Linda L. Zern's Blog, page 11
December 30, 2017
ENDINGS ARE JUST BEGINNINGS
2017: Following the Strandline & ZippityZern's: Fifty More, Looking forward to 2018
December 21, 2017
At Long Last . . .
FOLLOWING THE STRANDLINE: BOOK II IN THE STRANDLINE SERIES, IT'S FINALLY AVAILABLE: Thank you to those who have been waiting so patiently. I've made many notes for future releases. LIVE AND LEARN. Click the link to find out more: https://www.amazon.com/dp/0692984089
December 12, 2017
The Story According to St Zern
CHAPTER 1
The words of the scribe to the world beyond the I-4 corridor—The lament of the wolf pack—Aric and Lauren doth travel far unto the north; Silas rejoices much—The Stank boys go forth and hunteth rats; they testify of much destruction; their claims find much disputation—Zoe and Emma lead in the wilderness—The Zerns bring about much righteousness; and the good word of Christmas goes forth.
1 But a certain woman, even a scribe named Linda, with Sherwood her husband bought a new possession even a kitchen for their Saint Cloud abode after a flood did follow the repair of their washer of dishes, which did gush forth to destroy the floor. To be followed by a fire that dideth begin in the disposal of garbage, and the fireman did come also offering to shut the power off.
2 And so the kitchen did get gutted straightway. And the new kitchen did commence to become mighty like unto a magazine image, and Linda did rejoice in her pot rack, which did hang with many pots.
3 And by the hands of the grandchildren were many signs and wonders wrought among the tribe: (and they were all with one accord while bringing forth much wonderment.) On Sunday last, one of the youngest of the tribe did stand up in her pew, at the church of our choice, and she did throw her head back and did howl forth the howl of a baby wolf cub, while her mother dideth speak much from the pulpit,
4 Saying Ow,Ow,Oowhoooooo. For of a truth Ever Jane (age 2) did continue to send up her howl, bringing forth much laughter from the body of believers.
5 This know also that the Texas Zerns, even Aric and Lauren and Silas did travel northward to a land of much snow, to live and work in the heart of Ohio, and Silas did delight in the falling of frozen water.
6 And the boys, both known as the Stahle boys and the Stank boys, after their father did wear a name tag with his name spelled falsely—Stank—these selfsame boys began to hunt the rats in the chicken coop at YaYa’s, reporting glowing red eyes and the sneakiest of sneaking rats, and there was much excitement but little success.
7 And Zoe and Emma went forth unto Young Women and Conner did become mighty in reading. Fulfilling that which he did prophesy when he sayeth, It is my destiny to read.
8 Likewise, I say unto you that the Texas Lorance’s doth swim much and flip about in gymnastics, both Reagan and Hero, while their brother and sister grow in wisdom and stature and sauciness.
9 I meditate upon these things and count myself blessed beyond ability to measure for it is ever a joy to know that thy children walk in righteous ways and are tender to their children and their spouses. Nevertheless, our tribe did sit much about the bonfire and did play a game about werewolves and did howl much like wolves, perhaps it being the very way in which Ever Jane did learn her fine wolf cub interpretation, saying, Ow Ow Owhooooooo! And a Merry Christmas too.
The words of the scribe to the world beyond the I-4 corridor—The lament of the wolf pack—Aric and Lauren doth travel far unto the north; Silas rejoices much—The Stank boys go forth and hunteth rats; they testify of much destruction; their claims find much disputation—Zoe and Emma lead in the wilderness—The Zerns bring about much righteousness; and the good word of Christmas goes forth.
1 But a certain woman, even a scribe named Linda, with Sherwood her husband bought a new possession even a kitchen for their Saint Cloud abode after a flood did follow the repair of their washer of dishes, which did gush forth to destroy the floor. To be followed by a fire that dideth begin in the disposal of garbage, and the fireman did come also offering to shut the power off.
2 And so the kitchen did get gutted straightway. And the new kitchen did commence to become mighty like unto a magazine image, and Linda did rejoice in her pot rack, which did hang with many pots.
3 And by the hands of the grandchildren were many signs and wonders wrought among the tribe: (and they were all with one accord while bringing forth much wonderment.) On Sunday last, one of the youngest of the tribe did stand up in her pew, at the church of our choice, and she did throw her head back and did howl forth the howl of a baby wolf cub, while her mother dideth speak much from the pulpit,
4 Saying Ow,Ow,Oowhoooooo. For of a truth Ever Jane (age 2) did continue to send up her howl, bringing forth much laughter from the body of believers.
