Wordless Wednesday: Fannie Reynolds

=0=0=0=

RIP Fannie Jackson Reynolds

Riverside Cemetery

Asheville, North Carolina

=0=0=0=

Happy Wednesday

=0=0=0=

Tag you're it

So yesterday as TG and I drove to church, squirrels kept running out in front of our car.

We were still in our neighborhood.

I remarked that while I had been traveling to and from North Carolina late last week, I was aghast at the number of squirrels hopping willy-nilly across the Interstate.

Rash. Too rash.

TG responded with one of his patented remarks which I find so funny, I almost forget to laugh.

"Someone should mark off an area, like say a square mile, tag a bunch of squirrels, and find out how many make it through the winter," he suggested.

I must admit I was so flummoxed by the mere idea of tagging squirrels that I sort of mocked TG.

"Sweetheart," I said. "Why in the name of all that's bright-eyed and bushy-tailed would anyone take the trouble to tag squirrels?"

Those were not my exact words. Go with me on this.

It was not my intention to be hateful but I was so tickled, I was spluttering somewhat.

Fast forward to this morning while I was sitting on the front porch drinking my coffee.

Because it was then that I saw something.

It was a squirrel. Lying on his side underneath our big Oak.

He looked perfectly fresh and healthy. Just like he was sleeping.

Except he was dead.

He gone, I thought to myself. RIP skwerl.

And then I remembered what TG had suggested: The Columbia Squirrel Tagging Project.

"This squirrel would be very easy to tag," thought I.

But what would we learn? The ants have already discovered him.

On a whim I decided to Google the term "squirrel tagging."

Well shut my mouth.

I won't provide links but trust me: It has been done.

Someone somewhere -- probably funded by the Government -- has trapped and tagged a portion of the squirrel population within certain geographic parameters -- mostly in Arkansas -- so as to study their little behaviors.

From what I could ascertain upon perusing a pertinent PDF, mainly what they learned is that a decent number of the squirrels figure out a way to get the tags off their ears.

I mean, wouldn't you?

Seriously I could have told them why squirrels run out into the road in front of cars.

Because if you are what you eat, they are nuts.

Safety last.

And that is all for now.

=0=0=0=

Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

=0=0=0=

Wordless Wednesday: Delma Rainey

=0=0=0=

Happy Wednesday

=0=0=0=

Of squirrels and mockingbirds

They say a picture is worth a thousand words and I believe that.

But I want to tell you about two things and I have no pictures.

I am hopeful that with my words, I am able to paint the picture for you.

Perhaps you will let me know if I succeed.

On my back deck step there is a resin angel. More like a cherub, I guess. It's in a kneeling position and its wings are rounded and downswept. In its arms rests a bird.

That angel has been sitting there for years. I am sure I've shown you pictures of it before.

I estimate it to be about ten inches high.

The other morning as I wandered over by the French doors that lead to the back deck, I saw a squirrel.

I love squirrels. I don't feed them or anything but I enjoy seeing them scampering across our fence and I even like to hear them galumph across our roof, sounding like they're nine feet tall and bulletproof.

Why only yesterday, as I sat outside in the front enjoying the peacefulness of nature, there was a squirrel rummaging around in our gutters.

I heard him first. He was making a lot of racket, scratching and chattering. It sounded as though he'd lost his baseball glove or something.

But all I could see was his tail, sticking out over the edge of the roof.

Next thing I knew, he ran lickety-split the length of our front porch, still in that gutter.

I mean, the William Tell Overture would have been a suitable musical accompaniment, although I fear a tad too slow.

So then when he got nearly to the end? He took a super-quick flying leap into a branch of the White Oak. The whole tree shook. Practically.

Little sucker must've had Kryptonite on his Wheaties for breakfast.

Anyway back to the squirrel I saw on the back deck one morning last week.

He was sitting up beside the angel and he had one little paw reaching out and resting on the angel's wing.

As God is my witness.

But unless my very eyes were cameras I would not have been able to capture that for you.

The second he perceived I was there on the other side of the door, my furry friend hopped over under the swing where he sat for a few moments, then scampered off the way they do.

It was so cute. I wish you could have seen it.

The other thing I want to tell you and no, I have no picture of this either, is about a mockingbird (I think it's only one) who basically hangs out in our front yard most of the day.

