%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| Bard's Hall #4 Well, June is here again. I know, I know it comes around once a year. The timing of its arrival is a nod to a pattern. How apropos then that I’d discover that June thirteenth is Sewing Machine Day. Despite opportunities and a seamstress in the family, I never did learn to translate a pattern into anything useful, or recognizable. My meager efforts were half-hearted and they only succeeded in fraying my nerves. How does one celebrate Sewing Machine Day? Is there a Hallmark greeting card? Should I invite a sewing machine to lunch? Could I phone a florist and order a bouquet of flowers? What flowers are associated with this? Forget-me-nots? Oh, I know. Aren’t there flowers known as buttons? Since I raised this question I investigated. Yes, a lovely bloom exists and is known as bachelor button. But, do sewing machines like to receive gifts? Should I purchase something more practical like a new needle, or a spool of thread? Here’s the thing. I do not actually share my home with a sewing machine. Am I expected to go find one and offer to spend time with it? Are there borrowing agencies similar to a library? Could I sign one out after promising that no harm would befall it? What on earth would we do to pass the time? I do not speak ‘sewingnese.’ I’m not adept with one either. Oh, my maternal grandmother earned a living as a seamstress coaxing temperamental sewing machines to cooperate with her vision. She attempted to school me in this mystic art. I balked. I resisted. My mind wandered and blanked. What’s that expression? In one ear and out the other. I failed to learn anything . Over and over, Nanny demonstrated how to thread the contraption, and over and over the thread would snap and I’d forget her patient instructions. That thread had to be slipped through a doohickey and then squeezed into a whatchamacallit. Somewhere it twisted ‘round a thingamabob and headed for the needle. Yes, I recognized the shiny, pointy, moving thing as a needle. Oh, and under the needle inside a port lay a bobbin. A fun word to say, but still a mystery to me. Why did the thread insist upon snapping? Why was it so delicate and filament-like? And if by some miracle it stayed temporarily attached, why did it snarl? Ugh! Here is where I confess that I am not the least bit coordinated. Rarely have all four of my limbs cooperated as a cohesive team. To operate said sewing machine one of my feet had to volunteer, er, I mean control a foot pedal, the floor-placed gizmo my Nanny did not like me calling an accelerator. To describe it as finicky is an understatement. I’m certain the wee bit of pressure exerted by my baby toe caused it to rev and race. Holding my breath did not help either. I never cared for the sharp, stabbing material-piercer whirring up and down. I did grasp the concept of feeding cloth to the needle, but I never placed my vulnerable fingers anywhere near it. I suppose this did explain the bunching and knots. In spite of my dismal efforts, my seams were never what anyone could deem straight. I created a hitch in my stitch. That particular sewing machine and I never developed a rapport, an understanding. I still believe it smelled my fear. Perhaps it’s for the best if I miss Sewing Machine Day. I enjoy a wonderful life free of this ornery hunk of metal and I do not wish for my status quo to unravel. Thanks Nanny, we know I’m no sewing machine wrangler. My snippets never amounted to much. My eldest daughter Carrie adopted your ol’ work horse and she has stitched together a mutually beneficial partnership. Over the years she has offered to set me up with the ‘family heirloom’, but I refused to accept. It’s thriving in its present home. Why sever their common thread? |
| Bard's Hall #3 Recently, I celebrated yet another birthday. If I should ever lose my faculties, or forget how to count, or grow muddled at the concept of time and aging, I feel certain my children will note the passing years for me. They keep a running tally. |
