Thursday, June 28, 2007

There's a wildfire somewhere east of Manti, it must have started sometime this morning.

Saturday, June 23, 2007

Here's (The 'here' is a link. I've got to fix that color some day.) a bit of coolness in a bright candy shell, find the "want one" link and sign up, give the principals in this ventures a good reason to keep it rolling.
There are relatively simple solutions out there to begin weaning us from the combustion engine, perhaps some of them will make it to production.

Friday, June 22, 2007

I found a wee nymph wandering on the front lawn today, begging for a ride in my hammock.

We had a semi-annual solstice fire out back last night.
The hotdogs, potato salad and coleslaw went down well, and in lieu of marshmallows, peanuts roasted on a grill over coals. They seemed to substitute well.
My mouth is well burned to prove it, at least.

Sunday, June 17, 2007

This is the fountain on the southeast of the house, one taken a month ago and the other today. It's been a very warm spring, the plants have really taken off this year.
A little water is a good thing in a dry season.
We woke up to another surprise in the live trap.
The thief of duck eggs, the robber of our mother mallard's hope for new life turned out to be a very mild-mannered yearling skunk.
Now I have to figure out how to get it up the mountain without too much excitement.

Friday, June 15, 2007

Oh, I made it up the mountain today.
I ran into the snow a couple of times and trapsed all over the place. It was good to be there; too dern hot in ye olde valley, anyway.
As I came down the road, I passed at least five ATV's and a couple of trucks headed up. There wasn't anyone up there while I enjoyed my time. That was outstanding and a full blessing, without a doubt.

Monday, June 11, 2007

From the Bountiful High Literary Magazine back in '87:
As a young boy, I never learned the truth. I remember sitting in a third grade classroom thinking of the future, my mind swinging on jungle vines and venturing through caves. Dollar signs glittered in my eyes as falling coins echoed throughout the narrow caverns of my mind. This was my reality. I expected to grow up and be an adventurer, just like the people on That’s Incredible. I was just a child, but ironically, fourteen years old.
The warm breeze brought life as it cut the ice pillars supporting night. As I sat upon the horizon interrupting city lights, I waited for the soft whisperings of summer to renew me once again as it did every year. Grass spoke to my ear; the moon shone soft light on my cheek. School was at last out; my life echoed with summer over and over. I was the final piece of a puzzle created by God’s hand. Footsteps patted the soil; my dad approached. I was living on a sugar cube waiting for rain.
“You had better consider a blue—collar job” fell from his lips and landed on me like a rock on crystal. Clenched in his hand was a cruel paper that screamed to the world my academic mediocrity. “I will” said I as a cloud covered the moon and the grass fell silent. His shadow swallowed my existence and innocence. That’s when I grew up.
Now I have faced the cruel world. It engulfs me. Each day childhood visions fade. I cling to them as I stare out the window before class, and during brief seconds when time stops. But, if I’m careful, sometimes I’ll close my eyes and hear crickets singing outside my window....
-—Tad Clayton
20 Oct 1969-11 June 2002

Friday, June 8, 2007

"Holy good God ALLMIGHTY." Something like that, at least.
I'm sorry... I was truly agog and that's all I could say as I stared at the price on the flyer outside of the grand house on Main Street, formerly, and quite affectionately, the old bat house kittycorner to the gas station.
As I strained for composure while at the same time struggling to extract one of the sheets from the box, a man, bedecked in a straw cowboy hat, yelled at me from the upstairs window.
"What do you think you're doing?!?"
Yeah, he may have overheard my less than muffled expression of utter disbelief.
I looked back down again and said with all the composure I could muster, "Just getting one of these here fliers."
He mumbled something I didn't catch. He had only a year ago bought the old place on the cheap, thrown a hundred fiddy thousand or so at it, and moved in. The price he was asking for the place was stuck in my craw like a saguaro cactus arm, so I wasn't very focused on his speech.
Riding my bike away, I shouted cordially, "Enjoy your money, " as he grunted something else, probably some secret incantation of ill-will gleaned from the dark texts of some fraternal business order, or, more likely, something more along the lines of "Enjoy your poverty, sucker."
I reckon I do, and I guess I will keep doing just that, as long as types like him don't drive our property taxes so damned high so that I can't even afford to live in poverty around here.