A little birdie told me...

To definitely watch my damned step.

I do believe I forgot to blog about the Baby Robin Fiasco. As summer has competely wrapped us up in all kinds of fun activities, I've been neglecting this here blog. This shall be rectified!

One day about a month ago, for some reason I can't remember, Vin & I didn't carpool to work. He left the house one Friday morning, and I followed shortly after. I locked the door, stepped through our jungle of spider-plant streamers and to the car in the driveway where I noticed the pathetic, purple heap of a baby bird.

It was a cooler summer morning (before hell hath arrived) and by its color and the presence of a few investigating scout ants, I figured it dead. I was plunged into the memories of spring time at the house my sister and I grew up at. Every year a sparrow nested in the eves above out back patio and every year she'd shove out one or two of her offspring to die in the heat baking on the concrete slab. One year, my sister tried like hell to save one. I remember we named it Jelly Bean because of its distended belly. It didn't live.

This sad, wrinkled, featherless chick crumpled on our drive brought a sadness to me at the thought it never had a chance. I looked up, wondering how the hell it got there as there were no branches from our severely trimmed trees to hold a nest.

Cats. Our neighborhood is thick with them. And not because we don't spay or neuter them. Quite the contrary. Our neighborhood seems to be the prime dropping off point for families unable to care for their pets as homes are foreclosed upon. AND IF I EVER CATCH YOU DOING IT SO HELP ME. In fact earlier that week we discovered a litter of 3 - 4 month old kitties looking for food. Okay, moving on.

I was already running late for work and couldn't bear letting this tiny body be covered with ants or be ripped to shreds by one of those cats. THAT'S WHEN IT MOVED. Yes, the baby bird moved. Gasping, I shouted out loud, "You're alive!" And I didn't even care if my neighbors thought I was crazy(ier). I bolted into the house, grabbed a paper towel, raced out and gingerly picked up the cold little bird that twitched. Feeling it wasn't long for this world, I resolved to the fact that I could at least bring a few hours of comfort before it passed.

I brushed off the ants and inspected it noting two surface puncture wounds. One under the left wing, and one tiny prick on the head. Nothing too deadly. But if it had indeed been a cat that caused the injuries, I knew the bacteria in their mouths is fatal to baby chicks. It was limp and cold and I warmed in it my hands as I made a make-shift incubator in the garage out of an insulated cooler, towels and a flash light. Sighing, I left for work, late knowing that if I came back in the afternoon to check on it, it'd most likely be dead. But at least I gave it a few moments of warmth and peace.

Once at work, I studiously researched baby chicks to see if I could identify the bird. Starling? Robin? They're all so ugly it's hard to tell! I looked up diets, half-remembering the concoction my sister made for the sparrow abandoned at our house so many years ago. Discovering that once the meal was made, one would have to feed a baby chick EVERY TWENTY MINUTES, I realized how daunting it would to care for this life if it survived these few hours.

So I called my neighbor and friend, Cheryl. You know, the one who I rescued the turkey chicks with in the middle of a busy highway? Yeah, that crazy friend. I told her what I found, what needed to be done to sustain it, and if she or her daughter who was on summer vacation could check in on it to see if it was doing okay. She called me a few minutes later so excited because the bird was moving around, pink in color and gaping for food. Yay! I was worried about its dehydration, and it going into shock, so first thing was first...give it what it wanted.

After we made a mad dash around to give the bird a little food and water (let me note, because of having birds and being familiar with their anatomy, I knew how to feed the chick. Someone unfamiliar with avians should NOT attempt to feed them, but keep them warm and call their local wildlife rescue center), it was chirping, very active, unhappy at being handled and only wanted to snuggle in its warm cocoon we had made for it. My neighbor said we should do the sane thing, and find our wildlife rescue center to take in the bird. She was right. However, our wildlife rescue center doesn't allow you to talk to a live person and only provides direction to drop off an animal at its office. You can, however, call a number of volunteers to help you if you have any questions. Which I did.

I have never been so verbally abused.

The conversation went a little something like this:

Crochety Volunteer Lady: Hello?

Me: Hi, I have a question. I found this baby bird in my driveway and have warmed it back to life. I've been trying to get a hold of the local wildlife rescue. Meanwhile, I've been giving it electrolyte water and a protein meal--

Crochety Volunteer Lady: STOP WHAT YOU'RE DOING RIGHT NOW!

Me, startled: What, excuse me?

Crochety Volunteer Lady, thorugh gritted dentures: You are going to kill it! Birds have vents under their tongues and you can drown them.

Me: Ma'am, I know. I've had birds and I know how they drink...

Crochety Volunteer Lady, snapping: Not like THESE you don't! You stop what you're doing right now and get that bird to the wildlife center.

Me, trying to hold my composure: Ma'am, that is why I called. How the hell do I get a hold of them?

Crochety Volunteer Lady: You don't. You drop it off there.

