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Mother Nature does me wrong

Posted on June 10, 2012 by Donna Black-Sword

It hit me in the head like a frying pan this morning that I totally didn’t finish showing you all my vacation photos from California.

Wait! Don’t go! We’re not talking about some random snapshots of the sunny beach with people in the background we don’t even know* (yawner stuff). Oh no, instead we got some Drama. Complete with shrieking and curses directed at nature. A cliff hanger, so to speak. And a reference to the Addams Family. Oh yes.

So this vacation day begins in the usual benign manner. Hunched over our hotel breakfast, the Husband and I review the Sonoma County map to see where to drive to on this gorgeous sunny day. Keeping with the trend of the week, I win the debate and we head off on a scenic drive to Point Reyes to see more things that we don’t have in Ohio.

Point Reyes National Seashore is kind of a big deal around here. From National Park Service website we learn: 

From its thunderous ocean breakers crashing against rocky headlands and expansive sand beaches to its open grasslands, brushy hillsides, and forested ridges, Point Reyes offers visitors over 1500 species of plants and animals to discover. Home to several cultures over thousands of years, the Seashore preserves a tapestry of stories and interactions of people. Point Reyes awaits your exploration.

Did you see that? Point Reyes is awaiting us! And I gotta be honest here. We’ve hit a few of the California beaches this week and of the 1500 species of plants and animals, I can pretty much check off seaweed and a vulture.  I’m jazzed with the thought of exotic west coast critters.

Point Reyes is mind boggling huge. Miles of trails and shorelines to hike along. Too bad for us we couldn’t bring any backpacking gear on this trip. This lack of essential equipment keeps us from exploring the more strenuous trails of discovery.  Which is the excuse I’m running with. Like I’ve ever backpacked.  No, instead we opt for a short jump down McClures Beach Trail, a trek just under a mile. According to the hiking guide:

Descend steeply down a rugged ravine trail to the ocean. McClures Beach is a beautiful cove backed by rocky cliffs. Watch out for tidal fluctuations and dangerous surf. (20 min./easy). 

The hiking guide rates the trails as Easy, Moderate or Strenuous. Being new around here, Easy seems a reasonable start.  And so we ride. The forty minute drive from the visitor center to the trail head takes us from warm and sunny California to some chilly and foggy alternate universe. We watch the temperature on the dashboard display rapidly drop to 54 degrees.

Did you bring a jacket? asks the Husband with heartwarming concern for my well-being.

Naw, I scoff. I don’t even own a jacket and he knows that. I run on the warm-blooded side.  Jackets are for wussies.

A quick, but rather annoyed, glance my way.  Present company excluded, of course, I say.

At the trailhead, the country before us is a thing of beauty. The Husband grabs that oh-so-manly jacket of his, I sling the camera over my shoulder and we’re off on our 20 min./easy hiking adventure.

 About this point on the trail, we see the ocean just ahead.  Off the left side of the trail is a steep drop off.

I marvel once again at how California put total trust in their hiking public by assuming we all have the gift of grace to not go pummeling down into the depths of nature.  As we’re smoothly tooling along, I note that You know, it’s not so far down that a fall like this would kill you. It’d just be a compound fracture or something. Right? Like the kind of break where the bone is sticking AAAAH!  HOLY COW!

So, we all know I didn’t actually shriek cow, don’t we? What’s the next two words that come after Hey y’all, watch this!?  Yep, my foot slips from the sandy trail, it does. And I begin to lose my footing altogether on the crumbling path. I already know I’m not going to die, because we just covered this. But I’m not in favor of a femur popping out of my thigh like a misplaced alien either. I begin to panic. And curse like a drunken sailor.

Mr. Sure Footed is behind me watching the drama unfold.

Here, take the camera and save yourself! I yell.  I’m goin’ down!

Do you want some help? he asks.

Naw, I’m good, I say.

