Like any exuberant lad, he ran over and started playing in the pile. He would jump as high as he could, hurl himself in, and them drag himself out, laughing hysterically the whole time.

I was standing nearby, watching him do this and somehow, maybe from playing with grown-ups in a pool, he got the idea that if I were holding him, he could spring, from there, into the leaves and that this would be even more fun and hilarious. He wasn’t much on talking at this point, but one way or another he got his idea across to me.

Now I realize, at this age, most kids are tougher and more resilient than you’d think. (This is why I’m a fan of toddlers. You can grab them, shake them up, hold them upside down, etc. and they’re fine. Newborns on the other hand, you have to treat like glass cylinders of plutonium.) Still, I wasn’t sure about this proposal. I didn’t know the kid that well. Even though he was acting like he wanted me to pick him up, he could get weirded out. And there was a chance he could get hurt. Something in eyes seemed to tell me he could handle it though…and I am a champion raker. I mean this was a thick, fluffy pile. You have could dropped a Volkswagen off a five-story building into that leaf pile and it would have landed with a soft bounce, completely intact.

So cut to half-an-hour later, and I am swinging him back and forth by one leg, whirling him around in circles, twisting him around in the air, then letting go at the exact moment that maximized his altitude. And he is making crash landings and immediately coming back for more. And he is laughing harder every time. And I am laughing harder than him. And Steph and his mom are watching us and shaking their heads and rolling their eyes, as women are required to do when boys are having their rough and tumble fun. All was right with the world.

Steph’s sister Jaime and Bishop were stopping in to see all their family on the east coast during this trip. They went up to Virginia the next day, and we followed that weekend. There was some downtime the first full day we were there, so I thought “I’ll make a giant leaf pile. Bishop needs to get some energy out and I know it’s something he likes to do.”

I spent a good two hours working in the yard, sweating and straining, moving leaves from all sectors and amassing them. It was going to be worth it of course.

When I was done, I went back inside and showed Bishop what I had made out the window. He seemed sort of indifferent to it, but I thought maybe it was just because he couldn’t tell exactly what it was yet. Steph backed me up in assuring everyone that he was going to enjoy this and that this was something they might want to see. They got Bishop in his play clothes and put on his jacket, everyone put their shoes on, we all went outside, and Bishop just stood there staring at the big amorphous blob I’d created as if to say “What am I supposed to do with this, exactly?”

In retrospect, what I should have done was maybe introduce him to the pile slowly, sort of let him discover it on his own, and then make the associations with how much fun we had a few days ago, in his own time. I don’t know, I’m no child psychologist. What I do know is I abruptly snatch him off of the ground, like a sack of potatoes, and sent him somersaulting into the cushioning with a “Wheeeeeeeee!”

He plopped down, then picked up his head and shot me a look that I will never forget. It was shock, confusion, hurt, and anger all rolled into one. Then he started crying. So everyone had to come together to comfort him. And then it was “Well, thanks for raking the yard at least, Bob” and it was time to go back inside.

I stood outside a bit longer, alone and bewildered in the autumn silence. A slight breeze came through and carried a few leaves away from the top of the heap.

The moral of the story here is: you can’t go back again. Don’t force circumstances to try to make them like good times you’ve had before. There’s nothing but disappointment down that road.

That, and before you go violently throwing the youngest member of your better half’s family to the ground in front of all her relatives, make sure you’re good and married in.

So for today’s post all I’ve got is the fact that I captioned all of the spreads on Flickr. If interested, you can now read what is going on in those thousand little pictures of open books.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/rwitch80/collections/72157622569131296/

The raw images are at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/rwitch80/collections/72157622569131296/ until I figure out how to gallery-ify (absolutely a word) them properly on this site, you can view them here.

As I think yesterday’s post revealed, sixth grade was the hardest of my academic career. Coming in a close second though, was first grade.

In the Bridgeport school district, in Michigan where I spent my early childhood, kindergarten was the, oh, say geology of the grade levels. (All we did was learn to draw the forms of each letter in the alphabet — an activity I excelled in — and to scissor out shapes along dotted lines — an activity which I’m ashamed to admit was the equivalent of…well, whatever the hardest part of geology is, for me. I got several crying-sad-faces on “cut along the lines” assignments, but I eventually mastered this skill, thanks to many well-supervised home practice projects during evenings and weekends.) What I’m trying to say here is Level-K was not treated as a full-fledged participant in my education. We didn’t even do nap time like they do in the beginning years in a lot of elementary schools, but this was only because there was no need, as we were only there for three hours. That’s right, kindergartners only attend school for a half-day.

