If you ever hear an experienced glass caster say s/he's never had holes in a casting...they're either lying or have a very creative definition of "holes." Such casting defects come to everyone who sticks glass in a mold and fires, which is why we have "wax bondo."
I almost titled this post "losing my religion." I've never, in my whole life, had writer's block, or lacked for art ideas. Quite the opposite: No sooner do I start work on one idea than the next pounds on the door, demanding to kick my current project to the curb. Lovely problem to have, but it makes actually FINISHING a [...]
"Knock knock!" called the Resident Carpenter through my bedroom door, far too early on a Saturday morning, "Wanna go pick chanterelles?" Uhm...in the wilderness? Where there are bears that rip off your limbs and eat you and angry mooses that run you through with their antlers and army ants that swarm over you until you are a mass [...]
The Resident Carpenter tried to break it to me gently. "William has a, well, er, uhm...a vagina," he said. "Beg pardon?" "William," he tried again, "Is a girl squirrel. Not a boy." I gave him The Look. "Clearly, that is impossible." "You and I both massaged his little...appendage to help him go to the bathroom when he was a [...]
Please, sir: May I have another nut?!! A squirrel is a rat with (much) better PR. There. I've said it. Doesn't mean I don't adore William the Conqueror-Squirrel, or that I love rats (although I've kept much-loved pet rats and hamsters). Or that I haven't cussed at the occasional dammit-get-OUT-of-my-attic squirrel. If you'd like to read other stories about [...]
William the Conqueror-squirrel is now part of a household already enriched by Lola, Nikki, The Resident Carpenter, about a million saltwater denizens of the deep, assorted garden vegetables, and a number of wild critters living (only, I hope) in the backyard. This is the story of a squirrel orphan being rehabbed to the wilderness.
Snuck out of the house early Sunday morning, hobbling downstairs to the garage and deserting the Resident Carpenter, snoring peacefully at the other end of the hall. I slipped into Chiquitita the Porsche, dropped her top, and just ... drove, the niggling nags jacketing me like a cement overcoat: The backyard slugs and moles and coyotes and birds and squirrels [...]
We saved Elmo. Now to do some impossible things. (such as say "thank you") Alice laughed. “There’s no use trying,” she said: “one can’t believe impossible things.” “I daresay you haven’t had much practice,” said the Queen. “When I was your age, I always did it for half-an-hour a day. Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things [...]
"Excuse me," says the little girl, shyly, fingering the rails of my grannywalker, "Are you really old? My great-grandma has a cage like that too, and she's REALLY old." Don't kids--the ones who survive the next five minutes, anyway--say the darnedest things? It's take-your-kid-to-work day, and my new mini-coworkers are endlessly fascinated with my mobility assist tools. Wherever I go [...]
A month ago, traversing this sandy path down to the river would have been unthinkable. Yet here I am. "SHE," said the guard, pointing to me, "is what we call S.T.U.B.B.O.R.N." "Absolutely," I grinned, and continued to climb the courthouse steps with my grannywalker. "Ma'am, we HAVE a wheelchair lift," the guard repeated, patiently, "Wouldn't you feel...safer...not climbing [...]