Me:...

Crochety Volunteer Lady: Bye. *click*

Wench! So, I had to go back to work. My neighbor was able to drop the bird off, and while I was on the phone with her providing directions on how to get the wildlife centery, the baby bird was screaming its head off for food.

Ultimately, the wonderful gal at the wildlife rescue took in the robin, said he looked like he was in good condition and would be joining 200 other birds awaiting rehabilitation. She put him in an incubator, got him set up with antibiotics for his wounds and fed him to hydrate him.

The bird is doing fine.

Oh, and it was a robin. I see robins jumping around in our yard hunting for food and I wonder which one of them is the parent to the one we rescued.

Crescent City

We're back! Did you even know we were gone? Did you miss us? We missed you, internet! Well, in a narcissistic, over-exposed, talking-to-ourselves-in-the-mirror kind of way. This summer has been busy! Namely because of our wonderful neighbors. From canning to vacationing, we've kept ourselves going-going-going.

Vin and I took the annual trip up to Crescent City for the 4th of July fireworks and took our neighbors with us. It's taken twenty-two years, but Vin finally was able to return to his old hunting grounds to bottom fish where his grandfather used to take him. It was even more special because he was the only one on the boat to limit out and catch the biggest fish. You can check it out the glory page here!

Because I drank a whole bottle of wine the night before (I know, I'm ashamed!), we weren't quite motivated enough to catch the parade this year, but we certainly heard it. Cheryl and I needed to hit up the grocery store where we thought we'd try our luck at the lotto kiosk. The night before we had eaten an exorbitant amount of crab with butter and garlic. Have you ever been around someone who's eaten a whole clove of garlic and you haven't? That smell that's somewhere between the odor of a cadaver armpit and the underside of mushroom sprinkled with cow shit? Yes, I'm sure that's what we smelled like, in some fashion, but because she and I had both ate it, we were blissfully unaware of our perfume. Until Crotchety Old Bastard at the lottery kiosk alerted us.

I had already begun to loathe this cranky crotchwaffle when, as I checked my tickets to see if we had any winnings, he grumped, "How long you gonna be? I could get a beer already."

Seeing as his bald head adorned with a baseball cap proudly displaying he was retired Air Force, I simply smiled and said, "Just a minute," and went back to checking my tickets. Depressed I couldn't call into work and tell them I'm never coming back, I moved on to feeding my tickets into the machine for the next draw.

"How many of those you gonna play?" he balked.

"Just four," I said really trying for politeness and not quite managing.

"And how many times do you play a week?" he demanded.

None of your fucking business, I wanted to say and gave a tight lipped, "Twice".

"So, a hundred dollars?!"

I narrowed my eyes and said, "No." Because if he'd do the math he'd know it was $40.

By then, Cheryl, who'd been breaking change at the courtesy counter returned and I was done with my tickets. Now it was Cantankerous Bastard's turn at the kiosk. Cheryl stood behind him, politely waiting her turn to gamble her chances at whisking us all away to some island paradise.

As the old fart fumbled with his ticket, I felt I should be nicer. It was Independence Day, he was obviously a Vet, and had probably been through many an ordeal that granted him the Badges of Bastardry.

And then he said, "It's stinky! Stinks in here!" He continued to punch impatiently at kiosk to move on to the next option.

Cheryl stared at me with her wide eyes. Apparently we did stink.

"Like Garlic!" He scowled, talking to the machine. "Stinky!" He dropped his ticket and managed to argue with it under his breath. "STINKS!" he exclaimed.

I tried not to laugh and instead hid my mouth behind my hands. Holy crap, did my breath stink. The old guy finally was finished molesting the lottery kiosk and angrily shoved his ticket into his wallet.

"Good luck, sir," I said with a smirk.

"Adios," he snapped.

"Did you hear that guy?!" Cheryl asked, laughing. "I guess we do stink like garlic!"

That indeed.

The fireworks that evening were AMAZING. We were lucky enough to score a beach house with a 180º panoramic view of the coast line which included the beaches where the locals would be entertaining everyone should the firework show thrown by the city be fogged out. The before it had been, but we were not disappointed because of the impressive display given by the campers on the beach and in the docks.

We didn't freeze our asses off this time because we were cozied up on the sofa pushed up to the picture window overlooking the harbor and the beaches. With coffee and blankets, we were privy to box seats of the best fireworks show we have ever scene. Completely disregarding the "if it flies, it's illegal" warnings plastering the city, the locals outshined in showmanship the full line of mortar-deployed fireworks. Starting well before dusk, our front-row seats gave us the advantage of enjoying the most law-breaking citizens. We didn't even care if the show thrown by the city was fogged out, but because of our seats, it wasn't. Granted we couldn't see the highest launched fireworks, and even some of the low-level stuff was cut off by the fog bank, it didn't deter from the incredible show.

