That was one that got away. She tried for two more days to catch it, and finally gave up when she spotted a blue-tailed salamander on the stones, which she proceeded to try to grab. Then her attention was taken by a garter snake which had draped it's body around a red-winged blackbird nest in the cattails. The parents were making a terrible ruckus, and the fledgling had hopped up the stem of the protective reeds to relative safety. There was no lack of nature to hold our attention this week. She named the regular visiting rabbit Steve, and no matter how many white tailed deer wandered around the house, it was definitely Frankie every time. We're heading back to the house in November. The flora and fauna will be waiting, I'm sure.

Sunsets abound on the west coast, and here's one as seen from Greens Restaurant with the Golden Gate Bridge in the background (& some sailboat masts in between).

The church where Marilyn Monroe illegally wed Joe DiMaggio is pristine and beautiful.

The boat tour out to and under the GGB was terribly windy and cold, but that didn't keep me inside the cabin. I love feeling the sea breeze and mist on my face. The sailboats seemed to benefit as well...

Other health issues have poked their nasty heads out of the sand lately, as well. Esophageal testing has me on medication for the first time. More tests lie in wait, but they are on hold while the West Coast beckons. BP is shaky, cholesterols and blood sugars excellent. I guess this "almost 50" thing does not get easier. One or two other tests will be redone (after the trip). Welcome to middle-age.

On a positive note, San Francisco looks like a fine place to visit. I've convinced the family to join me on Alcatraz, too. Wine country is waiting. Trail riding some horses to the hilltops for fine coastal views sounds really good. Any pain I feel in my foot will most certainly be remedied by the hot-tub on the deck (overlooking the beach, of course) with a glass of Willamette valley wine in hand. I'll send you some pictures.

I have inserted a photo of the chocolate fountain from The Chocolate Moose, which was invited to setup a table at the New York State Museum Chocolate Expo in December. It was fun serving 5000 chocoholics. Our table was in the Adirondacks. But we should have been setup under the stuffed moose.

It was surreal. They continued to consider the trees: in my yard, the neighbors' yards, never all in the air at once, never all quite settled together. On one of their passes over head, I could hear random drops of poop landing on the leaves or the porch roof above me. I was glad to be standing on it's edge, hanging onto the post, leaning out while looking up. I bet I would have had quite a bit of bird droppings on me if I had been out in the open. I considered for a moment how often that many birds would naturally poop while flying around like that. Perhaps they were frightened of something, causing this swooping over my yard. Then, as quickly as they arrived, they were gone, heading west over Smith's pond. But before I got to the back door to go in I heard the familiar cawing of a pair of crows. Looking up, there they were, flocking a hawk, right on her tail, while she easily outmaneuvered them, annoyed none-the-less by their relentless badgering. This trio was following the trail of the starlings. Was this what had unsettled the huge flock? Was some larger creature of the sky to follow? Was I in a horror movie and didn't know it? Where is Tippi Hedren? I think I'll go look for Rod Taylor in the attic.

The haunted house is made of dark chocolate and nearly two feet tall. The Chocolate Moose created this for a special Halloween party order. I wonder if anybody ate it?

The idea of revealing that a person can become screwed-up by intoxicants which allows an altered state of reality has come to bear down on my mothering skills. Am I supposed to explain this to her now? She's too young, I answer. I remember reading (and believeing by experience) that children cannot understand concepts which they are not ready to understand. This often comes up when parents ask themselves: "what do we tell Jonnie when he walks in on us?" In other words, the story of the birds and the bees is just that, about small flying garden creatures, not about what happens in real life, in a childs' eyes, until the time that they can grasp the concept, no matter how clear and/or medical the language used becomes.

Reenter my tween, closely watching Dorothy and listening to David Gilmour yelling while she falls into the pigpen on the computer monitor. "I don't get it Mommy, how does this go together?" She wants to load the Floyd cd onto her ipod. That's a good thing. She goes off to dig out our ancient VHS movie of OZ, another good thing.

I would love to sit back and listen to these two perfect productions played together, and let my mind wander to a place where nothing interrupts, where I don't have to ask how or why they work in unison. But then I'd still need to consider her question. Wait, she saw some shiny keys, no, a butterfly passed by the window... and now she's off to other pursuits, and I am, gratefully, off the hook. The question has been answered. She's not ready to undersatand it. Phew!]]> http://www.marketfreshchef.com/2007/10/dark-side-of-the-yellow-brick.html http://www.marketfreshchef.com/2007/10/dark-side-of-the-yellow-brick.html Motherhood Wed, 10 Oct 2007 19:58:46 -0500 You know, I guess I'd better own up to the truth. I wanna be a Seattlite. But I'm not. I picked this header because it makes me think of where I wanna' be. I live in the Hudson Valley, not the Pacific Northwest. And until MT offers better choices or variety in their style library for "decorating" my blog, this is as attractive and meaningful as it's going to get.

I met this guy when I was about 5. My father arranged for him to come to my brother's little league (Westland Hills, in Albany, NY) -- a promotional event for the YooHoo drink. My Godfather's bottling plant had just started selling the beverage, and in those days, Yogi was big. We're talking 1965. My brother was a catcher, and we drove to NYC many times each season for ballgames. My Father always had one playing on the radio. I still prefer to hear them rather than watch. But really, I just love the quotes. They comepltely describe a personality. If you've got one of his good ones, send it my way, please...

We're lost, but we're making good time.
Yogi Berra