Wednesday, May. 12, 2004
Dear Diary:

Much as a person might want to, it is impossible to end all the pain by impaling yourself on snow, especially slushy snow.

I'm dreaming of a white summer.So this is what the world looked like when I woke up a week ago. Yes, that's right, snow in May. We don't call this country The Great White North for nothing people.

When I looked out the window and saw winter's return, my beloved daffodils all bent over, seemingly smushed � well I have to admit that I was hit pretty hard. Ah, but the worst was yet to come.

Once they have their breakfasts, the cats enter a holding pattern by the porch door, stalking up and down and grumbling for the spousal unit and I to get our acts in gear and get the door open because They Have Places To Go, Things To Do.

So I opened the door the morning of the snow and the three of them went to rocket out but then caught sight of the winter wonderland. They stopped dead. Simultaneously they turned to give me withering, accusing looks that said, "What the heck have you done to our world? Why � why � why you've broken it!"

There is no reasoning with cats. If anything in their world is not to their liking, it's completely the human's fault. Grumpily, they all went upstairs and sulkily slept their way through to the afternoon. Every time I passed through the livingroom I could feel their disdain. There was serious, serious snubbing. Fortunately, by late afternoon the snow had melted and the universe was unfolding as it should.

There was a certain amount of "Hmph, that's better" happening when I opened the door and they scampered out into a proper spring afternoon. Cats are so judgmental.

Oh yes I'm a fearsome jungle catThis is Enid's first spring outdoors and she is having the time of her life in my daffodils. She does mass quantities of lurking out there in the meadow, scrunching down between the rows, peering through the stalks. She particularly loves to ambush Norma. After the ambush is accomplished, the two of them rocket around for a few seconds and then they settle back down to play another rousing round of hide and go stalk.

Another of our rites of spring here is the Imaginary Wild Turkeys.

A while back the Vermont government restocked their woods with wild turkeys. The birds have flourished and because they don't understand this boundary deal, they've been migrating north into my part of Quebec. Last summer there was a mother bird with seven or eight turklings (oh shut up--as if you know what to call a baby turkey) wandering up and down our road, as well as in my mom-in-law's yard.

Everyone--spousal unit, his mom, his brothers, some of our neighbours--saw them and marvelled at the cuteness of the mother being trailed by little feathery balls o' fluff. Everyone but me. Because I have yet to see a wild turkey. This spring I saw in the snow the tracks of a mother and a batch of new babies. But an actual turkey sighting? Oh, no. Others apparently are allowed to see these elusive wild birds. For me, it's a world of Imaginary Wild Turkeys.

Well, this year the birds have decided to ratchet up the situation. This spring I have actually heard them gobbling to each other in the woods not far from where I've been working in my gardens. The cats go nuts. They freeze. They stare fixedly at the place from which the odd gobbling sound is coming. They make low growling sounds deep in their throats. Clearly they can see the black turkeys. Can I see them?

Oh, no, because I am cursed with Turkey Blindness.

Life can be so very cruel, eh?

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 385.25 miles. Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck. 25 per cent thereTen percent there rubber duck.
Oh man. This is going to be hard
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers

Going Nowhere Collaboration

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This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

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