So you can imagine my bewilderment when, once I began first grade, school went on for twice as long as I thought it would. It seemed like forever. Rather than eat lunch before or after we attended school (depending on whether one was in the morning or afternoon program that week) we consumed our food at school, in this giant room of substitute kitchen tables. This was particularly traumatic. I mean, what were we? Savages?

For months, I came home in tears. Was I really expected to submit to classroom life, for that chunk of time, five days a week?

I was never a fan of school, but somewhere along the way I at least grew accustomed to it and accepted the fact that — save 10 glorious weeks every 12 months — this was what my life was going to be like for the next 12 years and I should probably suck it up and try to get something out of it. It didn’t take me all that long to come to this conclusion, but, up until very recently, I’d remembered this as a struggle I’d made it through all on my own.

Of course this wasn’t the case. When I burst in the front door to our house, there was one person ready to accept at least a hefty portion of the weight that I had to get rid of. I was too bogged down by my problems to reflect on this at the time, but I have no doubt that during the most agonizing parts of my longest days of searching for rooms numbers and trying to comprehend math problems and being forced to socialize, this person was thinking of me and worrying about me and praying for me.

And this one person is now in the middle of the most difficult period of her life (at least in the time that I’ve known her). And, though the fact that I’d ever have to do this came as a total surprise, it’s now my turn to do the thinking and the worrying and the praying.…

And I guess it’s her turn to show me that she can get through this, and come out okay on the other end.

I have a strained relationship with French though, as it made a hearty contribution to the most picked-on-iest (absolutely a word) school year of my life.

I was in sixth grade and about halfway through the year we started a unit on France in Social Studies. Our teacher somehow found an actual, real-life French person that was in the area and was willing to come in and talk to us about her country.

So the Frenchwoman gave us her pretty standard presentation, which took up most of a class period. There was a little time for Q&A at the end and, of course, rather than ask about the place’s history and culture, all anyone wanted to know was what everyday objects were called in a different language. We learned that “chemise” was shirt and “crayon” was pencil. Then someone got us onto names. So many people were so excited about hearing theirs, that she elected to just go up and down the rows and do a translation for everyone.

When she got to me and I told her my name was “Bobby” and she said “Bobby?” to make sure it she heard correctly. It came out: “Booby.”

Yes, she actually said “booby,” quite loudly, in front of a group of 30 middle school students. I have no doubt that the soundwaves from the eruption of laughter were visible from space.

Our teacher half-heartedly tried to get the bedlam under control, while clearly fighting back the giggles herself. For the rest of that day’s class, and every day after for the rest of the year, I was hounded relentlessly.

What can you do in a situation like that? I was one of quietest, scrawniest, least-threatening kids at my school. Getting mad would have done nothing but egg people on. And who would I have gotten mad at? Every single other person in the world, all of whom obviously found my predicament hilarious? So I just rolled my eyes to indicate to all these people who were now focused on me that I understood that I was being joked about, and then laughed along a little bit and acted like I didn’t really mind being teased.

Of course I did mind being teased.

The callous, unreserved way in which everyone (even the one or two people that I sort of considered friends) in that room poked fun at me made it obvious just what little regard they had for me. Looking back though, I sort of subconsciously understood that we were even. I didn’t have much regard for them either. To this day, I can’t think of a single middle school teacher or classmate I liked.

When they poked fun at me for the “Booby” thing they were basically indicating that, in their eyes, I looked stupid, but bullies had already informed me that I looked stupid for a myriad of other reasons. I was used to it.

I honestly think what bothered me the most is that it was just so lazy. When everyone was still riotously entertained by this incident five or ten minutes later, I remember saying to myself: “Ok come on, that only sounded that way because this lady has a foreign accent because she is from somewhere other than the five-mile radius where all of us live and, it would appear, don’t travel outside very much.” To make matters worse, I never got anything more interesting than “Hey Booby!” followed by the heckler cackling incessantly. For like four months. No one ever built on it. It was as if these people were our earliest prehistoric ancestors, and they’d been delivered the gift of fire on a silver platter, and all they’d done was stare at it blankly from 50 feet away until the flames died out. Even the f-ing cavemen knew when it was time to jump on an opportunity and make something more of it. Ya know, maybe try roasting some of that mammoth meat. At least those cracks about my Kmart shoes and my lack of athletic ability and the fact that I had a big head showed some interest in word choice and powers of observation.