I’m a product of the ’70’s.  No, don’t pity me, it wasn’t that bad of an era if you take the fashion designed by the criminally insane out of the equation. For us coming-of-age young women, it was drilled into our brains that real women do not need help. We are women, hear us roar, dammit.

I got myself into this mess, and I’ll manage to get out. Or down. Or something.  I wonder if Careflight can make it through this fog. Dang, do we even have a cell phone signal out here?

So anyway, I take a moment to stop cursing Mother Nature and all her unwashed children to take a deep breath. Perhaps if I just take slothlike movements, I can scootch along here. 

Which works out quite well actually. And moments later, we are walking along McClures Beach.

The arrow marks where nature had done me wrong

 Oh my. I’m not disappointed.

Smooth round stones across the shore

I call this Yellow Bucket. Or I would if I were an artist.

Kinda like a dinosaur egg in a stone nest.

My shoes are here for perspective.
And because the Husband wouldn’t let me pitch the damnable things into the surf.

Recalling that Point Reyes was bragging about all that wildlife, we check the tidal pools and watch the skies for any natural fauna. But nada. Instead we find stuff like this.

Was there a foot in it? ask the Husband.
Which irritates me terribly. Because he though of that and I didn’t.
A mermaid’s purse. An egg casing from a skate or shark, I suppose.

Then I see the tiny footprints of a child.  Ah, a family was here not long ago.

Wait, a family? Who takes their little kid to a beach like this?  Cold, foggy and windy, the proverbial place where the sun don’t shine. The single disembodied hiking boot just helps to set the scene here. And instead of an adorable lopsided sandcastle, the dark-minded tot instead created some sort of Moat of Doom in the sand.  Like something out of the Blair Witch Project.  Honestly folks, what an utterly depressing place to take your kid to. What kind a parents are these people anyway?

Here, Wednesday, says Morticia.  Use this hiking boot as a shovel and bury your brother in the sand, my dear.

Well, it does take all kinds. We can’t all be normal, with everyone thinking the same thoughts and all. Now that really would be depressing, wouldn’t it?

————————————

*Ever wonder about that? How many times your unsuspecting self got captured in the background of other people’s vacation photos? People-packed places like Disney World or Myrtle Beach? I imagine there’s families of The Beautiful People out there that are photobombed by my wide load bending over a flowered tote bag. Nice shot of the kids, Steve, a friend would say. Um, pretty crowded there at Epcot, huh? 

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Serious about fizzy drinks

Posted on May 13, 2012 by Donna Black-Sword
Fizzy wine
And I found out a long time ago
What a woman can do to your soul
Ah, but she can’t take you anyway

You don’t already know how to go*

Ooh, I have got to get me this when we get back home! I say. I’m lovin’ this satellite radio in the rental car. This would help pass the miles away on that long drive to work, I think.

Are you serious? the Husband says. He’s being punny. Sirius Radio. Get it?  I let that one pass just as I did the last few times and start pushing more buttons.

I find the Click & Clack Brothers on NPR, a story being narrated on another station. New music, classic stuff, and what-the-hell-is-this-noise kinda tunes.  I geek around until we figure out how to filter the choices down to just Rock. And we land on the Classic Vinyl station.

Let’s make the best of the situation
Before I finally go insane
Please don’t say I’ll never find a way

And tell me all my love’s in vain*

Which is pretty much the same stuff we listen to back home. Yep, that’s how we roll.

After our visit to Canine Companions for Independence in Santa Rosa we hit the road to catch some more of the California scenery.  I want to check off another of my travel itinerary choices and head towards Korbel Champagne Cellars.

Hey, let’s get a bottle of fizzy wine and save it for my birthday! is my revelation for this visit.

Fizzy wine? the Husband asks. Is that a connoisseur term?

As an Expert of the Grape, I can say with authority, that yes. Yes, it is. I think it’s British or something. Because one of my friends from London says fizzy drink all the time, so I’m pretty sure I’m right on this one.