| Camping Trip June 15th Prompt Scavenger Hunt! What ten items do you send the kids to search for in the nearby woods? Andre is with them - I mean, what could go wrong! Right? Who doesn't enjoy an evening scavenger hunt? It's an excuse to play with a flashlight. There are a few spooky shadows to get the blood pumping. Shadows may be created. No fear of sunburn. Feed a few bugs. They'll feast on you no matter what you do. Play hide and seek as you search for treasures.Andre is pacing. He's never participated in a scavenger hunt. The most he's ever searched is for a comfy spot to chill and a refreshing brew to quench his thirst. Clutching the scavenger list he recalls tests in his past. He never did well with expectations. With a wild-eyed glance in my general direction, Andre permits himself to be tugged into the deepening dusk in the forest. He winces as a flashlight beam stabs his cornea. The children are all chattering at once. The first item on their list is a lightning bug. Andre has never seen one. Would it zap him? He staggers and soon stumbles as the kids leap about snatching and swiping at teeny tiny specks of glowing light. After a few collisions and bruised toes the newly captured lightning bugs buzz within their glass jar prisons. Mark number one off the list. No one received an electric shock. The second item on the list required an eagle eye to spot, a feather. As far as Andre knew birds just didn't leave their feathers lying about for anyone to snatch. He offered to climb a tree and act as a scout. Sure enough he discovered what be believed to be an abandoned nest out of reach of the kids. As soon as he reached into that lopsided mound of grass and twigs something sharp pecked his hand. Forced to defend himself, Andre let go of the branch he perched on and swung wildly. When he crashed to the ground, the kids cheered. He clutched a fistful of fresh feathers. The kids didn't need Andre's assistance to find number three on the list. They found plenty of mushrooms. Some of them wanted to taste their spoils, so Andre confiscated all of them. Number four proved to also be easy to scrounge. Green moss blanketed many of the tree trunks before it became missiles to fling at each other. With the fifth item on the list the explorers trained their flashlights on the ground. They heaved and kicked aside rocks to unearth worms. Andre spent a few minutes hopping and stifling curses only to experience writhing, muddy worms thrust in his face. Since many of the towering trees were evergreens item six lay scattered underfoot. Several pine cones became squashed as little feet stomped. A flurry of sword fights broke out as number seven landed in the clutches of the scavengers. Andre tried his best to fend off multiple pokes and jabs from the wielded sticks. He resorted to swinging a stick of his own. Pirate attacks proved to be great fun. Number eight's search ended the battle. Would they find garbage out here in the woods? A pile of something glinted in the circles of light. Aluminum beer cans had been discarded at the base of a maple tree. The lure to crush them proved too much to ignore. The kids clomped along with beer can footwear. Andre squinted and held a hand over one eye. He became the victim of an impromptu game of kick the can. Oh, number nine on the list could be seen scattered everywhere. It had been tripping Andre no matter where he stepped and it lurked in a range of sizes. He had to dissuade a few of the kids from adopting boulders. In the process he became the pack mule for an armful of rocks. His fellow scavengers were feeling tired. Andre had no idea what to claim as number ten. What would be a surprise treasure/scavenger's choice? He already juggled rocks that he dare not drop. He herded the kids back to the start of their excursion. In the lead he pushed through hanging branches that snagged his fur. Something sticky enveloped his face, but he had no free hand with which to brush it away. Out of the gloom of the trees, the kids pointed and stared. "Ooo, look at Andre. That's one huge spider. Will it eat him? Quick, it's moving!" Andre shuddered. A spider? Rocks flew through the air as he squirmed and swiped. This was not the surprise he wanted.( 773 words minus the 22 of the prompt ) |
| June 13th - Monday This week you and Andre are in charge of the kid's Summer Camp. Give us the name of the camp, the age group you're working with, and a bit of background. Camp Runamuck. What an apt name for a summer camp for pre-teens. These little darlings possess master manipulation skills. Oh, their cherubic faces are not to be trusted. They bedazzle with their gleaming white smiles and their unblinking attention. Flattery is syrupy sweet. During roll calls they appear immaculate, spot less. No grubby hands. Not a hair out of place. No perspiration clings to their smooth brows. "Andre, I've never seen an arrow shot in such a masterful, take charge manner. You never miss the target. Can you show me again how a pro does it?" "Oh, no, I couldn't possibly hold a bow and arrow. You wouldn't want me to injure myself would you?" "Show me that rope course again. Wow, you make it look so easy Andre. Is there another method for