I'm going to put in an offer on a little place in the Quaker town of Greenleaf.  I do this because, a) I love the Quakers, their peacable nature, that they call themselves 'friends' without even first borrowing something or being frank about my outfit. Plus, their oatmeal is number one in my book, and b) Scout needs her own farm.  Someplace she can run and bark at the memory of Dianne, after and between our lessons. 

Fact: No beer is sold or served in the small town. It is a DRY community. Hack hack.
Fact: There is a city ordinance suggesting that every residence of Greenleaf own a handgun.  I do not own a nailgun, even.  BUT I do own a hammer.  A ball peen hammer. It is a thing of funtional beauty. I hope it will suffice for any civil emergency that might arise.

The property is small, shy of 3 acres, but really very pretty with lots of trees and a year long canal. Or so I assume its a canal.  Maybe the plumbing on this place is completely shot; starting sometime last spring, say, and the shattered pipes of my new little house have been gushing well water beneath the festering community ever since….The entire town is poised and ready to blame the new beer swilling owner for their sudden wetlands problem. Is that even possible? Perhaps it is everyone elses pipes. Sewage.  Greenleaf's fledgling attempt at a city sewer system gone horribly awry.  All that digested oatmeal and pure clean living water running year round outside my back door…Thank GOD they don't drink beer or it would be worse.

Because I've never done this sort of thing, I fear the dark possibilities of my naivity.  Still, I am excited about the idea of getting this property, of having a place to take my dogs, and me, away from my regular place and life.  If I can work sheep more, that would be great.  We'll see what happens. One thing is for certain:

BYOB. Raisins optional.

Sometimes I think what I really need to launch me into Stock Dog Greatness is another accessory.  Sure, I have a stock wand (I love that term 'wand' …it brings to mind something magic happening when I wield it just so, something other than Dianne appearing and instructing me sternly for the hundred and seventh time (an estimate) to quit waving "that thing" around and "go somewhere"…  One of us is wrong about Wand Usage or the name is a mean-spirited coincidence)

Last night I dug out the Whistle that Jodi gave to me a few weeks ago. It's bright red and plastic and as far as I can tell completely utterly useless.  I hope I'm right about what I have here…about what I have been putting in my mouth, rolling around and alarming man and beast with it's spittle laden half-squeaks.  I assume it's a whistle.  Looks like a cheaper version of what's hanging around everyone's neck anyway.  Still, mine could be a contraceptive device…Perhaps would be better used as one.  Unlike when other people whistle, Scout seems indifferent at best to my attempts; idly curious, maybe, but unmoved.  She looks at me as if I were a cat's fart.  Nay, lower and less interesting than a feline's flatulence.  Still, something from a dark nether zone of a loathed yarn-loving creature is as close as my words can come to the noise that I have thus far replicated.
Eric asked me, at one point, if I could "do that outside…."

Meanwhile the cat continued to lick it's ass on our kitchen counter.  Yeah. Harkening of Greatness, my whistling anus.

Yes, its true that my dog is rarely 10 feet from my side and that conversational wheedling works just fine…or as fine as anything…but there is something Extra Cool about having a whistle around your neck…as if to say, "I am a professional.  MY dog works so far from my side that I need something more shrill than my natural screech to communicate with her across the open fields…"

Sadly, it's going to take magic more powerful than the Wand or the Whistle can conjure to get me to where I need to be.  I need a kennel name.

Happy New Year!

Next year I'm celebrating Saturnalia.  My mother's memorial brought me up close and personal to this whole Christian/Catholic gig and…well…I prefer heathen.

The Trix willed her body to science and I hope I don't see it one day in one of those museum exhibits, propped up and smoking a cigarette with one hand and rolling dice with the other, her long celebrated liver and lungs a highlight of unclean living; or on hands and knees scrubbing a floor for some taller, more erect, younger cadaver. I hope I don't, but if I do, it's what she wanted. "God love her," as "poppy" said, an end to every sentence.

"Poppy" is how her priest, Father Roger, referred to himself repeatedly, between praying and slapping us on the heads. I kid you not.  He'd say, "How are you doing, Kate?" and then slap me on the head and add, "Be good."
He was an endearing fellow. I know my mother thought he was both ridiculous and stately.  She thought his face had 'character'. The only other time I'd met him was when my late father ran him out of his hospital room.  "Fucking magpie," my dad had called him.
My mom had apologized profusely to "Poppy" in the hall outside the room.
"He's…not catholic." she said.
She didn't add, but could have, "He only likes sitcom characters."

"Bippity boppity boo.  Nevermind!" is how Father Roger responded, before hitting her on the head.

I don't get this catholic stuff.  Or really any religion.  I think there is a sort of beauty in all the ceremony and ritual, but I find it sort of flat for the same reasons.
"Peace be with you,"
"And also with you." monotone repetition.  Does anyone hear or feel these words?
Maybe that's what the head slapping is all about.

Maybe its the harvest talking… but I'm back and I'm eager to start devoting myself to Saturn.