Although, I admit that during the wine tasting I was involved in a debate of how to pronounce Brut (broot or rhymes with butt?), the word fizzy was not heard.  But there wasn’t anyone on the wine cellar tour with a British accent, so there’s that.

Korbel has an delightful deli restaurant; a nice stop after the tour and wine tasting. These folk have it down, now.  Soften you up with their fizzy drinks then drop you off in front of the baked goods. I snagged a lavender brownie, which I know sounds a little off.  Unless you’ve had a bit of the bubbly to change your perspective.

But holy cow, that was decadent. 

That’s a lavender brownie, people.

We’ve done our damage here and head back to the rental car with its are-you-sirius radio. Cool, Elton John’s next up.

Say Candy and Ronny have you seen them yet?
But they’re so spaced out

Ba ba ba Benny and the Jetssssss*

 Ugh, I thought it would be a good Elton John song. I hate this one, I whine.  But do I change the station? No, I survive the next three minutes in the hope they’ll play Layla again to make up for it.  Just tooling along some scenic back roads for awhile, when I ask what’s next on queue for the afternoon. Back to the hotel for now, I guess, he says.

Um. Look at the compass, love, I tell him, putting my handy scout leader skills to work. We’re heading due west. Think about that a sec. What’s that big thing west of here?

Oh. he says. So we’re heading back for a another visit to the coastline. Which is what I wanted to do anyway, so he must have been picking up my vibes on that. Because otherwise he has a good sense of direction. Just ask him. 

What I intended to be a dreamy garden
shot, turns out to be a lion with
 a dire case of the tummy rumblies.

We twist and turn our way through cow country (California cows are happy cows!) until we get to Route 1.  Heading south, the shore is on my side of the car. I start lamenting, which is different than whining, that there’s people walking around down there!  How did they get down there anyway?  I’m not seeing anything like steps or elevators or other such helpful things.  After a few minutes of this not-whining he pulls the car over, spewing a bit of gravel.

Did you want to get out and look? he asks.

Ok, I say. I guess so.

So, here’s the view from the overlook.

And here’s the view from the beach.  The squiggly pink arrow marks the sign (Miwok Beach) where I took the overlook photo.

You know what’s great about California? They don’t baby you with sissified things like guardrails at the overlooks or real steps down to the beach.  Oh, did you want down there, Buttercup? says California.  Well, mind your step then.

The trip down was a little sketchy, but I didn’t almost die. That kinda happened later in the week and we’ll cover that adventure in another blog post.  But I did heartily piss and moan all the way down about nearly busting my butt.

And this is the vulture that kept following me. It was starting to get on my nerves.

Anyway, we made it to the beach fully intact. I’m goofing around with the camera, when I see a couple of older gentlemen walking along.  Wearing khakis and sweaters tied about their shoulders, they look to be natives of this beach. The two of them just climb up and over the huge rocks along the terrain with the same ease you see in mall walkers back home.

Still out of breath from nearly rappelling the way down here, I am in awe of these guys.  Look at them! I say probably too loudly. They’re like [bleep]in’ mountain goats!  And they’re holding lattes!

I try to gather up the tattered strings of my self-esteem and go back beach exploring and taking photos.  

 
The closest thing to a dog sighting here

When we were down this way the day before, we stopped for lunch in the Bodega Bay area at The Tides Wharf Restaurant. Turns out this was where Hitchcock’s The Birds was filmed. Being an avid reader and knower of all things trivial, I go on all intellectual-like about how the short story of The Birds took place on the east coast, Maine or Massachusetts or some such thing. Always in need of a self-esteem boost, I look it up in Wikipedia to I can prove my point to all fellow diners within listening range. Hey, y’all, I read.

Oh. Well, nevermind. Yeah, so the short story is set in a “small Cornish seaside town”. There’s that British thing again.

But chances are, the hapless victims of the feathered fiends opted for the comfort of fizzy wine to dull the sounds of the seagulls pounding at the windows.  I’m sure of it.