5 This know also that the Texas Zerns, even Aric and Lauren and Silas did travel northward to a land of much snow, to live and work in the heart of Ohio, and Silas did delight in the falling of frozen water.
6 And the boys, both known as the Stahle boys and the Stank boys, after their father did wear a name tag with his name spelled falsely—Stank—these selfsame boys began to hunt the rats in the chicken coop at YaYa’s, reporting glowing red eyes and the sneakiest of sneaking rats, and there was much excitement but little success.
7 And Zoe and Emma went forth unto Young Women and Conner did become mighty in reading. Fulfilling that which he did prophesy when he sayeth, It is my destiny to read.
8 Likewise, I say unto you that the Texas Lorance’s doth swim much and flip about in gymnastics, both Reagan and Hero, while their brother and sister grow in wisdom and stature and sauciness.
9 I meditate upon these things and count myself blessed beyond ability to measure for it is ever a joy to know that thy children walk in righteous ways and are tender to their children and their spouses. Nevertheless, our tribe did sit much about the bonfire and did play a game about werewolves and did howl much like wolves, perhaps it being the very way in which Ever Jane did learn her fine wolf cub interpretation, saying, Ow Ow Owhooooooo! And a Merry Christmas too.
The Story According to St Zern
CHAPTER 1
The words of the scribe to the world beyond the I-4 corridor—The lament of the wolf pack—Aric and Lauren doth travel far unto the north; Silas rejoices much—The Stank boys go forth and hunteth rats; they testify of much destruction; their claims find much disputation—Zoe and Emma lead in the wilderness—The Zerns bring about much righteousness; and the good word of Christmas goes forth.
1 But a certain woman, even a scribe named Linda, with Sherwood her husband bought a new possession even a kitchen for their Saint Cloud abode, after a flood did follow the repair of their washer of dishes, which did gush forth to destroy the floor. To be followed by a fire that dideth begin in the disposal of garbage, and the fireman did come also offering to shut the power off.
2 And so the kitchen did get gutted straightway. And the new kitchen did commence to become mighty like unto a magazine image, and Linda did rejoice in her pot rack, which did hang with many pots.
3 And by the hands of the grandchildren were many signs and wonders wrought among the tribe: (and they were all with one accord while bringing forth much wonderment.) On Sunday last, one of the youngest of the tribe did stand up in her pew, at the church of our choice, and she did throw her head back and did howl forth the howl of a baby wolf cub, while her mother dideth speak much from the pulpit,
4 Saying Ow,Ow,Oowhoooooo. For of a truth Ever Jane (age 2) did continue to send up her howl, bringing forth much laughter from the body of believers.
5 This know also that the Texas Zerns, even Aric and Lauren and Silas did travel northward to a land of much snow, to live and work in the heart of Ohio, and Silas did delight in the falling of frozen water.
6 And the boys, both known as the Stahle boys and the Stank boys, after their father did wear a name tag with his name spelled falsely—Stank—these selfsame boys began to hunt the rats in the chicken coop at YaYa’s, reporting glowing red eyes and the sneakiest of sneaking rats, and there was much excitement but little success.
7 And Zoe and Emma went forth unto Young Women and Conner did become mighty in reading. Fulfilling that which he did prophesy when he sayeth, It is my destiny to read.
8 Likewise, I say unto you that the Texas Lorance’s doth swim much and flip about in gymnastics, both Reagan and Hero, while their brother and sister grow in wisdom and stature and sauciness.
9 I meditate upon these things and count myself blessed beyond ability to measure for it is ever a joy to know that thy children walk in righteous ways and are tender to their children and their spouses. Nevertheless, our tribe did sit much about the bonfire and did play a game about werewolves and did howl much like wolves, perhaps it being the very way in which Ever Jane did learn her fine wolf cub interpretation, saying, ow ow owhooooooo! And a Merry Christmas too.
The words of the scribe to the world beyond the I-4 corridor—The lament of the wolf pack—Aric and Lauren doth travel far unto the north; Silas rejoices much—The Stank boys go forth and hunteth rats; they testify of much destruction; their claims find much disputation—Zoe and Emma lead in the wilderness—The Zerns bring about much righteousness; and the good word of Christmas goes forth.
