2013!

To The New Year!

Holiday Howdy

Well, friends, it's been exactly one year since my last post. I'm still around and hope to be back soon. Life's good!

Sizzle and Pop!

I have been busy buzzing around Wonderland taking care of all the things I've ignored because of blogging. I'll be round to visit you soon.

I hope your weekend is full sizzle and pop!!

FREEEZE...MIAMI VICE!

It's hard to believe that it's been long enough that the 80s are considered nostalgic. How can 30 years just "poof" out of existence? Seems like only a few months ago that we were Flashdancing like maniacs in leg warmers and head bands while singing Betty Davis Eyes.

This is 80s Ronda wearing her patented 'big hair'. This is 80s Ronda being glad she opted for the perm instead of a mullet. What 80s Ronda really wanted was a Pat Benatar haircut, but I think she's glad now that she didn't do that either.

80s Ronda was big into bowling. The paparazzi caught her immediately after she threw this shot. If you look closely at the end of the alley, you'll see there are no pins left on the deck. In this photo, she's trying to explain to Crockett and Tubbs that she did NOT steal that strike. She keggled it fair and square. That's right, keggled as in bowled. Not kegeled, as in pelvic floor exercise. Big difference...now and in the 80s.

You remember Crockett and Tubbs don't you?



Crockett and Tubbs, played by Don Johnson and Philip Michael Thomas, are two Miami vice detectives from the Metro-Dade Police Department who go undercover to stop drug trafficking. It was one of the first television shows in many years to look really different. It is considered by some to be one of the most influential television series of all time. Unlike the standard cop shows, the creators used 1980s New Wave music, culture and visual effects to tell a story. Former lead singer of The Eagles, Don Henley, was often featured on the show. 80s Ronda really liked Don Henley.

For several years, every Friday night, 80s Ronda and her rowdy little band of miscreants met at 9 p.m. to watch the show. 80s Ronda always posted a lookout by the door so she would never have to hear:

"FREEZE...MIAMI VICE!".

Since she lived in California, that would have been badder than bad.

If you have 80's memories you'd like to share, post 'em up. Thanks, Kat for getting this retro blog theme going.

For the Love of Heaven and Earth

Skimming out of sight with the fading, fractional moon, my favorite day of the year, Summer Solstice, is gone. Done. Over. Fini.

I awoke, sitting straight up in bed, at 4:25 a.m. yesterday. A few minutes later, I felt the tumblers clunk into place as the planets aligned for solstice at 4:28. As always, I surfed the energy of the cosmos. I welcomed the additional boost, that galactic kick in the pants that comes from the shifting of time, into my work day.

The ancient Druids' celebrated solstice as the wedding of Heaven and Earth. What a hot, passionate union this couple ignite.

Happy summer, my friends! It's official now.

Daddy Sent My T-Bird Away!

Here she is, our white, pearlescent bird. She wasn't always so lovely, oh, no. We adopted our '62 T-Bird in 1989. She was wearing old, weathered red paint and we parked her, unceremoniously, on the back lot. For a long time we just ignored her. Ever so often we would stop and gaze at her sleek lines, assuring her that her time of renewal would surely come.


Nearly a dozen years later, the Wonder Husband towed her into the shop and started working on her. Completely dismantling her interior and exterior. He sanded her three f***ing layers of old paint down to fresh metal...his words not mine. He would know. The hundreds of hours he gave to that woman should make me jealous but they didn't.

He gave her new life for me. He gave her new life because that is what he does. A career? A passion? An obsession? At times, the lines blur. He chose her paint and fabric colors carefully with me in mind. Thinking about how I would look driving her. Thinking about what colors looked good on both of us. He made her sturdy enough for any man and stylish enough for any woman.

She was difficult, leaning toward temperamental at times but he never, ever quit on her. Like he never, ever quit on me.

She and I became fast friends. We had lots of adventures and cried together when she had a breakdown. Such is the way with vintage ladies. For four years, we tooled around town looking cool and claiming lots of admirers. And then a couple from Seattle said they wanted her. They wanted to give her a new home in a cooler climate. They wanted to drive her beautiful body cross-country to their 50th anniversary celebration. It was hard letting her go but they can give her the kind of life we can't. We have more cars, that are in the same sad shape she was when we got her, that need tender attention.

We said our goodbyes and watched her tail lights as they rolled off into the sunset.

Fly, little birdie, fly away to your new home.

Massage Marathon

Yesterday was another one of those really, really long days. Doing 12 to 14 hours of massage is definitely a marathon. Ask any therapist. During fall and winter, I pull those on a regular basis and get in the zone. But as spring and summer come, the warm weather invites outside activities. My clients are swimming, hiking, boating, vacationing, and taking care of kids so I get a little softer schedule. Then SLAM***ZAP***POW, out of no where, I get my gluteus maximus kicked.