*Peaceful Easy Feeling, The Eagles
*Layla, Derek and the Dominoes
*Benny and the Jets, Elton John

Addendum:
A true story . . . 
After our lunch at the Tides Wharf Restaurant, the Husband makes a confession. I don’t want to creep you out or anything, says he. 
Too late now, I tell him.  You probably should used a different opening. But go ahead, shoot.
The Husband, who admits he rarely remembers a dream, tells me that he indeed had a dream about sitting in this restaurant.  A recurring dream.  With the same floor to ceiling windows overlooking the ocean.  The  scenic view and sitting at the same table. 
Well, that’s just a bit unsettling.  
What happened in your dream? I ask
Nothing. I don’t remember anything happening, he says.
But you say it’s a dream you’ve had more than once?  
Several times, for years.
I’m struggling for a link here.  Something profound.  Well, was there anyone with you? I ask him.
I think so. Yeah.
A pause in the conversation as we both think this one through.  My logic path has taken me on the ramp to the Highway of Doom. Attacks by militant seagulls and how driving a convertible would be a pretty bad idea in a town of really pissed off birds.  Could his dreams be a prophesy of things to come? Are we the catalysts for impending disaster by tucking into those crab cakes?  Egads, what if we’ve opened the door to a zombie apocalypse?
Wait a minute . . . someone was with him?  A quick downshift from seagull zombies to potential competition.
Well, he says before the pause is too long to negate it, it must have been you. Since you were there with me today.
Ah, well played, Husband. Well played.

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Agendas are for sissies

Posted on May 6, 2012 by Donna Black-Sword

Gee, Brain, what are we going to do tonight? asks Pinky
The same thing we do every night, says the Brain. Try to take over the world.
                          –Pinky and The Brain cartoon series 1995-1998

So, what do you what to do today? asks the Husband.

The same thing we did yesterday, is my reply. I want to see stuff we don’t see in Ohio.

Again? he asks. Could you be more specific?

Alrighty then. What do you want to do today? says me.

I don’t know, he says.

Well, I say. I kinda win then, don’t I?

This Day Two of our California adventures. We don’t have a solid itinerary for the week because I enjoy the leisurely pace of just checking things out as we drive about. You know, seeing things not on the brochures and maps. And because I suck at planning.

While the Husband is pulling himself together and wondering if he should wear his good shoes or the tennies, I’m giving Facebook a quick check.  And what’s this?

Oh my.

Ah, my love, I say. We got us a change in plans.

We had plans? he asks

Not sure if that was sincere or sarcasm, I wave off the comment and tell him what I found out while in the etherworld.

The focal point of this California trip was to check off a bucket list goal of visiting the Santa Rosa campus of Canine Companions for Independence. Since becoming volunteer puppy raisers in 2008, this organization has become a huge part of our daily lives. I have had a CCI puppy by my side every day for the past four years, at work, home and play. The Santa Rosa campus is the headquarters of CCI. It’s also where the breeding program is managed.

We had this visit on the agenda for Tuesday (see, I can too plan.), but I find out that a fellow puppy raiser, who is also a breeder/caretaker, is dropping off her dog’s litter at CCI this morning. Ah, serendipity at its finest.

Wendy and Dave raised the lovely Sabina for CCI, who was later selected as one of the “best of the best” for CCI’s breeding program. Sabina’s “C” litter of pups will be arriving in Santa Rosa for their health check before they go out to their puppy raisers.  I send a quick note to Wendy across the wifi as a heads up that we’ll be crashing their puppy party this morning.

As a bonus feature, Wendy is also a dog blogger. She shares her adventures at Aspiring Service Dog Chronicles.  Check it out; she’s got some great stuff out there from the view of a Breeder/Caretaker.

Ok, now check your glucose levels before scrolling down, folk.  Sweet puppy photos coming up.

Into the puppy limo with y’all for a ride to the playground.

A refreshment break at the watering hole while Clifford looks on.

