Surviving

It seems like just yesterday that Hurricane Mathew was in the news and Hans and I were wondering if we'd have a boat to go home to in January. After days of listening to the 'We Love and Live for Severe Weather Action News Team' happily vacillate between, 'It's gonna miss Florida', to, 'Everyone in Florida's gonna die!' and then hearing that 90MPH winds were expected to hit the boat yard at 2 AM where our Knotty Cat sits, I simply went to bed.

Thankfully, the winds were a lot closer to 40 MPH and the Knotty Cat survived although we know some stuff on deck got blown around. We'll have to wait until January to find out for ourselves the extent as no one has access to her innards.

No sooner did we get past the hurricane, than we endured the election. Again, a lot of hot wind got blown around. But it's over. Finally. Well, not really. Those crack news teams will keep us posted.

And now we get to worry about winter as we live in the heart of a snow belt. We are down to less than two months of living here and this weekend we got hit with our first snowstorm and it was a doozy. Yesterday Wilbur was happily frolicking about in 70 degree weather and today bitter cold gusts of wind were whistling up his butt. I'd forgotten what it's like to scrape a vehicle while icy snow finds its way down the collar of my coat and we fear Wilbur may not poop again until spring.

Last week

Last night. Add about 10 more inches of snow and drop the temperature to 34F.

Wilbur lying on a floor without pillows? That must be a pretty potent heater

 

But in the meantime, we have to get through that marathon known as Thanksgiving. Hans will be on the piano and once again I'll be waiting tables and we expect a thousand or so people at the inn this year. Last year I hit the floor in the morning and didn't finish until after 6PM, all without ever taking a bathroom break or eating anything. I really have no explanation for this.

We did manage to escape for a couple of days and drove across the state to see my new granddaughter. Of course she's beautiful, and such a happy, content baby. I wouldn't let go of her and held her for several sweaty hours at a time.

But, oh my, baby technology gadgets have certainly evolved over the years. Baby swings? They aren't swings anymore, they're remote controlled pod-like seats mounted on pedestals and are swooped up and down and all about with your choice of sounds: rain, heartbeats, music... The nursery? It has strategically placed cameras so the baby can be seen and heard on your iPhone while alone. Although it will be awhile before Baby sleeps there since she's still in with Mom and Dad. Baby's infant seat is so versatile it locks into not only the car, but the stroller, the jogging stroller, and the play pen. At one point I asked if Baby needed to be changed and my son opened her sleeper, took a quick peek at the front of her diaper, and said no. It seems that diapers these days have whimsical prints that change color if the diaper is soiled. Gone are the days of sniffing Baby's butt while yanking down the back of the diaper with your fingers.

It was really hard to leave but I have to say this baby is in excellent hands. We get weekly updates and plan on one last visit before heading south in January.

Hans couldn't get over the tiny fingers

More 'Life in the Country' stuff: I don't know if it was a good thing or not that Hans was oblivious to what was going on between Dear Friend and me the other day and therefor didn't have his camera at the ready. Dear Friend's doxies spend a good deal of their day yipping and yapping. Period. We've grown used to it and even Wilbur ignores them. However, the day came that the yipping escalated into hysterical screams and since I was still in my pink robe and slippers, instead of rushing to the rescue, I called Dear Friend to inform her that one of her doxies was apparently being eaten alive.

But I couldn't just stand by, so out the door I went anyway. And there in the middle of our dirt road I met Dear Friend and she was also in her pink robe and slippers. What we couldn't understand was why all three of her doxies were now galavanting and cavorting without a care in the world. And then we both spotted a very pissed off cat up a tree right in front of us. The screaming had been a result of the 'treeing' but by now the dogs were bored. The cat eventually ran away and both Dear Friend and I were relieved Hans didn't get that lovely picture of us in our robes as it was well past noon. Hey, we had to be at work later so you can't blame us for waiting until the last minute to get dressed.

 

Yum! Kittehs taste just like chicken

 

At the inn we're on a countdown til the season ends, while Hans and I are on a countdown until we leave for the boat. Life is flying by quickly.

 

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More Country Livin'

We thought we were pretty smart when we arrived here in Pennsylvania from Florida in April. Let's wait until the snow's gone, we said. Well, as everyone knows we weren't so smart since along with temps in the teens, it snowed heavily a couple of times in April. But we really weren't prepared for the snow we got on May 15th. Big fat snowflakes fell all day long but what really pissed me off was: GRASS CONTINUES TO GROW EVEN IF IT DOES SNOW!