1 But a certain woman, even a scribe named Linda, with Sherwood her husband bought a new possession even a kitchen for their Saint Cloud abode, after a flood did follow the repair of their washer of dishes, which did gush forth to destroy the floor. To be followed by a fire that dideth begin in the disposal of garbage, and the fireman did come also offering to shut the power off.
2 And so the kitchen did get gutted straightway. And the new kitchen did commence to become mighty like unto a magazine image, and Linda did rejoice in her pot rack, which did hang with many pots.
3 And by the hands of the grandchildren were many signs and wonders wrought among the tribe: (and they were all with one accord while bringing forth much wonderment.) On Sunday last, one of the youngest of the tribe did stand up in her pew, at the church of our choice, and she did throw her head back and did howl forth the howl of a baby wolf cub, while her mother dideth speak much from the pulpit,
4 Saying Ow,Ow,Oowhoooooo. For of a truth Ever Jane (age 2) did continue to send up her howl, bringing forth much laughter from the body of believers.
5 This know also that the Texas Zerns, even Aric and Lauren and Silas did travel northward to a land of much snow, to live and work in the heart of Ohio, and Silas did delight in the falling of frozen water.
6 And the boys, both known as the Stahle boys and the Stank boys, after their father did wear a name tag with his name spelled falsely—Stank—these selfsame boys began to hunt the rats in the chicken coop at YaYa’s, reporting glowing red eyes and the sneakiest of sneaking rats, and there was much excitement but little success.
7 And Zoe and Emma went forth unto Young Women and Conner did become mighty in reading. Fulfilling that which he did prophesy when he sayeth, It is my destiny to read.
8 Likewise, I say unto you that the Texas Lorance’s doth swim much and flip about in gymnastics, both Reagan and Hero, while their brother and sister grow in wisdom and stature and sauciness.
9 I meditate upon these things and count myself blessed beyond ability to measure for it is ever a joy to know that thy children walk in righteous ways and are tender to their children and their spouses. Nevertheless, our tribe did sit much about the bonfire and did play a game about werewolves and did howl much like wolves, perhaps it being the very way in which Ever Jane did learn her fine wolf cub interpretation, saying, ow ow owhooooooo! And a Merry Christmas too.
November 27, 2017
Circa 1958
My Regular, Annual, Semi-Official Ghost Written Disclaimer
The Author as a Young Person
My name is from the 1950’s. My age spots are from the wear-no-sunscreen ‘60s. My stretch marks are from the baby making ‘80s and my attitude is the culmination of fifty-nine years of listening to the big words coming out of the mouths of politicians, professors, popcorn vendors, and pompous pontificators that said one thing, did another and did not or do not deserve a second chance. Lovely rhetoric is lovely, but I’m more into stone, cold results.
Color me skeptical.
I was blogging before it was called blogging. It was called chatting over the back fence. I’ve been chatting over the back fence, once a week, for over thirteen years.
Here’s stuff that I’ve figured out—also my philosophy:
Sorting the silverware into individual slots for the convenience of fork users is weird. Throw it all in a drawer and let the moochers sort it out for themselves.
Folding sheets into tiny, tidy squares is a lot of effort for not much. Lump the silly things up and shove them in a laundry basket.
All the knobs on your kitchen cabinets DO NOT HAVE TO MATCH! I know. I know; radical, revolutionary talk fated to drive my son-in-law mad.
“They” are the worst possible source of information. “They” are probably the idiots that came up with the matching kitchen cabinet knob rule.
Chocolate covered raisins are the smartest food on earth.
Babylon is alive and well and trying to sell you something on Amazon—matching kitchen cabinet knobs.
Anarchy is like a two-year-old on a binky binge with a diaper full of pucky. Anarchy is for the birds. No. Even birds have more self-discipline than those self-proclaimed anarchists, crying for their binkies and flinging their own poo.
Being a selfish twit (i.e. wicked) makes you insecure and insecurity makes you fearful and being fearful makes you mean and mean people are selfish twits. Knock it off (i.e. repent).