More, please?
Working those big brown eyes.

Lovin’ that crinkly nose.

And back in the puppy limo to head off for their health check.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Wendy and Dave for allowing us to share their puppy turn-in morning with them. Thanks so much, you two. Not just for making our week a memorable one, but for taking on the Breeder/Caretaker role as well. You guys are amazing.  

CCI’s Santa Rosa campus is a gorgeous affair. If you find yourself in the area, they do give tours to the public during the week. We were able to snag the special Puppy Raiser tour and talked with a few of the professional trainers on the work they do with the pups we turn in for advanced training.

And to see stuff like this.

Yep, that’s the campus cat turning on a light switch. That’s how good these trainers are. Ponder that one for a minute. I’ve been trying to get Bodine to sit for a treat. Without biting my finger. And it’s not going well.

We come across a map of the US just about filled with colorful pushpins. Ooh what’s this? I ask.  Well, it represents the dogs that are placed with someone. Each color represents one of the four types of assistance dogs that CCI trains (Service Dog, Skilled Companion Dog, Facility Dog, Hearing Dog).  I snagged a close up shot of the Ohio/Pennsylvania area. The lovely Inga has a pushpin in there as a Skilled Companion Dog; the thought gives us a warm and fuzzy feeling of pride and awe. We helped make that pushpin, I think. And while it doesn’t sound weird at all to me, I decide it best to keep it within my inside voice.

And the ridiculously photogenic Micron has a place in Santa Rosa, too. Here he is, in all his furry splendor, on the wall in the great room. Now this was a personal thrill to come across, I gotta say.

So here we are, on Day Two of the Great California Adventure and I’ve knocked off Number Nine on the Bucket List. More California stuff coming up in the upcoming posts.

MONDAY DOG SIGHTINGS: 8 adorable puppies and gobs of CCI dogs.

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Hello Mudder

Posted on April 29, 2012 by Donna Black-Sword
Hi Mom:
I juz wan let you no that I think im gonna like it here at camp Wagner.  There are lotz of cool things to smell an taste.  The other kidz here r pretty cool too.  There is this 1 gurl named Rosie that sort of looks like me but she has red hair.  There is another gurl that I think is chineez cuz they said she was a chow.

Your boy,

Micron

Aww, Micron’s first letter from camp. We just sent him off to Camp Wagner for a week of adventure. It’s not like the old days when moms were at the mailbox awaiting a hastily scrawled message to arrive, but instead now our young ones send warm thoughts back home across the WIFI airwaves.  Faster, cleaner and, frankly, easier to on the eyes to read.

And that the dog can text me without the advantage of opposable thumbs is pretty kinky cool too. I’ll just pause here while you work on the mental image.

Ok, so the camp director knows me well enough to recognize I’m just a rotor short of being a helicopter parent. It could be that I’m a bit overprotective of my charges. Or perhaps I’m a little worried that Micron will be an over excited seventy-five pound package of impending disaster. A big yellow tsunami roiling across all things valuable.

At that Camp Wagner has an inground swimming pool has my mom hormones in full alert. Not a bounty of shorelines here in landlocked Ohio, so Micron doesn’t have any experience with bodies of water larger than the bathtub. I ask the camp director to keep an eye out, because if fuzzhead goes into the pool, he may not have the presence of mind to know how to get back out.

But Micron’s letter to his mama brought some peace of mind.
[sigh] All is well.
Ruh roh, not so fast there. This showed up next.
Hi Mom:
Ooops my paw hit the rong button cuz I waznt done yet.  I waned 2 also let you no that I went swimmin within the first fu minuts of bein here.  I didn meen 2 cuz I thot I wuz steppin on a blue rug or sumpin, but ya no wat? There wuz a swimming hole under neeth.  The camp director, mr wagner got me out reel quik tho.  I don think I gonna do that agin.
Well, you guys have a good trip and also happee birf day Mom.
Your boy
Micron
Well, that little trip to the world of Warm & Fuzzy Land didn’t last long. Yeah, the goober dog tried to walk across the swimming pool cover. Within the first five minutes. Right. Sounds like my dog.