The Force is strong right now with the Solstice wheeling into view. Over time, I've learned to manage my energy better, to not let it buck me off my path and slam me into the ground. I've learned to stay in the now and not moan and groan and fret about all the kinked up bodies that are lined up waiting to lay on my table and receive the undivided attention of my kneading hands.



People can feel it when we therapists are not centered. Even if they can't put their finger on why, they don't like it at all. It makes them feel unsettled. For me, meditation has come to be in every breath, ever second, and every heartbeat. Yesterday I uncapped a bottle of Lavender essential oil, took a big snort and let the the good vibes flow.



Yee Haw!

Stinky Stats

The following is excerpted from an e-mail that is currently making the rounds:

Are you aware that the Saudis are boycotting American products? In addition, they are gouging us on oil prices. An appealing remedy might be to boycott their GAS. Every time you fill up your car you can avoid putting more money into the coffers of Saudi Arabia. Just purchase gas from companies that don't import their oil from the Saudis.

The following gas companies import Middle Eastern oil:

Shell..................................... 205,742,000 barrels
Chevron/Texaco....................... 144,332,000 barrels
Exxon /Mobil.......................... 130,082,000 barrels
Marathon/Speedway.................. 117,740,000 barrels
Amoco................................... 62,231,000 barrels

Here are some large companies that do not import Middle Eastern oil:

Sunoco............................0 barrels
Conoco............................0 barrels
0ASinclair........................0 barrels
BP / Phillips......................0 barrels
Hess..............................0 barrels
ARC0.............................0 barrels
Maverick.........................0 barrels
Flying J..........................0 barrels
Valero............................0 barrels
Murphy Oil USA*................0 barrels
*Sold at Wal-Mart


My sister, Bichy Mama (BM), smelled some stinky gas statistics in this e-mail. Being sleuthy, like her big sister, she had a clandestine meeting with Deep Throated Rock Star (DTRS) to get the real poop on this story. DTRS has long been a mole in the gas biz. He definitely knows the difference between his gas and a hole in the ground.

"Bichy Mama:

This information is about 25% accurate. Valero is the only 100% American company using the most domestic crude oil, but they buy crude on the open market from all sources. Exxon/Mobil is number 8 on the list of companies that own crude oil. Numbers 1-7 are not companies at all they are countries like Saudi Arabia, Venezuela, Russia etc... Wal-mart buys from all sources which, undoubtedly, includes imported oil."

My friends, be careful about getting too caught up in these viral letters written to stir up the pot. I would have re-printed the entire letter but it was quite long. It was written to evoke fear, anger and was also very pro Wal-Mart. This one belongs in the toilet, and I'm going to give it three flushes.

Thanks sleuthy BM and rockin' DTRS. You've done your part to make this world a saner place. Your secret decoder rings are in the mail.

Bad Boyz

Photo: Google Images

In the cool of the evening
When everything is getting kind of groovy
I open the door
And ask you if you'd like to go with me and do some weeding
First you say no, you've got some plans for the night
And then you stop and say all right

Then the world gets kinda crazy when a big ol' cop has his gun out.

He keeps us guessing
We never seem to know what he's a-thinking
A bad guy's hidin' from him
And for sure his flack jacket buddies are helpin'
I get confused cause I don't know where I stand
But then you smile, and say "get back"

The world gets kinda crazy when a big ol' cop has his gun out

Someday cops and robbers will stop this game they're a-playing
Til then, leave the weedin' to when the copter's done straifing
Just like a ghost, that bad boy's haunting our street
And hopefully, he'll soon get beat

The world gets kinda crazy when your quiet 'hood's over run by a gansta
Friday night's kinda crazy when you're caught off guard by a crime war

*Just a little unexpected Friday night excitement in our quiet, little neighborhood. Just a couple hundred yards out my front door across the field a cop with pistol out, two flack jacketed buddies, a helicopter and narc car were scouring for the culprit. Willow would say, it's that Ol' Devil Moon kickin' up his heels.

News From the Weird

Awards and memes, Blogtopia is rife with them both. I must admit I'm not much good at complying with their rules. Shame on me, but most of my aversion stems from the fact that rules call for including a few people while excluding many.

I'm a laid back kinda gal and feel more comfortable spinning parts of me out into cyberworld little by little rather than in big eBlasts. If you read my blog, you'll get to know me as I shed my skin, layer by layer, over time. But, as I read TechnoBabe's post the other day, she made the point that this is how we get to know each other in Blogtopia. Since she's honored me a couple of times on her righteous, little, hippie blog, I wanted her to know that I noticed and appreciated her kindness.