climbing and clinging to the ropes? Is a helmet absolutely necessary? No one plans to fall do they? If gloves aren't provided you cannot expect me to scuff my hands. Of course you can swing from the trees. It's in your DNA." "Are you certain that's the best way to start a campfire? I've been warned never to play with fire. Correct me if I'm wrong, but fiddling with flammable wood and an open flame is dangerous, is it not? Should any of us be breathing in that smoke? What about safety first?" "Why should I be it? That's not fair to single me out. What assurances do I have that everyone will be it? You may run and chase if you wish, Andre. I mean you're an animal. You don't need a reason to flit about." Andre, bless him, is no match for these kids. Is it any wonder he soon throws up the proverbial white flag? He doesn't need the aggravation. He receives the message loud and clear. They do not require, or want supervision. He raises a drink to that.( 350 words minus the prompt of 34 words ) |
| Bard's Hall #2 Does anyone else browse through news headlines seeking something new, different, eccentric, weird? I cannot be the only one that amuses herself this way. Random tidbits of information swirl, spin, sputter as flotsam in the endless , churning current of world drivel. Too many topics limp along well past their de jour expiry date. Much of it is nothing but speculation, sensationalism. Have the news gurus not heard of flogging a dead horse? Perhaps I'm being overly sensitive. Two plus years of Covid statistics, Covid restrictions, Covid advice will do that. Recently, I espied a feel-good item presented as a brief video. I'd heard of urban warfare. It manifests in many forms, but this version intrigued me. First of all and most importantly, there is no acceptance or sharing of violence. A California couple stroll through their home base committing acts of guerrilla gardening. Those two words tweaked my interest.Guerrilla gardening? What on earth could that be? This smiling duo admitted on camera that they shoot indiscriminately. They aim their weapons and fire almost everywhere. They are proud of their actions. They believe they are improving their neighbourhood. They arm themselves with plastic, pump-action water guns, large ones that resemble assault style weapons. Their ammunition consists of seeds mixed with water which they inject into random patches of bare ground. They refer to their unique endeavour as guerrilla gardening. I consider them geniuses. The old tried and true method of gardening requires physical effort to be expelled. One must squat, kneel, bend, stretch, dig, scratch, scrabble, and pull. It's dirty, exhausting work. Blood, sweat and tears christen every project. Load a gun with water and seeds? Just point and squeeze the trigger? No gun course required? No painful recoil? Yes! Your aching knees will thank you. Thanks to this clever duo bright, vibrant patches of flowers thrive in areas that were once barren. I'd consider that civic pride. I'm wondering if farmers see this as a planting option. Imagine a gatling gun armed with water, corn seeds, and fertilizer spewing a swath across an open field. Plant wheat? No problem. Prepare the gun. Shoot and spore. |
| {/b} Roddy is a Bulgarian new to the camping life. To immerse himself in the lifestyle he's purchased a trailer and leased a campsite in the same campground in which I enjoy a poor man's cottage. Now, in his third season, he can no longer ignore the siren call of improvements. Not content to sit and notice his neighbour's endeavours to upgrade their sites he too has caught the bug. I understand this compulsion because my hubby once suffered from the same malady. It's a nagging need to build, to expand, to increase the ease, the relaxation of camping. Some may describe it as a competition, an urge to impress. I simply referred to it as deck envy. Men seem to be drawn to a wooden platform that elevates them above the ground. It's also an excuse to fiddle with power tools and shape raw lumber to their exacting design. It may well be 'the I can create something spectacular and be the envy of my peers' syndrome. Behold what I have wrought with my own two hands and be amazed by its awesomeness. Yep, Roddy coveted a deck. Okay, okay, English is not Roddy's first language and kudos to him for attempting it. He admits to struggling with pronunciation as would I with Bulgarian. One recent Saturday, he shared a grand announcement. "I'm getting a new dick, a dick from Eddie." Startled, my partner and I sputtered, "Excuse me?" "A dick, Eddie's dick." We knew who Eddie was, the campground