Now things feel normal and that, my friends, is the true peace of mind.

You know, it’s not often that I don’t have a four legged companion at my side. Most days two dogs, or even three, are riding off to another adventure in the backseat of my car. But earlier this month the Husband and I decided to take a week off to do some traveling.

And this time, we couldn’t take the dogs with us.

Before we catch our flight out to the fine state of California, I’ve got to find caregivers for everything in this house with an alimentary tract.

So the mighty Micron is off to West Chester to stay with a good friend. Yaxley will be enjoying his week with another CCI puppy raiser.  Jager requires a little extra care with his tendency towards freakiness, so is being taken in by a friend and professional pet sitter. Whew, that takes care of the dogs. Lucky for me the pet sitter will also stop by to feed the cats and Bob the Fish.

All are in good hands and comfy in home environments. I know we don’t need to give the pets’ welfare a second thought. But[sniffle] how am I going to go an entire week without their wet nosed company? It’s gonna be a weird few days.

There’s a lot of stuff in the middle that keeps Ohio pretty far away from California, so Saturday was simply lost to the inglorious nature of air travel.

Dog sightings on Saturday: 0

Saturday was just a day to endure so we could make it to Sunday when we would find ourselves in lovely Santa Rosa.  What do you want to do today?, asks the Husband on Sunday morning.  Ah, I say, I want to see stuff we don’t see in Ohio. We’re all supplied up with a map, a decent rental car, satellite radio, a full tank of $5 petrol, my fancy camera and dang I left my sunglasses back home. ‘Salright, we hit the road to see what treasures the goldmine state has to offer.

And . . . we are not off to a good start.

What the heck, coastal living people?  A NO DOGS sign?  On our way to the Sonoma State Beach, I made a whimsical decision to stop at a roadside flea market.  On the Good Idea scale, this knee jerk choice rates a three. We muck through a quarter mile of mud and return to the car with the scent of cheap sun-warmed plastic still stuck in our nostrils. And of course, no dog sightings.

Ok, movin’ on. Let’s hit the coast to see what’s happening there. We’re in sunny California so surely we’ll come across something to wondersmack our day.  Blue skies and puffy clouds abound above us. A trip to the Pacific is now topping the list.  Let’s catch some sunshine at Sonoma’s Goat Rock.

Hold your horses there, pardner. Not so fast. 

This is not a black & white photo, folks.

Is that fog? I ask, or did we just drive into a cloud?  Huh. Well, will you look at that? Honey, I say in my best Captain Obvious voice, this sure ain’t like Myrtle Beach.
 

But this one is.  Black & white, that is.

But still.  This is some fabulous scenery and I’m loving it. The weather is on the cool side, so I’ve opted for my best jeans to keep warm. A good idea, that.  Until I started with the kneeling down to take photos.  Speaking of Myrtle Beach, it’s been my experience that once salt water touches anything cotton, it doesn’t dry. Ever. Instead it just wicks into a larger area of uncomfortableness until you feel like your clothes have joined DNA with your skin. And just because I’m me, a wave comes from behind and socks me good.  Wet, cold and sandy up to the knees, I am.

Not black & white, but I geeked around with the contrast.

 
But I plod on.  Because there’s wonders here to discover.

Ok, this one is black & white, with a blue filter.

 

Not black & white, but taken at an angle to be all artsy and everything

Ugh. Nature why you so weird?

Ah, but things get even better. We got us a dog sighting!  Three dogs romping along another area of the beach.  Just one bit of a problem.  I pretty much goobered up my shoes in that last surfside attack of nature and there’s no getting them back on anytime soon.  My poor feet are still winterized and are delicate little size sevens. I won’t be sporting leathery hobbit feet until mid-summer or so.

I would have to cross this rocky nightmare to get to the beach. 

Barefoot.