One award she gave me was the Blue Award. Blue reminds me of water, calmness and tranquility. It also reminds me of the throat chakra which is associated with the color blue, communication and speaking one's truth. And thus, is the perfect time to peel off another layer of my eclectic, esoteric self.

My work history is eclectic. I've been a fry cook in burger joints, a secretary, seamstress, upholsterer of both furniture and automotive, bartender, bowling center manager, semi-professional bowler, school cafeteria cook, medical back office manager, massage therapist, light worker, energy worker and ascension seeker.

I am also esoteric by nature. I've studied and worked with hypnosis since I was 12 years old. I have a transcript of every session I've ever done except a couple. And of course, they were the ones that most blew my mind. Past life regression and soul retreival are passionate interests of mine. Occasionally, a psychologist friend of mine calls me into her office to help her move a patient beyone a point where they've become stuck in their progress.

I am probably the most normal "different" person you will ever meet. Different is what people say when they try to sugar coat us oddballs. I used to try to hide it, but no more. Now, I embrace my lust for the unusual. As the card my neice gave me last year for my birthday read: Another year older, another year weirder. Who knew they had a card for such things?

I've given up worrying what others think of my esoteric practices. Hey, if I can figure out how to teleport myself from California to New York, as far as I'm concerned, so much the better. And when I do, I'll let you all ride along. Until then go check out TechnoBabe's groovy blog.

Scotty, beam me up. Wait...let me try doing it myself first!

The Beautiful Damsel and the Paralyzed Man

Barbie and Ken got married on Saturday night. It wasn't hard to tell they meant everything to each other. She, a beautiful damsel. He, a paralyzed man. Not completely paralyzed. He'd done a lot of physical therapy and, now, it was mainly just his right side and, in particular, his leg.

He'd suffered a stroke following a chiropractic neck adjustment. Three times, he died on the chiropractor's table, finally being revived and hospitalized. A very small percentage of the time, a manipulation can split the inside walls of the vertebral arteries, causing the walls to balloon and block the blood supply to the lower part of the brain resulting in a basilar vertebral stroke.

But, this story isn't a treatise against chiropractic. Quite the contrary. Although I worked in the field and knew that a stroke was a possibiltiy, in over 12 years I never saw or heard of one case. I have two nephews and two neices who are chiros. In our family, we know, firsthand, how the techniques can aid healing. Besides that, even a simple thing like extending your neck back over the basin for hair washing at the beauty salon has been known to cause a stroke.

Rather, it is more about the good and bad that happens in life. The unexpected. Ken's neck adjustment was performed by his friend who was trying to do him a favor and make him feel better. His friend was a healer; this was the last thing he wanted to happen. In an instant, both of their lives were changed forever. Ken has yet to forgive his friend.

But because of his fateful injury, he met Barbie, a physician's assistant. The time came for their first dance as man and wife. With white satin, pearls and tule crushed against a black wedding tux, they swayed, not moving one inch on the floor, to a love song. It was the most beautiful dance I'd ever seen.

Do you Believe in Miracles?

Do you believe in miracles? I don't just mean wanting or praying for something to happen, but really believing you have the power to effect change. More precisely, that the Divine can work through you to create miracles like we read about in the Bible. Stories where Jesus walked on water, healed the sick, and raised the dead. Stories about Moses parting the Red Sea and Elijah calling down fire from Heaven on Mt. Carmel.

We don't see those kinds of miracles now days. Why? Can they truly not occur or have we simply forgotten how to manifest our Creator's instructions. Usually, I find myself in the category of "hoping" a thing will change rather than "knowing without a shadow of a doubt" that I am an instrument of the Divine. But in a meditation the other night, that all changed. I had an epiphany. The veil dropped and I remembered what it felt like, 100%, to wield the sword for the Master.

The science of Quantum Physics supports the idea of miracles happening. In Quantum Physics, material is supported by subatomic particles, one of which is the quanta. Meaning, or intent, changes the function of that particle. The mind can literally overrule matter. And Bell's Theorem proves non-local communication at a distance between atoms, which makes psychic channeling scientifically possible. If subatomic particles can change function, and non-local communication is possible, then it's possible for intent, or prayer, to change subatomic particles non-locally at a distance. Which means that atoms, molecules and cells, that are composed of subatomic particles, can change.

Miracles aren't only possible, they're probable. Just as today's scientific miracles of computers, microwave ovens, televisions, and gaming platforms are possible because of Quantum Physics, so are walking on water, raising the dead, healing the sick, calling down fire and parting the Red Sea. I'm trying like crazy to not let that epiphany fade back into darkness.

Soldier Boy

Dear Soldier Boy:

Thanks for coming to get a massage from me while you were here on leave from Iraq. It was so cool you you could be home on Memorial Day weekend and your mother's birthday.