Yes, at the tender age of 11, I had to admit to myself that there is a large segment of the human population that would be perfectly happy if every humorous experience they ever witnessed involved, say, a loud fart or a fat person falling down.

Incidentally, years later I found out that the way you would say my actual name in French is “Ro-bear.”

I’m sorry but that’s pretty lame.

I wasn’t involved ’til about 80% through this design/build (as it was a birthday surprise). Kate, Kevin, and Dad helmed this garden-protection solution and I think they did a great job. I hope I’ve described how you can replicate it in a clear, step-by-step manner.

I am going to provide an embed of my article now, in the interest of “test-driving” this online resource, though I’m not a big fan of Instructable’s embed interface. I’d suggest visiting the Instructables page, or maybe you’ll find this embed more bearable than I do:

Modular Garden Fencing – More DIY How To Projects

Last time we discussed our flock, Lulu had died. That left us with Gladys and Martha Stewart, who adjusted to life as a power duo just fine over the next two months. There was no weird social behavior due to losing a third of their population, nor any evidence that the disease that killed Lulu had spread to them.

Then, about six weeks ago, we noticed they had mites. We’d had a long stretch of wet, hot weather and everyone in our household, in fact, suffered from parasites. Lilly, despite regular doses of FrontLine, contracted fleas; I had a chiggers; and the chickens got their mites. No big deal, right?

Only when it comes to fowl they are a big deal because they cause a rapid decline in health to the point where the birds develop symptoms such as no longer moving or breathing or making us eggs. This is condition is known, in animal husbandry, as “deadness.” How do I know this happens? Let’s just say we ended up one Martha Stewart short of a Gladys-and-Martha-Stewart-power-duo.

I know. I know. It seems like our chickens are dropping dead faster than dinner in an Agatha Christie novel. (Don’t I mean “dinner guests in an Agatha Christie novel?” No. I mean “dinner in an Agatha Christie novel.” I was assuming roasted chicken would be the main course. I guess I should have mentioned that.) But this time, instead of trying the “wait and see” method regarding this strange development, we did our best to intervene.

The chicken’s natural way to deal with these infestations is with dust baths. There is a dry patch of dirt in our yard where I’ve noticed, when they are out, they take these, so I tried to encourage them to visit this spot as often as possible. When Martha Stewart became more sickly and lethargic though, we brought in the medication and this is where things got a little weird…and this is the point in the post where vegans, PETA advocates, etc. should just click here and not click their “back” buttons until tomorrow when I post something new.

Are all the bleeding-hearts gone? Good, because you guys, when I said “weird” just then, I kiiiiind of meant “hilarious.”

In order to rid a bird of mites you use this insecticidal powder. You need to thoroughly cover their undercarriage, as that’s where the bugs tend to be, and this requires you to man-handle them a bit. I grabbed Gladys and flipped her over — causing her to frantically squawk and squirm and flap. I somehow managed to hold her down and dust her up. I turned her loose and she high-tailed it out of there, making a break across our yard for our compost pile and it’s delectable variety of food scraps. I picked Martha Stewart up and repeated this process. When we were done she looked at me, let out this horrible little “bu-CAW” and fell over, dead.

I guess, in her weakened state, the stress was too much for her. After I wrapped my head around what had just happened, I set to getting her out of the coop and in to the ground. We inherited a really nice lawn with our house, which is a wonderful thing except during those occasions when you need to find spots to bury chickens. The only non-grassy option is a small section in the back corner of our lot where the grass tapers off into weeds and dirt. It’s getting sort of crowded back there, as it’s where I pile up fallen branches and it’s where I buried Lulu.

To dig a hole as small yet as deep as you must to inter a chicken in these circumstances, you really should have a posthole digger. When you use a pointed shovel, as I did, you end up with a tapering grave. Then you sort of have to, for lack of a better term, “fold” the corpse up and stuff it in. The natural “creases” are at the neck and legs and so I performed this gruesome maneuver and stood up, and then I swore I heard a “BWAAAAAAK.”

I paused and stared down at the bird…. “That was a chicken-noise. Did that chicken just make that noise? No, that chicken is dead. Right? Ok, even if it wasn’t dead, it’s now wrapped into thirds, so it’s certainly about to be…. Right?” Gladys was penned up clear across the yard, out of earshot. I scanned the surrounding area for anything else that could have made that sound or anyone else who might have heard it…. I stared back at the bird….“I did just hear that, didn’t I? I can’t bury this poor thing if it’s still got a little life in it…can I?”