The best cure for insult or reproach is to be able to 1) laugh at yourself 2) laugh at the people who make fun of your mismatched kitchen knobs and libertarian values 3) recognize “them” for the “they” that “they” be and 4) keep your knives sharp and your wit sharper.
Note: The management is not responsible for the opinions expressed in this blog by Linda L. Zern with her 1950’s name and her stretch marks because the management is probably obsessing over getting the sheets folded into squares the size of postage stamps. Silly management.
Lin(duh) Zern (circa 1958)
The Author as a Young PersonMy name is from the 1950’s. My age spots are from the wear-no-sunscreen ‘60s. My stretch marks are from the baby making ‘80s and my attitude is the culmination of fifty-nine years of listening to the big words coming out of the mouths of politicians, professors, popcorn vendors, and pompous pontificators that said one thing, did another and did not or do not deserve a second chance. Lovely rhetoric is lovely, but I’m more into stone, cold results.
Color me skeptical.
I was blogging before it was called blogging. It was called chatting over the back fence. I’ve been chatting over the back fence, once a week, for over thirteen years.
Here’s stuff that I’ve figured out—also my philosophy:
Sorting the silverware into individual slots for the convenience of fork users is weird. Throw it all in a drawer and let the moochers sort it out for themselves.
Folding sheets into tiny, tidy squares is a lot of effort for not much. Lump the silly things up and shove them in a laundry basket.
All the knobs on your kitchen cabinets DO NOT HAVE TO MATCH! I know. I know; radical, revolutionary talk fated to drive my son-in-law mad.
“They” are the worst possible source of information. “They” are probably the idiots that came up with the matching kitchen cabinet knob rule.
Chocolate covered raisins are the smartest food on earth.
Babylon is alive and well and trying to sell you something on Amazon—matching kitchen cabinet knobs.
Anarchy is like a two-year-old on a binky binge with a diaper full of pucky. Anarchy is for the birds. No. Even birds have more self-discipline than those self-proclaimed anarchists, crying for their binkies and flinging their own poo.
Being a selfish twit (i.e. wicked) makes you insecure and insecurity makes you fearful and being fearful makes you mean and mean people are selfish twits. Knock it off (i.e. repent).
The best cure for insult or reproach is to be able to 1) laugh at yourself 2) laugh at the people who make fun of your mismatched kitchen knobs and libertarian values 3) recognize “them” for the “they” that “they” be and 4) keep your knives sharp and your wit sharper.
Note: The management is not responsible for the opinions expressed in this blog by Linda L. Zern with her 1950’s name and her stretch marks because the management is probably obsessing over getting the sheets folded into squares the size of postage stamps. Silly management.
Lin(duh) Zern (circa 1958)
November 20, 2017
The Audience is Everything
The audience gives it away. Before the first popcorn box dances across the screen, I already know what kind of movie I’ve paid way too much to see. The following is my rating system.
If my husband and I are sitting in an audience surrounded by blue hair, shoulder strap purses, and hearing aids, I know that I am in for a treat. The movies’ director will have a lyrical foreign-sounding name, and at some point, the elegant Helena Bohem Carter, wearing voluptuous hair extensions, will play tennis in a white Victorian dress and make witty, pithy remarks to an equally elegant man. My husband will fall asleep and twitch.
It will be a movie of civilized sophistication, fraught with undercurrents of frenzied, repressed emotions all wrapped in a tangle of smart dialogue. At some point, my husband will drool. At about the same time someone will complain loudly, “What did she say? I can’t hear a damn thing anyone is saying.”
I love these movies.
The second kind of audience in my rating system will be filled with couples. They will have cell phones, beepers, and palm-sized computers, and they will be very important people. Presumably, a couple of the couples will have jet-packs strapped to their backs, just in case they have to make a quick trip to the office. If the theatre experiences technical difficulties, they will not hesitate to bark out instructions to the technicians in loud voices and demand their money back. With this kind of audience, I know that something in the movie will explode, two somethings will collide—making one something sink—and two more somethings will get lucky. My husband sits up like a squirrel at these movies hoping to find inaccuracies to complain about—bitterly.
I love these movies.
The last rating audience is a group that I like to call the Teenybopper/Call-of-the-Lone Hormone-Crowd. My husband must be lured to these movies with the promise of smuggled movie candy. Once there, we clutch each other in fear and horror while scantily clad girls and pierced unruly boys call racy challenges to each other while shooting laser light pointers into strangers’ retinas. Remember, this is before the movie begins.