owner/concierge. We were adults, but we snickered. Our daughter Carrie giggled. Roddy grinned and assumed we were celebrating his news. "Um, it's deck, Roddy." He nodded and replied, "That's what I said, a dick." As if this didn't amuse us enough, Roddy then added, "I'm getting Eddie's shit, too." Rather gross and obscene images raced through our brains as we lost it. Yes, yes, of course Roddy meant a shed. This is the same man and fellow trucker who once informed people that he slept with my husband. "I sleep beside Paul." He knew what he meant. In reality, the two men slept in their own bunks in their own rigs parked side by side. Roddy did use the word beside correctly. The context lacked clarification. We checked out Roddy's campsite a few days later and phoned him with this news. "Your new dick has been delivered, but it's broken. Your dick is in four pieces." I'll skip watching the future re-assembly of this deck. Too much temptation to poke fun. |
| June is the month of my birth and as such it's always held a special place in my heart. One year, okay, I must confess forty years ago, my son joined me as a June baby. I'm certain he's forever grateful that I did not hamper him with the moniker of June, but it's the least I could do for someone who is also a fellow Gemini. We both are eternally elated not to be known as 'the Junes.' I don't however believe either one of us realized the many unique holidays that transpire this special month. Thanks to Google, I can now declare that I am officially enlightened. As a cookie connoisseur, Chris appreciates a day set aside to celebrate the peanut butter variety, a personal favourite. This auspicious day also coincides with National Flip Flop Day. I myself am rather fond of this footwear and I choose to set forth in them each and every day until the inevitable snow arrives. June 12th marked both of these occasions. This is brilliant really because if perchance one were to over-indulge in those p.b. cookies, flip flops could still be forced over fattened feet. On the first of this month, some people perhaps the Evel Knievels of the world, celebrated Dare Day and Flip A Coin Day. Is this a common practice for daredevils? On the toss of this quarter, I dare you to risk life and limb. The first has always been my birthday and the most I do is dare to age and celebrate being another year older. June third is World Bicycle Day and this reminds me of a long-standing bet my son and I share. Well, technically it could be construed as a dare. He has known me as the klutzy, accident-prone parent and he has never ever witnessed me riding a bike. Well, he believes I do not know how to propel a bicycle and hence our bet. My glorious vindication has been delayed by a series of knee surgeries, but I shall amaze him one day. It's a proven fact, isn't it? Why would 'everyone' say it's like riding a bike if it wasn't unforgettable? I think I have muscle memory... I confess that I did not properly embrace June eighteenth and recognize International Panic Day and National Splurge Day. Just how does one celebrate panic? Should I have dialled 9-1-1? Should I have run screaming through the streets? I have experienced panic, but not on this particular, specific date. I comprehend a splurge. It's a treat for just because days. I can rationalize any purchase as being a splurge meant to make me feel better. I usually avoid credit card debt, but hey, too much of that could cause panic. Now, June nineteenth is my kind of intriguing celebration. It is the day to commemorate kissing, road trips AND sauntering, as if. All three are more than doable and possible and memorable. Who doesn't appreciate a great saunter especially one that entails smooching. Personally, my gait is most often a stumble, but I can rustle up a walk with an attitude of nonchalance. For this road trip, I'd forgo a vehicle and hoof it. You never know. The strangers I meet might be up for a heartfelt kiss. I can travel without an agenda or a map. This could be a second day of splurging, too. There's no need to panic though. If my kiss is refused, I shall just saunter on my merry way. The next day is meant for those who raise their voices, you know outdoor voices, and those who prefer to throw their objects around. Yep, June twentieth is National Hollerin' Day and World Juggler's Day. Yesterday might have provoked a wee bit of hollerin'. As a mother of three, I know all about juggling. There never could be time for finesse or grace. I managed several figurative balls up in the air and I defaulted to a fair bit of yelling, too. Hollerin' is a coping mechanism, a warning, a