Also having taken up residence -- or maybe only on a daily visitor's pass -- in our White Oak. Sometimes he hangs out in the the hedges.

As often as not he perches on the roof of Erica's car, if she is home. From there he may fly the thirty feet to the neighbor's magnolia tree. 

At any rate he stays close. Close enough that his endless energetic song is a near-constant in my yard.

Now, until recently I didn't know from a mockingbird. By that I mean, I could not have identified one.

Yes, I've seen the movie. And read the book. I'm not talking about killing one; I'm talking about knowing one when you see it.

It was Erica who told me the bird was a mockingbird. They are black and white with very long tails, she said.

And so they are. Now you know and so do I.

But this guy? L-O-U-D.

When he sets up running through his repertoire full-voiced, I would almost bet you he can be heard in the next county.

And if you listen, you can hear birds all over the neighborhood answering him, one after another.

My only question is, are those other mockingbirds mocking the mockingbird? Or are they the birds the mockingbird is mocking, unaware that they are being mocked?

If you know, please enlighten me.

And that is all for now.

=0=0=0=

Happy Monday ~ Happy Week

=0=0=0=

Man oh man

My TG -- aka Last of the Nice Guys -- has for years made it a point to give blood.

I'm not talking about in response to blood drives or pleas from his employer to visit a bloodmobile parked outside.

TG is self-employed.

I mean, he just stops in to give blood whenever he can. He likes the snacks.

He'll even agree to donate some of his platelets if they ask nicely and he's feeling extra generous.

I shudder at the mere thought and go nowhere near those places.

In fact I don't even know where one goes for such a thing.

But the vampires whose job it is to collect said vital fluids love TG.

(Yes I call them vampires. If you don't like that, click on out.)

What's not to love?

Big tall handsome guy takes a break from charming birds out of trees, is a gentleman to the blood-drawing ladies, and extends his long strong tanned arm for the tourniquet and needle.

A few days ago he came home with a big sticker on his shirt. He'd given blood.

But as he and I took a stroll down the street, TG told me that the questions they asked him before he could give blood, almost made him want to never give blood again.

Their inquiries are so personal, so embarrassing, so nearly-pornographic that a monogamous person married to another monogamous person of the opposite gender (and yes; there are more of us who fit that description than the liberal media would have you believe) recoils in horror.

I cannot even repeat some of these questions. You will have to use your imagination, or go give blood.

Stick your arm out and you'll get to answer all of them.

But this time, there was a new question and it happened to be the very first one the intake person asked.

Said individual looked right at my six-foot-four ruggedly masculine husband and he said:

Are you a man or a woman?

? ? ? ? ?

Yes; you read that correctly: Are you a man or a woman?

TG looked at the guy and said, and I quote: "You're kidding me; right?"

Intaker had the grace to appear uncomfortable. "Sorry," he said. "We have to ask."

Even when the person sitting before them is not even remotely gender ambiguous?

Yes. Even then.

It gets worse. When TG related this story to Erica and me, she had a story of her own to tell.

She'd been filling out a form and when it came to the gender question, these were the choices:

____ Male

____ Female

____ Other

? ? ? ? ?

People. Have we gone so far in this country into forcing decent people to recognize every perversion as normal, that we must be asked point-blank what gender we are, even when it is patently obvious?

And are we required to be so collectively depraved that we actually accept this fairy tale that additional genders even exist?

Speaking of points, be they blank or otherwise, I know this next part is slightly beside the point, but I want to point it out anyway:

If at any time in the life remaining to me, a person, any person -- viewing my person from any distance, at any angle, in any light -- has any trouble figuring out that I am a woman? 

Well. In that event the vampires can go ahead and go all Dark Shadows on me because I'll want to die.

Seriously. D-I-E. Just take all my blood. Make it swift. 

The thought of being or seeming or looking or dressing in any way androgynous is absolutely abhorrent to me.

And I assure you I would not be married to a man who resembled a woman even one millionth of one trillionth of one percent any more than I would be married to an actual woman.

So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them. ~Genesis 1:27

Next time you're inclined to be a good Samaritan and want to give blood? Be ready.

You'll be asked to do a gender reveal.

And I hope instead of simply answering as though there is nothing out of the ordinary about that question, you'll look at your questioner like they're an imbecile and say what TG said:

"You're kidding me; right?"

=0=0=0=

Happy Friday ~ Happy Weekend

=0=0=0=