Once the movie starts, we will be regaled with multitude comedic situations involving every kind of body fluid, and, or body gas—by the audience and the actors. My husband always laughs the loudest of all at these movies, by throwing his head back and imitating a pirate of the Barbary Coast bent on rape and pillage.
I love watching my husband laugh at fifth-grade humor.
The movies I like best, cannot be measured by their audience. I'm happy when I walk into the theatre, one hand slick with grease from a medium sized popcorn, and the other hand sweating from a fruit punch, and I see moms and dads leading light-saber wielding kids to their seats. There are grandparents settling down next to grandchildren, girls and boys on dates and groups of friends squirming with anticipation; I know that I am at a George Lucas production. I sit back, relax, and wait to go to a galaxy, far, far away.
In the first Star Wars film I ever saw, and just recently watched again, everyone kept their clothes on, you knew the bad guys from the good guys, and you knew what they are fighting for. No one screamed profanity to prove that they were evil. All the villain had to do was breathe sinisterly through a mechanical helmet, and you got it. The heroes were flawed just enough. They had enough quirks and faults to be interesting, but they were not crippled by black psychosis. The black psychosis was saved for the villain. The violence seemed necessary and understandable, and in the end, good triumphed over evil, and the galaxy gets saved.
The audience at these movies is everybody. In these movies, I know that there will be enough action to keep my husband conscious, enough of a moral to inspire my children to loftier ideals, and enough of the hero’s journey to keep me satisfied.
I love these movies most of all.
Linda (Down in Front) Zern
If my husband and I are sitting in an audience surrounded by blue hair, shoulder strap purses, and hearing aids, I know that I am in for a treat. The movies’ director will have a lyrical foreign-sounding name, and at some point, the elegant Helena Bohem Carter, wearing voluptuous hair extensions, will play tennis in a white Victorian dress and make witty, pithy remarks to an equally elegant man. My husband will fall asleep and twitch.
It will be a movie of civilized sophistication, fraught with undercurrents of frenzied, repressed emotions all wrapped in a tangle of smart dialogue. At some point, my husband will drool. At about the same time someone will complain loudly, “What did she say? I can’t hear a damn thing anyone is saying.”
I love these movies.
The second kind of audience in my rating system will be filled with couples. They will have cell phones, beepers, and palm-sized computers, and they will be very important people. Presumably, a couple of the couples will have jet-packs strapped to their backs, just in case they have to make a quick trip to the office. If the theatre experiences technical difficulties, they will not hesitate to bark out instructions to the technicians in loud voices and demand their money back. With this kind of audience, I know that something in the movie will explode, two somethings will collide—making one something sink—and two more somethings will get lucky. My husband sits up like a squirrel at these movies hoping to find inaccuracies to complain about—bitterly.
I love these movies.
The last rating audience is a group that I like to call the Teenybopper/Call-of-the-Lone Hormone-Crowd. My husband must be lured to these movies with the promise of smuggled movie candy. Once there, we clutch each other in fear and horror while scantily clad girls and pierced unruly boys call racy challenges to each other while shooting laser light pointers into strangers’ retinas. Remember, this is before the movie begins.
Once the movie starts, we will be regaled with multitude comedic situations involving every kind of body fluid, and, or body gas—by the audience and the actors. My husband always laughs the loudest of all at these movies, by throwing his head back and imitating a pirate of the Barbary Coast bent on rape and pillage.
I love watching my husband laugh at fifth-grade humor.
The movies I like best, cannot be measured by their audience. I'm happy when I walk into the theatre, one hand slick with grease from a medium sized popcorn, and the other hand sweating from a fruit punch, and I see moms and dads leading light-saber wielding kids to their seats. There are grandparents settling down next to grandchildren, girls and boys on dates and groups of friends squirming with anticipation; I know that I am at a George Lucas production. I sit back, relax, and wait to go to a galaxy, far, far away.
In the first Star Wars film I ever saw, and just recently watched again, everyone kept their clothes on, you knew the bad guys from the good guys, and you knew what they are fighting for. No one screamed profanity to prove that they were evil. All the villain had to do was breathe sinisterly through a mechanical helmet, and you got it. The heroes were flawed just enough. They had enough quirks and faults to be interesting, but they were not crippled by black psychosis. The black psychosis was saved for the villain. The violence seemed necessary and understandable, and in the end, good triumphed over evil, and the galaxy gets saved.