venting of frustration, and more. Now, if I caught my three juggling, oh say knives, there'd have been loud, loud hollerin'! Huh, June twenty-seventh is National Onion Day and Sunglasses Day. I subscribe to both. I do eat onions, but I never peel and chop them while wearing my sunglasses. This poor vegetable is often maligned. I deserves recognition and understanding. How should I celebrate my faithful sunglasses? Perhaps I will spoil them with a long overdue polishing. If it's not squintingly sunny that day, I could assign them a day from duty. I suppose I could also try to place them in their protective case more, too. All of these spectacular days bring me to June twenty-ninth, Camera Day, Hug Holiday, and International Mud Day. Four summers ago, my family unwittingly celebrated these days, all three of them at a Mudder's Mud Run. I acted as the 'mamarazzi' snapping a plethora of photos as my two daughters and my daughter-in-law competed in an obstacle course marathon. They rolled and stumbled through lots of mud and they hugged each other in victory. I can appreciate a special day simply set aside for hugging. There's nothing quite as satisfying or loving. My cell phone camera is always with me ready to capture any and all moments. Happy June! It's a month not to be missed. |
"The Bard's Hall Contest"  Bard's Hall #1 Cough, cough. Hack. Gasp. Sniff. Blink, blink. June is National Camping Month and that great Canadian tradition, the roaring campfire , is once again perfuming the air and illuminating the night sky. Flames dance and glow. Aromatic wood snaps and crackles. Shadows loom and lengthen. And the smoke plumes and billows to envelop all in its presence. Campfires have evolved. Everyone and their mother owns a cell phone to grasp, tote, and fiddle with. Snaps of the magnificent campfire are saved and shared. With the advent of instant data mining there are no more confused campers moping about. With a simple swipe anyone may and does consult the all-knowing, definitive GOOGLE. Those niggling mysteries that irk only when seated ‘round a fire with like-minded individuals are no longer bothersome. GOOGLE has revitalized campfire conversations. Are you perhaps struggling with the lyrics to a song locked in the murky recesses of your memory? Do you know for certain that it should be sung as “do wop do wop” and not “do wop wop?” Is there need of clarification? Are tempers flaring? Has someone dared to ask what a ‘do wop’ is? Sure, we all swear by our version, but GOOGLE will set us straight. Just simply type in the lyrics, or the song title as you know them. Voila, GOOGLE to the rescue. Are you stumped by the colour and the make/model of a particular vehicle in an action scene? Was a Jeep driven off a cliff, or was it a Journey? Does one of the nearby fire-sitters insist it had to be a Ford Bronco? Do you find yourself needing to explain a DeLorean to the clueless person next to you? What was the Bat mobile really made from? Look no further, GOOGLE has your answers. Alas, are you arguing / disagreeing re a character’s name? Is there some question of the spelling? Is Montoya, or Buttercup even a legitimate name? Is it Jane with a ‘y?’ Do not worry a moment longer than necessary. GOOGLE will know and share with you. Should this come up at the glowing campfire GOOGLE has your back. Were you born on a Monday, or a Tuesday? Did something momentous occur that day other than your birth? Learn once and for all the difference between millennial, baby boomer, zoomer, and whatever. Consult GOOGLE if only for clarification and a clearing of the discombobulating atmosphere. What is one supposed to mutter / chant when the camp smoke envelops you blocking life-affirming oxygen and blurring / tearing your vision? Is it “ white rabbit, white rabbit?” Could it possibly be “white bunny, white bunny?” What about “grey rabbit, grey rabbit?” Trust me. GOOGLE will lead you down a rabbit hole and you’ll discover ‘white rabbit’ has been an invocation of luck for years. But is it not considered unlucky to be a smoke magnet? Hold on. What is the optimal arrangement of firewood to create an efficiently burning campfire? Log cabin? Teepee? Does GOOGLE have an opinion? Why of course it does. GOOGLE offers step-by-step instructions and videos. STEP 1: Choose a safe spot. Wise words GOOGLE. STEP 2: Create a Tinder bed. Um, GOOGLE, isn’t Tinder a dating forum? Should you be recommending a bed? Okay, this site encourages sparks and sparks are a good thing, a necessary thing for a fire, but… STEP 3: Add the teepee Kindling to top of tinder. So, it’s back to the bed again… Kindling