One public service announcement I feel must be made is: If there are any folks out there who want to donate to a good cause, I urge you to log onto NOAA and donate to the marine mammal rehabilitation centers, or if you're able volunteer your time at your local center. Most of these centers are burdened by displaced or abandoned animals who need care. All staff is on a volunteer basis. At Crescent City's Marine Mammal Rehabilitation Center they had 27 young harbor seals and sea lions who had been found abandoned up river due to off weather patterns. Any little bit helps. Okay. End service announcement.

On our way back home we took a leisurely ride through our state, stopping off at Loleta Cheese Factory--where one of the Halloweenmovies was filmed--and the best place to find chipotle cheese! Then we checked out Eel River Brewery where you'll find the coolest beers, the best burgers and the prettiest outdoor garden. With cats! Check those places out if you're even in California's north coast.

It was a fun trip, it was a bummer returning home, but it was a wonderful vacation.

Dusty!

Cough! Hack! Sneeze! Ugh... no, it's not allergies... there's just so much DUST here! Yes, yes, it HAS been awhile, hasn't it? Been a little busy around here, namely because it's summer. Lots of stuff to do!

Promise there'll be an update after this weekend. A fun one!

Plum Vicious

Our good friends and neighbors were able to procure a decent bounty of plums--I think we've turned them into jam-nuts!--and we sat down to make a few flats. While Cheryl, Nicki and I cut and pit the plums, Vin & Curt did the canning. Altogether our stock made about 4-5 gallons of jam. Yum!

We experimented (as one should do when jamming) and combined the plums with some of the Fresno chilis Curt & Cheryl were growing. What we got was a sweet, fruity plum flavor with a hot kick that warms in the mouth and dissolved away leaving no aftertaste. It's great on cream cheese and soda crackers and makes for a wonderful appetizer!

The color of the jam came out so beautiful!

Car chases, flying turkeys and lead ingots

I should be doing my English Lit homework or rewriting the ending to The Gingerbread Man, or cooking Skinny dinner, but instead, I’ll warm up my essay skills with this mad blog about our action-packed weekend. So, over the weekend I hung out with our neighbor and close friend, Cheryl. We acted like tourists in our own town and antiqued in downtown Folsom. On our way back, we were on a busy thoroughfare street called Greenback Lane. It’s 6 lanes wide, three lanes eastbound, and three lanes westbound. Traveling westbound, we were approaching an intersection when traffic became hairy and drivers were dodging left and right, nearly colliding in an SUV tangle (everyone still drives those things out here). A large beast took flight out of the median and narrowly missed traffic.

Cheryl asked, “What the hell is that?”

To which I replied, “That’s an effin’ turkey!”

We have wild turkeys out here and they travel in amazing flocks (herds, ganders?). It wasn’t so much that I was amazed that there was a turkey in the middle of the inner-city but that it kept flying in and out of traffic to the median. Then, eastbound traffic started to scramble attempting to avert something. That’s when Cheryl and I realized the turkey was a hen and her babies were trapped in the middle of the thoroughfare. Only, they weren’t staying in the median. They kept darting in and out of traffic trying to get to mom and no one was stopping.

Cheryl and I did the typical girl thing and started screaming in lament for the safety of the damn turkeys. I took advantage of the lane I was in and swooped toward the babies to see if I could scoop them into my car—only for them to run peeping in fear from me and into oncoming traffic. Cursing that I was going to see them squashed before our very eyes I took off. Cheryl tugged and tugged at me, saying “they’re going to get hit! No one is stopping! We have to do something!”

I knew she was right. We had to do something or someone was going to get killed trying to miss hitting them. I jammed up to the next light. On the green, I Tokyo drifted a u-turn. The chicks were frantically dancing around in the middle of eastbound traffic. Watching my rear-view, I stopped the car with hazards on, at an angle that would prevent anyone from passing me (everyone seemed understanding of the situation, and strangely waited patiently without honking!). This Smokey and the Bandit maneuver herded the chickies back into the median. As they peeped in terror in the median I waited until there was a break in traffic, flung open the door and we started screaming at them turkeys, “GO GO GO!”

All the while the turkey hen paced anxiously from the safety of the sidewalk and her babies hauled ass to her. After that, they calmly made their way through the parking lot of a Mexican restaurant and into the backside of a park. Whew.

Last weekend, Vin found a treasure trove of antiques in his late grandfather’s stuff. It was like a sliver of history--a time capsule. From old wood-working tools like hand planers and ancient fly fishing reels, he also found a melting pot to make fishing weights along with old lead. Vin melted down this old lead, cleaned it by separating the impurities and made weights. He made an ingot mold and I got to try lifting a ladle of molten lead. It’s heavy! I couldn’t lift it with two hands! Lead is a strange metal that moves like mercury and dries like paper. Needless to say, I’m actually a bit intrigued by this metallurgy stuff. Vin's got some neat ideas for molds. I can't wait to see what he can do with casting...