You’re pretty savvy, right?  You noticed the photo is taken from the beach side?  Yeah, it wasn’t pretty, but I scaled over those babies. Just let loose a couple of eeps of momentarily painful missteps.

And just so I could ruffle the fur on someone else’s fishy smelling dogs.  Hi! Are your dogs friendly? Would you mind if I petted them? After my klutzy performance on the rocks, the hapless dog owner is giving me just one degree short of the hairy eyeball.  Yeah, ok sure, he says. He gives me a quick once over, probably figuring he could easily take me down if I get any weirder about his dogs.

I try to contain my happiness and act like a normal person as a happy pair bounce up to me for a greeting.  Hi, Hi, Hi! they say in dog talk. Hi right back atcha! says me, aren’t you a couple of pretty fellas?

Then they shake. Oh no, not shake paws. The other shake. Massive seawater removal by doing the doggie twist. Gah!, I cry, protecting the camera with my body. Ah, lovely. Now we all smell like dead seafood, boys.

But really, you ask, once you stopped whining about every little thing, was it worth it?

Oh yeah.  It was worth it.

Dog sightings on Sunday:  2 friendly, but stinky dogs. 1 non-friendly dog, but likely stinky.

Next blog post:  We’re back in Santa Rosa for dog sightings of the puppy kind.

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Spirits of the season

Posted on October 23, 2011 by Donna Black-Sword

Biltmore House, Asheville NC

The baby’s crying upstairs, but I can’t go up there.

It’s October 29, 1977, and the Saturday night before Halloween. I’ve snagged a primo babysitting gig for a family of three charming children who live in an 1880’s farmhouse several miles outside of our small southern Ohio village. The parents have gone off to celebrate Halloween in whatever fashion befitting young parents of that era, which as I recall, involved beer and rural cemeteries. They say they won’t be getting back until late and that’s fine with me ‘cuz I’ll get paid extra for mastering nothing harder than just watching their kids sleep. Easy peasy, mac and cheesy.

I know it sounds like folklore, but in the days before cable TV’s, DVD’s, and PC’s we didn’t have acronyms. No, what I mean is, we teenagers of the 70’s were forced to design our own wholesome entertainment or else we’d be out there drinking beer and graveyard hopping or something.  So, considering it’s dark outside and anyway, I’m stuck inside with three little kids in their PJ’s, I gotta find something to do that’s more interesting than staring at the carpet stains. There’s only four channels on the TV on a good day and this isn’t one of them. Good thing I was one of those higher thinking teenagers (geek who didn’t have a date on a Saturday night) and had the sound idea to bring a book along with me.

This is where the smart thinking stops short like a drunk tripping over a tombstone. My tome of choice for the evening was the recently released Amityville Horror.  A True Story! the book cover exclaims in big red print. An old house possessed by evil entities! Red glowing pig eyes watching the children through the windows! Dripping walls and flying pests of biblical proportions!  Disembodied voices shouting GET OUT!  The perfect book to read for Halloween! Count me in!

Perfect, indeed. But not this night for this teenager. I can hear the wind blowing through the trees outside and the old farmhouse creaks and groans as if it’s awakening from a deep slumber. And what the heck is that weird noise in the basement anyway? All neighbors are way past any viable screaming distance in this rustic country setting. And you know what they say, a possum rustling through a corn field makes the same exact sound as three men with an axe.  I have my teenaged self so worked up reading this horrific story that every little sound has me sinking further into something like a fetal position, but with one hand still out there to turn the pages.

Then the toddler starts crying upstairs.

Gah! I say.  I’m now standing in the center of the living room and staring at the ceiling. Mind is whirling . . . why is she crying, did something scare her?  Does something have her?  I have to go up and check on her, of course.  Yep, I do.  I need to go up there. I really should go up there now. Yup.