is the small sticks, right? We’re still talking about a fire, right? We’re attempting to kindle a wood fire flame, aren’t we? This is all about the heat. Gotcha. STEP 4:Build fire. That’s it? Construction? No tools? STEP 5: Celebrate. Oh… party, victory dance, cheering? Let there be flames! Wait, wait, true to its open, giving nature, GOOGLE has introduced me to an alternate fire-lighting solution. Whoa! Is this for real? Duh, it must be, it is Google after all. Making A Fire With Ice… Huh?! Mind blown! Use clear ice to fashion a lens. Ah, I get it. Divert the sun’s rays to the tinder? A different method than rubbing two sticks together… Hmmm, I’m going to try this method, someday. I confess I have forgotten to pack matches in the past and I do not smoke so, I do not own a lighter. I’m just wondering how I prevent the ice from melting in my pocket. Yep, GOOGLE understands camp fires. It can rustle up a variety of SMORE’S recipes. Chocolate isn’t the only sweetener any more. New Age smore’s feature caramel, cocoanut, cinnamon butter, candied bacon, berries, peanut butter, chocolate-covered potato chips and more. Okay, I’m always up for choking down one of these delectable treats as I choke on the stubborn campfire smoke. If I’m going to be coated in soot I might as well digest some, too. There’s something else that clings to fire attendees besides the unmistakable aroma of wood smoke. Many devotees douse themselves with an insect repellent made from DEET ‘cause good ol’ GOOGLE recommends it. According to the sage GOOGLE, DEET disguises the scent biting insects require to hunt us down. What? Mosquitos and blackflies cannot smell that s**t? Really? Another online solution to deter bugs is this. Rub garlic on your skin. Isn’t that a baste, a flavour enhancer? Don’t feast upon my blood I am protected by the mystical properties of garlic. Is this not a vampire repellent? Correct me if I am wrong, but don’t we like food wood-smoked and garlick-y? Won’t I smell appealing / appetizing? GOOGLE has informed me that I am doomed to be a walking smorgasbord. According to ‘studies’ Type O blood is especially irresistible. Mosquitos and blackflies consider me to be self-basting. Here is another GOOGLE bug deterrent that I have personally tried. Slather Vick’s VapoRub on exposed skin. “The smell of the menthol in it will repel the insects away.” Er, how far exactly is ‘away?’ A centimetre? A wee bit? Closer? This desperate bug-repellent method does not repel anything but tearing, gasping people. I will admit it clears the sinuses plugged by the campfire smoke though. Yep, June is a perfect month to begin enjoying the great outdoors and all its wonders. Just remember to consult GOOGLE when you cannot resist the urge to sing ‘Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.’ Chances are someone sitting ‘round your campfire will object to the lyrics you belt out. Campfire season is a short one, so why mar it with unnecessary disagreements. ( This I NOT a paid endorsement of GOOGLE. I merely wish for everyone to enjoy campfire companionship.)   |
| So, someone intended for a crazy monkey and moi to stumble hike through a national park, not just any park, but Joshua Tree National Park. It's a desert! Neither of is familiar with such an arid environment. Why would Andre forsake the non-stop flow of a pub to experience the dry heat of a desert? Did I mention it's a desert? We expected to discover sand, rock, and more sand. Before we embarked upon our slogwalkabout, Andre and I needed to satisfy a burning question. Just what is a Joshua Tree? According to the wise and all-knowing Google it's a yucca, a symbol of faith and hope. We formed a consensus . Joshua is a more agreeable name than yucca. Andre admitted that when inebriated he's named a stalwart tree or two himself. Having something tall, strong and silent support you at your most vulnerable breeds familiarity. Andre would go out on a limb and swear the trunks he knows never betray a confidence. He's never considered the name Joshua though. As we perspired freely, gasped and panted our way along the barren trail known as The Desert Queen Mine and Eagle Cliff House Trail, we were not disappointed. We found a plethora of rocks both in the gravel size range and boulders. Under our every step we displaced sand which billowed 'round us and sandpapered its way under our damp clothing. We inhaled it, too. We experienced a new level of dry. We understood parched. Up, down, and around we trudged. The scattered rocks endeavoured to trip us. The inclines robbed our lungs of oxygen. Grit blurred our vision. Cacti and prickly