The audience at these movies is everybody. In these movies, I know that there will be enough action to keep my husband conscious, enough of a moral to inspire my children to loftier ideals, and enough of the hero’s journey to keep me satisfied.
I love these movies most of all.
Linda (Down in Front) Zern
November 17, 2017
SERIOUS THOUGHTS FOR NEXT YEAR!
My New Year's resolutions include 1) trap cats 2) buy dirt 3) bury horse and 4) get salt.
The cats were abandoned when my neighbor moved and neglected to take HIS CATS. They've set up a colony in my bushes, and scare people by rushing their ankles and hissing. I started throwing thanksgiving turkey carcasses at them, which they promptly dragged back to their bush lair. The cats must go.
Dirt is harder to come by than one might think. The borrow pits are closed around here due to the lack of demand for dirt. I bought mine on the black dirt market. Well, kinda.
We own a horse that is older than "dirt," and every day he's still on his feet when I come out to feed is a good day. Unlike goldfish, you cannot flush a dead horse. There's planning involved--also backhoes.
And finally, the salt is my best friend's suggestion. She's pretty sure that the end is near. Well, for the horse, anyway.
Linda (Thinking Ahead) Zern
The cats were abandoned when my neighbor moved and neglected to take HIS CATS. They've set up a colony in my bushes, and scare people by rushing their ankles and hissing. I started throwing thanksgiving turkey carcasses at them, which they promptly dragged back to their bush lair. The cats must go.
Dirt is harder to come by than one might think. The borrow pits are closed around here due to the lack of demand for dirt. I bought mine on the black dirt market. Well, kinda.
We own a horse that is older than "dirt," and every day he's still on his feet when I come out to feed is a good day. Unlike goldfish, you cannot flush a dead horse. There's planning involved--also backhoes.
And finally, the salt is my best friend's suggestion. She's pretty sure that the end is near. Well, for the horse, anyway.
Linda (Thinking Ahead) Zern
November 6, 2017
ANIMAL FARM
George Orwell’s book of the same title is a great book, a satire. Some call it an allegory. It’s not about animals. It’s possible this blog post isn’t about animals either.
The world has gone wild for animals, just check out Facebook. Goats scamper about in pajamas. Gerbils wear hats. Ducks waddle about while wearing bandanas. And cats . . . don’t get me started on cats. Every human emotion known to man can be demonstrated on the faces of the legions of cats that populate social media. I know. I’ve seen them. Happy cats. Sad cats. Mad cats. Grumpy cats. Well, you’ve seen it.
My husband and I live with animals, the kind that lives in coops and barns and pastures and not on Facebook.
Wild animals haunt the wetlands and bogs that border . . . well . . . basically the entire state. The wild animals don’t wear clothes. I include this for informational purposes. Wild animals eat farm animals. It’s a natural fact. And everything eats our chickens, so, into the coop our chickens go, every night, for their own protection, and so we don’t have to bury the bloody, gory remains in the morning. Free range means free to be eaten by eagles, hawks, feral cats, coyotes, bobcats, possums, raccoons, and the neighbor’s dog.
Most of our chickens coop themselves. At night, they wander back into the safety of a roomy, re-enforced, hardware cloth draped impregnable chicken fortress.
Yesterday, one of the hens forgot where she lived. My husband went after her, determined to save her clucking life. She began to squawk, loudly. A rowdy rooster hearing the hen’s distress ran out to take advantage, and when I say, “take advantage” I mean he thought he was going to get lucky. For the Facebook crowd, roosters are equal opportunity sex fiends. One rooster holds a hen down and his buddies, hearing her shriek, come running to take their turn. I am not kidding, and it’s not a video you’re going to see on social media. It’s the wild kingdom . . .
The hen starts squawking. The rooster comes running, jumps on the goofy hen and proceeds to fulfill the measure of his creation. (IM me if you don’t know what this means.) My husband, taking advantage of the distraction, picked up both chickens, now wildly mating their brains out, and carries them to the coop. That rooster never took a breath as he floated through the air in the arms of my poor husband. Lust made that rooster blind, deaf, and dumb.