A retro reminder for y’all.  The year of 1977 is post-Exorcist but pre-Freddy Krueger.  Teenagers of this era had not been desensitized by slasher movies and rated-M video games. Our hormone enriched imaginations were much better equipped  at creating deep levels of dread and fear back then, I think. Well, at least I was pretty good at it.

So, yeah I did go check on the precious little girl and was able to calm her back to her pretty princess sleep. I had to, of course.  It was the moral thing to do facing those imaginary red-eyed demons and well, financially speaking, the smart thing to do if I wanted another sitting gig with this family. But I will tell you, with very little sense of shame, that it was absolutely one of the hardest things I’ve ever made myself do. To take on that creaking stairwell and walk straight-backed down the hall and into her darkened bedroom.

Oh, I did it. But I couldn’t look out her bedroom window. Because I knew there would be a pair of glowing red pig eyes looking back in.

Sure, that’s, um, interesting, you say, but why tell us this now, some thirty years later?  Because it’s Halloween, you guys. And especially because I captured this neat photo of a sentinel lion sculpture during our tour of the Biltmore House in Asheville, NC.  And then I spookified it up to make it all creepy and stuff. Which reminded me of the lion statue that bit the guy’s leg in Amityville Horror, which then brought the memory tour bus full circle by drudging up that Babysitting in Hell House nightmare.

And by the way, the ‘rents came back in the wee hours totally skunked and the dad had to drive me back home in that condition.

In a Pinto wagon.

That, my friends, was the truly for-real frightening part of the night. You can’t make this kind of stuff up.

I vant to bite yer leg

So, anyway

On the patio at the Arbor Grill.
Yax is trying hard to ignore a
french fry under my chair.

Right, so anyway we capped off the fall road trip by stopping by the Biltmore House for a tour of the place. No photos permitted inside the home, but we could take some shots outside and at the nearby shops. The lion above is one of a pair just outside the mansion’s entrance. And the snapshot at the very top was taken from one of the gardens.

Anyway, it seems these Vanderbilts are particular about their fancy stuff, as they don’t allow dogs in the mansion. Only service dogs, so we opted to leave our fellows to relax in the RV during our tour of how the other half lives.

On the rest of the grounds, we found it to be pretty darn dog friendly.  We stop for lunch on the patio at the Arbor Grill where Yaxley becomes a mini celebrity of sorts.

Two kids at a neighboring table come over to take photos of Yaxley.  Which became an open invitation for the junior paparazzi to swarm in. Digital camera flashes come from all angles as Yaxley turns his head from side to side to accommodate all his admiring shutterbug fans.

I’m tellin’ ya, it’s like hangin’ with a rock star
sometimes.

The Biltmore House has their own line of fine vino and I think a wine tasting will be a nice touch after lunch.  And Yaxley needs to check off Wine Shop on his socialization list. Um, again.

This really was a beautiful place at the Biltmore Estate; well worth the drive in the rattletrap RV to get here. Yaxley was warmly welcomed everywhere we went and, as his usual style, became a social bridge for us to meet some remarkable folk. Everyone is really just a fellow tourist, unless you have a caped dog with you. Then you find out that one fellow has a brother with a disability and would love to have more info on CCI. This young girl ruffling Yaxley’s ears just lost her thirteen year old dog she’s known her entire life and is missing her terribly. And that petite lady petting the pup is actually the mother of a famous Iditarod musher from Alaska.

Incredible to think of all the people we pass by with just a ‘scuse me.

Didja see it, food lady? Here’s that stuff you like.

I think I’ll close with a few images of our walking tour around the shops and farm.  Enjoy . . .

You know what, Cedric?  I think we’ll turn to stone before she throws that ball.

Hey! HEY!  Oh I get it.  Just ‘cuz you’re a Vanderbilt
you can’t talk to the working class.

Hey food lady, put down that wine bottle and lookit me!   
I’m on the wagon! 

Yaxley supervising the smithy

Showdown during an intense game of chicken.
The bird would have blinked first, but Yax said it didn’t have eyelids.

I have no fear of these spirits.

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