pear stood as sentinels. Anything that survives in that California desert has earned the right to be prickly. Oh, yes, we met a yucca, or two. During a well-earned respite in the sizzling shade of a towering hunk of rock, Andre researched via Google as to the usefulness of a yucca. Always open to anything that could alleviate the worse-for-wear affects of a hangover he read yuccas are edible and supposedly help to alleviate stomach disorders. He has stored this tidbit for the day aspirin fails to cut it. Of course, Andre will need to be quite ill before he avails himself of a yucca fix. He assured me he hates asparagus. ( Puzzled as was I? The Joshua tree is a member of the asparagales order. I mentioned the grit, didn't I?) Our joint jaunt delivered many an undeniable treasure. We share a dislike, okay more a fear, of snakes. We require more than a rattle and/or a hiss to warn us of their presence. Hiking is not our first choice for an activity, an exercise, an adventure, no. We do not like wheezing. Our feet were not created to bear blisters; bleeding, cracked, excruciating. If we were so inclined and utterly dololly, we'd make perfect sand smugglers. We discovered crevices we were formerly unaware of, tender, chafe-prone spots.( 492 words ) June Camping Trip Prompt *Banana* Today you and Andre are at Joshua Tree National Park Campground, California!!! *Banana* Select one of these trails: 10 Best Cave Trails in Joshua Tree Then tell us how the hike went with Andre. Did you find anything interesting? Perhaps you ran into someone famous on the hike. Maybe you guys found a treasure chest! |
| Camping Trip - June 3rd Prompt Write about a campground in your area and how a visit there with Andre went haywire. Andre invited himself to camp with me at Lake Bernard Park. I had somewhat of an inkling as to his thought process when he tittered each time he heard 'LBP.' All he could think about was 'pee.' Then as if that didn't amuse him enough he kept repeating 'bee pee.' He wondered out loud if bees kept and used toilets. Where were they in a hive? Now that image is buzzing 'round my brain. Anyway, no bees bothered us, so who could we ask? That monkey had other more private concerns. Apparently, he'd never before encountered, or made use of an outhouse. The concept of no flushing water boggled his mind. Performing without an after swoosh seemed wrong to him. Shouting, "Bombs away," after his visits earned him a few glares from those waiting their turns. I believe he became the first camper ever to be chided about slamming the wooden door a bit too enthusiastically. Most people let the door swing closed with a distinctive screech, but not Andre. He felt the door needed more encouragement. He liked to trot along the floating, wooden dock and jump as if on a trampoline. I'm not certain his rocking of the boards was to blame , but a few people slipped into the water. Wet people are so dramatic with their flailing, splashing and scrambling to gain a toehold. Andre did what any rescuer would do. He tossed ropes to them, ropes conveniently left nearby and easily accessed. How was he to know those were the mooring lines for the boats lined up along the dock? We all learned loose, bobbing boats tend to bounce off stranded boaters and the dock alike. Andre became the first LBPer banned for life from the beach. Mothers were quick to cover their children's wide eyes and several also attempted to protect little, impressionable ears, too. No one had ever witnessed a naked, dripping monkey screaming obscenities as he streaked along the lake's edge. Amidst his high-pitched curses he wailed about a blood-thirsty monster that had snagged his swim trunks before biting him in the rump. Rumours flit here and there re leeches, but wayward sticks also lurk in the lake. Andre later admitted swimming might not be his 'thing.' By evening and campfire time, Andre felt mellow enough to sit and enjoy the roaring, dancing flames. He studied the marshmallow-browning techniques of others and decided to give it a go. I handed him a sharpened tree branch upon which he skewered a couple of soft, squishy treats. Like he'd observed, Andre held his stick above glowing coals. He fidgeted. He whistled. With a shuddering sigh, he plunged his offering into the middle of the fire. Instantly his marshmallows burst into flame and he reacted by flinging his charred, gooey, red-hot mess into the darkness. We all startled when a scream marked their passing target. Andre and I are still not sure if maiming by marshmallow is an actual crime.( 494 words ) |
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