I fell down, laughing.
And this is how “animals” behave. They eat. They drink. They look for opportunities to be merry. And tomorrow they will do it all over again until the neighbor’s dog gets them.
The world has gone wild for animals, just check out Facebook. Goats scamper about in pajamas. Gerbils wear hats. Ducks waddle about while wearing bandanas. And cats . . . don’t get me started on cats. Every human emotion known to man can be demonstrated on the faces of the legions of cats that populate social media. I know. I’ve seen them. Happy cats. Sad cats. Mad cats. Grumpy cats. Well, you’ve seen it.
My husband and I live with animals, the kind that lives in coops and barns and pastures and not on Facebook.
Wild animals haunt the wetlands and bogs that border . . . well . . . basically the entire state. The wild animals don’t wear clothes. I include this for informational purposes. Wild animals eat farm animals. It’s a natural fact. And everything eats our chickens, so, into the coop our chickens go, every night, for their own protection, and so we don’t have to bury the bloody, gory remains in the morning. Free range means free to be eaten by eagles, hawks, feral cats, coyotes, bobcats, possums, raccoons, and the neighbor’s dog.
Most of our chickens coop themselves. At night, they wander back into the safety of a roomy, re-enforced, hardware cloth draped impregnable chicken fortress.
Yesterday, one of the hens forgot where she lived. My husband went after her, determined to save her clucking life. She began to squawk, loudly. A rowdy rooster hearing the hen’s distress ran out to take advantage, and when I say, “take advantage” I mean he thought he was going to get lucky. For the Facebook crowd, roosters are equal opportunity sex fiends. One rooster holds a hen down and his buddies, hearing her shriek, come running to take their turn. I am not kidding, and it’s not a video you’re going to see on social media. It’s the wild kingdom . . .
The hen starts squawking. The rooster comes running, jumps on the goofy hen and proceeds to fulfill the measure of his creation. (IM me if you don’t know what this means.) My husband, taking advantage of the distraction, picked up both chickens, now wildly mating their brains out, and carries them to the coop. That rooster never took a breath as he floated through the air in the arms of my poor husband. Lust made that rooster blind, deaf, and dumb.
I fell down, laughing.
And this is how “animals” behave. They eat. They drink. They look for opportunities to be merry. And tomorrow they will do it all over again until the neighbor’s dog gets them.
ANIMAL FARM
George Orwell’s book of the same title is a great book, a satire. Some call it an allegory. It’s not about animals. It’s possible this blog post isn’t about animals either.
The world has gone wild for animals, just check out Facebook. Goats scamper about in pajamas. Gerbils wear hats. Ducks waddle about while wearing bandanas. And cats . . . don’t get me started on cats. Every human emotion known to man can be demonstrated on the faces of the legions of cats that populate social media. I know. I’ve seen them. Happy cats. Sad cats. Mad cats. Grumpy cats. Well, you’ve seen it.
My husband and I live with animals, the kind that lives in coops and barns and pastures and not on Facebook.
Wild animals haunt the wetlands and bogs that border . . . well . . . basically the entire state. The wild animals don’t wear clothes. I include this for informational purposes. Wild animals eat farm animals. It’s a natural fact. And everything eats our chickens, so, into the coop our chickens go, every night, for their own protection, and so we don’t have to bury the bloody, gory remains in the morning. Free range means free to be eaten by eagles, hawks, feral cats, coyotes, bobcats, possums, raccoons, and the neighbor’s dog.
Most of our chickens coop themselves. At night, they wander back into the safety of a roomy, re-enforced, hardware cloth draped impregnable chicken fortress.
Yesterday, one of the hens forgot where she lived. My husband went after her, determined to save her clucking life. She began to squawk, loudly. A rowdy rooster hearing the hen’s distress ran out to take advantage, and when I say, “take advantage” I mean he thought he was going to get lucky. For the Facebook crowd, roosters are equal opportunity sex fiends. One rooster holds a hen down and his buddies, hearing her shriek, come running to take their turn. I am not kidding, and it’s not a video you’re going to see on social media. It’s the wild kingdom . . .
The hen starts squawking. The rooster comes running, jumps on the goofy hen and proceeds to fulfill the measure of his creation. (IM me if you don’t know what this means.) My husband, taking advantage of the distraction, picked up both chickens, now wildly mating their brains out, and carries them to the coop. That rooster never took a breath as he floated through the air in the arms of my poor husband. Lust made that rooster blind, deaf, and dumb.