And since between Dear Friend and us we have three mowers in various stages of disrepair, we're quickly losing the battle of the grass. Wilbur kind of likes grazing out in the yard and is quite happy to puke up frothy green stuff upon coming back inside, but Dear Friend has three little doxies who yip frantically for help when they get lost in what's sure to be a forest to them.

A successful attempt at staying warm and stylish at the same time.

I told him to let me buy that goat.

Hans is still marveling over life here in the country. When we lived in the city, we set our garbage out on the curb and during the early morning hours a big truck would pick it up and take it to Never-Never-Land. In the Bahamas we had to store our garbage in the Knotty Cat's outside lockers for days before hitting the dumpster jackpot. But here in the country, we burn our trash. Actually, there are recycling bins at the township building just a mile or so from us so we burn very little, but, I fear I have a budding pyromaniac on my hands. The first time Hans burned the garbage (after making little scientific, kindling pyramids out of the sticks he gathered, he was a Queen Scout after all) he was astounded. Wow, Hans exclaimed. Just like that, a big bag of garbage was gone. And he still gets excited on burning day and can disappear for a whole afternoon, rearranging and poking the embers with his 'fire stick' (a huge tree branch that is not to be thrown into the pit). A better toy has yet to be invented.

And speaking of garbage, we had something strange happen the other night. Hans had put banana peels in the garbage that morning and by nightfall they just plain stunk. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep with that smell so I grabbed the bag, tied it up, tossed it out the door, and crawled back in bed. Hans thought perhaps we should take it around the back of the house but, when I reminded him it's pitch black out there at night, outside the door it stayed. Until we got up in the morning and discovered it was gone.

Period.

Was there a garbage thief in the area we wondered. An identity theft racket? I wasn't so worried about that since the thief only got coffee grounds and those banana peels but I was creeped out knowing someone or something had been right outside our door while we slept.

It was days later on a walk with Wilbur that Hans found the bag. Way down back in an area the previous owners had used as a dump, there it was. The bag was still tied but it had been very carefully split open and our garbage was strewn all about. We're still arguing over what or who did this. I think it was a bear, Hans thinks it was a raccoon. But one thing we do know; we use a hell of a lot of paper towels.

The local mouse population still hasn't figured out I really mean business so I keep setting traps and still cringe when I hear them go off. And as frugal as I am I throw the whole shebang out as I can't bring myself to separate the little corpse, complete with accusing dead eyes, from those jaws of death. I think I'm on my third package of traps.

Somewhere along the line I believe a turf war occurred between Chip and Dale, who were residing in our bathroom exhaust vent, and a family of starlings. The screaming starlings won and now throughout the day we enjoy the shrieking of very hungry babies. Starlings sound exactly like humming, buzzing, electrical wiring, which in an old house with old wiring is oddly disconcerting.

Another conversation overheard here the other day in Hooterville:

Dear Friend (hollering from across the road): Hey, Baby doesn't have any balls!

We weren't sure we heard her correctly so she had to repeat herself a couple of times. Now everyone on the road is privy to the fact that Baby, her dachshund runt (a whopping 5 pounds at the age of 5 months), is missing his 'set'.

Hans (really getting into this country kind of living, hollered back across the road): Well, damn! Where's he supposed to go to the bathroom?

Wilbur (our little Harvard Medical student) examines Baby. "Wow! They really are missing!"

 

When you drive past our place this is what you see peeking out our window. All I can say is, "Guess what. Out here in the country we are bat shit crazy so just keep right on going."

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Hooterville

A dog bed on the floor? Seriously? Because we all know where Wilbur sleeps.

I alluded in my last blog post that we would tell you about our new home (temporary home that is. We intend to head back to the Knotty Cat in January). I was referring to Lisa and Oliver Douglas of the long ago sit-com, Green Acres. Some of you may remember it and most likely even more won't.

It's the tale of a city couple who find themselves transplanted to 'Hooterville', a small farming town in the country and the similarities between them and us are uncanny. Hans is definitely 'city' and still marvels that we can burn our garbage outside and harbors the notion that if we don't mow the grass it will quit growing and all will be fine. Right now it's nearly knee high as we can't get the damn mower to start and he won't let me buy a goat. And while I slump around in a pink fluffy robe instead of a negligee, Lisa and I are both blonde and not very bright.