Steph told me later that she was watching me from the kitchen window and saw me in the distance, leaning on my shovel, looking into the hole…picking up my head and looking around…looking into the hole…picking up my head and looking around….

Finally, I made the bold decision to poke whatever was left of ol’ Martha with a stick. When I did, I discovered that chickens’ bodies, even after they have passed away, operate sort of like bagpipes. With each thrust, a corresponding chicken-noise was emitted. I gave it a short jab and it went “bwuck.” I pressed in and out slowly and got a “bu-caaaaaw?”

I then finished respectfully depositing the remains. I’d figured out what was going on, and this once-living being was not a plaything. I totally refrained from any further prodding…except maybe once or twice more.

So for a few days we were down to just Gladys, which maybe wasn’t such a bad thing as, we have discovered, she is the Best Chicken Ever. Gladys has personality. She seems to honestly like being around people. She doesn’t mind being picked up. She will often run towards approaching humans when she is out in our yard, stop at their feet, and stare up at them as if to say “Hello, and who might you be?” She is completely fearless. I made a mistake one day while wrapping up a free-ranging session and herded the poultry back into their pen, then let Lilly out of the house, forgetting that I hadn’t latched the cage. The doors swung open and Gladys walked right back out. About a minute later, my oversight hit me and I rushed outside. Lilly — perhaps shell-shocked by how easy one of these giant walking chew toys was now making it for her — was just standing there, several feet away, barking frantically. Gladys was calmly going about her usual business, nibbling and scratching at the ground. Only a truly special animal gets through something like that unscathed. Oh yes, and Gladys lays, at minimum, two big brown eggs every three days.

But chickens are social animals, therefore we decided to bring in another hen. Since we’ve had bad luck with both pullets and more exotic breeds, I had a friend who was making a “chicken run” last month pick me up an adult New Hampshire Red.

This creature is the biggest, loudest, and most skittish of any we’ve owned so far. The only entity she will submit to is her hutch-mate, and even the mighty Gladys had to put in some long pecking-hours to let her know who was boss. Neither Steph nor I can get within five feet of the newbie without her going into a flapping frenzy, launching herself directly at our heads in an attempt to fly over us and run away.

I named her “Joan” because we’ve finally given in to the hype and started watching that show Mad Men — which, I am required by law, to tell you is amazing — and there is a character named Joan who’s boss/lover calls her “Red.”

Also there is Joan of Arc, which is probably a more fitting namesake, because, up until she started giving us eggs about a week ago, I was seriously considering burning her at the stake.

Which could have been delicious.

It feels kind of fun
“Our lives could change like the winds.
We have no mortage!”

Lasts a brief bit then
Disturbance on the calm pond
We have a problem

The gross mists every
God-forsaken morning now
Dog-tongue to the face

All for getting up
And not really squeamish
But jolting awake?

Must hand-craft a bed
Out of truest bamboo or
Hit up Ikea

I am speaking of Reese’s. Those delightful confections produced by a division of the Hershey’s corporation.

This moniker, I think we can all agree, was chosen because “Reese” was someone’s last name. Who was Mr. or Ms. Reese? The visionary genius who first had the idea to combine peanut butter and chocolate to create a snacking experience unlike any other? I have no clue. What I do know is that you say the last name in question like this: “Ree-sss.”

I’m sorry, but it’s “Ree-sez.” They are “Ree-sez Cups” and they are absolutely “Ree-sez Pieces.”

I am at a loss as to why some folks choose to go with “Ree-sees” as their pronunciation of choice.

I guess it really bothers Kate, as she recently called both Steph and Bliss out when she heard them her utter this treat’s name.

Bliss did present a pretty good argument for the two of them when she pointed out that if you say it like that, when you say “Reese’s Pieces” the two words sound just alike. I’d never thought of it that way and the more I considered that fact, the more I realized that it is not even close to true. For it to work that way it requires “pieces” to be said “pee-sees” as in “This will be a pee-see of cake” or “Does anyone want this last pee-see of pizza?”

What was funny was how this small problem dawned on the two of them, just as Bliss finished stating their case. “I think ‘Ree-sees’ is the way it’s said. [Steph nodding emphatically.] Then when you say “pie-ces” it…will…rhyme? [Steph, no longer nodding, clearly lost in thought.]”

In conclusion, don’t listen to the Ree-see-ers of the world. Their reasoning is a complete pile of fee-sez.