I fell down, laughing.
And this is how “animals” behave. They eat. They drink. They look for opportunities to be merry. And tomorrow they will do it all over again until the neighbor’s dog gets them.
Linda (Hoot) Zern
October 24, 2017
The Missing Conversation
“Okay, let’s go.” My husband of thirty-plus years jangled car keys at me.
Surely the shock on my face could be seen from space.
“What are you talking about? Go where?”
My husband made that face he makes when he thinks that I’m being obtuse or uppity or stubborn. He makes that face a lot.
“Sherwood, I’m in my bathrobe. I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about or where you think that we are going,” I yipped.
I was, in fact, standing in my bathrobe—a fluffy yellow affair that I tied with a worn out purple poke-a-dot bathrobe belt because I had lost the belt to my present fluffy yellow bathrobe affair. I happen to know that I looked like an out of work circus clown.
“We talked about it.” He was insistent.
The furrows between my eyes became trenches.
“We talked about it? In this life? Where my eyes open?” The trenches between my eyes collapsed into earthquake fault lines.
“Sure, you know, that time when we talked about it.”
“Honey, look at my face.”
He looked at my face.
“See this?” I said, pointing at my face. “This is shock. I could not be more shocked. Do you think that if we had talked about this I would look this shocked?”
I pointed to my feet.
“See these?” I wiggled my toes in my No-Nonsense socks from Walmart. “These are socks. I’m in my bathrobe, and I have no idea what you think we talked about. I am not dressed for going anywhere, nor will I be anytime soon.”
For the first time, he seemed unsure of the alleged conversation.
“Well, . . . maybe . . . you forgot.”
I re-tied my purple poke-a-dot belt and tipped my furrowed forehead at him.
“Maybe, and maybe you have conversations in your head that you think I can hear because you’re thinking extra loudly.”
His brow furrowed.The conversation deteriorated from that point, but at least I remember that it occurred in this dimension.
I appreciate that my husband and I have been blissfully wedded for thirty-plus years. I appreciate that he thinks we have reached a state of sync that means we can read each other’s minds. I appreciate ESP. I just wish it were true. Well, maybe next year.
Here’s to conversations that happen in real time and with audible words.
Linda (Read My Lips—Out Loud) Zern
Surely the shock on my face could be seen from space.
“What are you talking about? Go where?”
My husband made that face he makes when he thinks that I’m being obtuse or uppity or stubborn. He makes that face a lot.
“Sherwood, I’m in my bathrobe. I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about or where you think that we are going,” I yipped.
I was, in fact, standing in my bathrobe—a fluffy yellow affair that I tied with a worn out purple poke-a-dot bathrobe belt because I had lost the belt to my present fluffy yellow bathrobe affair. I happen to know that I looked like an out of work circus clown.
“We talked about it.” He was insistent.
The furrows between my eyes became trenches.
“We talked about it? In this life? Where my eyes open?” The trenches between my eyes collapsed into earthquake fault lines.
“Sure, you know, that time when we talked about it.”
“Honey, look at my face.”
He looked at my face.
“See this?” I said, pointing at my face. “This is shock. I could not be more shocked. Do you think that if we had talked about this I would look this shocked?”
I pointed to my feet.
“See these?” I wiggled my toes in my No-Nonsense socks from Walmart. “These are socks. I’m in my bathrobe, and I have no idea what you think we talked about. I am not dressed for going anywhere, nor will I be anytime soon.”
For the first time, he seemed unsure of the alleged conversation.
“Well, . . . maybe . . . you forgot.”
I re-tied my purple poke-a-dot belt and tipped my furrowed forehead at him.
“Maybe, and maybe you have conversations in your head that you think I can hear because you’re thinking extra loudly.”
His brow furrowed.The conversation deteriorated from that point, but at least I remember that it occurred in this dimension.
I appreciate that my husband and I have been blissfully wedded for thirty-plus years. I appreciate that he thinks we have reached a state of sync that means we can read each other’s minds. I appreciate ESP. I just wish it were true. Well, maybe next year.
Here’s to conversations that happen in real time and with audible words.
Linda (Read My Lips—Out Loud) Zern