 

My pink robe and a very chilly pooch.

 

As a matter of fact if you drove past our house this morning that was indeed me in the yard and in my robe cutting Hans' hair with the clippers (I already sweep dirt, dust, pine needles etc... out of the house with a broom on a daily basis. I'm not adding hair to the mix).

When we arrived here we discovered we had no cell coverage unless we went outside and waved our phones over our heads. Calling Sprint and airing our problems solved nothing and was extremely aggravating. Not unlike poor Oliver who had to make his calls by climbing to the top of a telephone pole where their phone was mounted and then had to argue with the operator. Hans spent an entire day (not minutes like we thought and I was stuck in the vehicle with Wilbur the whole time) getting out of a contract with one company and into a contract with a new company and now sometimes we have a signal and sometimes we don't.

Out little house is furnished with Salvation Army purchases and all kinds of stuff we've salvaged from the shed out back (I even found a foot bath back there that really comes in handy after a full day of waitressing). Our bed sits on the floor of the living room (I'm not paying over $60 for a frame), our kitchen table was an umbrella table in a past life, we have a rocking chair (shed), dorm fridge (friend), toaster oven (another friend), and thank god, two space heaters as the temps actually fell to 17 degrees (F) a couple of days after moving in. In April! It's now May and tonight it's going to be in the thirties. This however, does not stop the grass from growing.

Alas, it's not to be. Hans said I couldn't bring Charlotte home.

Where the mice come to play.

 

Since phone coverage was such a joke we didn't even think about TV and we were thrilled the radio my mom gave us (the same radio that sat on the kitchen counter when I was in high school) actually worked. But there was a TV down in our basement and it was preying on Hans' mind. My mother gave us an old digital converter and we dragged the TV up the rickety stairs and into the living room. If nothing else I figured we could us it as a night stand.

But, by golly it worked! Every day is a grab bag of programs (religious stations may be the norm in Florida but around here it's court TV) with the big prize of Hockey play-offs for Hans. At least when the local stations deign to air them.

 

We fall asleep each night listening to the squeaky fights of whatever creatures live in our exhaust vent in the bathroom. I assured Hans that bats do not make that kind of noise and it's most likely squirrels. When they get especially rowdy and physical and it sounds like they're going to fall on our heads, I smack my hand, super hard, on the tub surround and they stop. For awhile.

However, being awakened by the sound of one of my mousetraps going off in the kitchen means I will not get a good nights sleep. Especially when the 'victim' doesn't go quietly and instead flails about my cupboard in the throes of death. That's when I'm positive I'm going straight to hell but at least in the morning I won't find mouse poop in my silverware tray. For a few days anyway. Adding to my sleepless nights is my concern over the crafty mouse that's able to steal a sticky blob of peanut butter from a trap and not set it off.

Wilbur's kin? Both Hans and Wilbur said no to bringing these guys home. One pig is enough.

And then there's Wilbur. When we first met him six years ago, I commented that he looked and sounded just like a pig and therefor if he were my dog I'd name him after Arnold Ziffel of Green Acres. But I was informed that he already had a name and it was Wilbur, in honor of Wilbur the pig from Charlotte's Web. I should have followed my instincts. Wilbur is just as brilliant and spoiled as Arnold was but we do limit his TV time.

TV may be limited but lucklily he has a library card.

Our landlord is a co-waitress and dear friend who has the farm across the road. In between shifts at the inn, Dear Friend is kept busy with her menagerie of stock and passel of dogs.

And you know you really live in Hooterville when the following conversation is overheard and no one rushes to call the police:

Dear Friend: You know I'm gonna be a grandma again! I hope I'm not on the schedule next week, the baby's due any day now.

Me: Um, don't you know for sure when she's due? Doesn't anyone know when she got pregnant?

Dear Friend: No, dammit! Her own son knocked her up, you know.

Me (horrified): Oh my God! What did you do to him? Where is he?

Dear Friend (making a slashing motion across her throat): He's in the freezer. We're having some of him for dinner tonight.

Of course she was talking about her cow.

I hope.

Brand new baby. I think he's his own brother. I don't know, it's confusing.

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