I know we didn't talk much, a little casual conversation as we began, and then you got relaxed and quiet. But really, you didn't need to tell me your story, it was stored in your body and communicated without words.

No, son, put your wallet away. Your money is no good here today. Here's the deal...you take care of my body and I'll take care of yours.

Wishing you safe passage, with all my heart, until you return,

your massage therapist

The Times, They are a Changin'!

The times, they are a changin'. Yes, indeed! This morning, the sun broke through like it had been held captive by the clouds for a hundred years. Unleashing a perfect spring day. The open-all-your-windows-and-let-the-breeze-clean-house kind of day.

Thursday, for the first time since 1927, astrologically speaking, Uranus moved into Aries bringing with it a huge shift. Have you noticed anything different in your life in the last few days? I did. The last couple of months, to me, the energy has been syrupy and gummy. Sticky. Stagnate. Eerily like the calm before the storm. Not moving to the normal rhythms. And then...POW...BANG! A big switcheroo. This is a time of good fortune, unexpected events and huge energetic shifts.

Yesterday, I was slammed with massages, working from 8 a.m. to 9:30 p.m. It was a long day but a good day and definitely a practice of being in the "NOW." I woke up feeling a bit worn but not too bad for all the wear. Then AWESOMENESS started lining up.

My sister sent me a heart warming e-mail with pictures of my great nephew. I love my sister.

I also had mail from blog pals Reya and Christina.

Next, Ellen, my Pilate's instructor and friend, called me in early for my session. Once upon a time, she lived in New York, danced with the New York City Ballet and has been known to pirouette with Baryshnikov. She worked me hard and got all my kinks out. As we were finishing, her sister, Maggie, came in to teach the Zumba class. She shared with us two dozen of the 20 dozen golden yellow roses a new suitor had given her. And exactly when she started passing them out, the song Send me an Angel started playing.

On the way home, I stopped by the park, which was popping with activity of walkers, runners, cyclists and Segwayers, to take some pictures of the river. The Sacramento River snakes through town and is so pervasive that I often take her for granted. But not today. As fate would have it, the first picture I was guided to take was of a couple letting their dogs cool their feet and get a drink at the edge of the water. Then, BAM, they turned toward me and they were friends I have known most of my life!



I'd received all this goodness and it wasn't even 11:00 yet. There's going to be lots more to come, I just know it! Old patterns are falling away and breaking down. Heck, when I got home, I even decided to vacuum in the reverse direction I usually follow through the house. Why not, eh?

Off to buy Margaritas, salsa and chips. There'll be no hot chocolate this weekend. The forecast is for sunny and warm. Bring it on, Uranus! Oh, yeah. OH, YEAH!

Bipolar Holiday Weekend

Gosh, it's cold today! 54 degrees and raining with thunderstorms and hail expected this afternoon. A-n-d it's snowing around 4500 feet. I took pity on the dogs, wet from head to toe and making little, pitiful crying noises at the laundry porch door. The girls are 10 years old so I cave in a lot faster these days. Laid down a towel to catch their muddy paws and wiped them so they could come inside. Contentedly sleeping, right beside me, on their pillows, they are. Serenading me with light snoring. Wet dog smell rising as they dry. Maaco the Houdini Dog went to work with the Wonder Husband because I had to be gone for a bit and thunderstorms unstick his glue.

Some kick off to Memorial Day weekend, huh? It's usually hotter than a Chipotle chili by now. I think this is the first May on record that we've not had any 90 degree days. But the deluded beings who call themselves weather forecasters, say that within 48 hours, this bipolar weather pattern is going to turn itself around. We're going from the 50s today to the 80s or higher by Saturday.

So if you want to head up to our gorgeous north state, Lake Shasta is full and boat ready. I also heard, on last night's news, that there's going to be snow skiing at some of the resorts through Memorial Day. I didn't catch where though. Theoretically, there could be water skiing and snow skiing going on at the same time. That's what I call EXTREME skiing.

I'm an "on the fly" kinda girl. In a heartbeat, I can switch from hot chocolate and marshmallows to Margaritas with salsa and chips. And it looks like this weekend, I may get a bit of both.

Fight or Flight

In my last post, I wrote about my experience with Canine Separation Anxiety. It is believed that when a dog perceives a threat, a part of the brain, the hypothalamus, signals the increase of hormones that prepare the dog for flight or fight. This is a good thing when there is a real threat, but most dogs living in domesticity today, rarely face dangers of life threatening proportions.

In fact, for dogs like Maaco with chronic anxiety, the anxiety itself is life threatening in several ways. It can cause problems like depression. The constant production of hormones can weaken the immune system and lead to heart disease. And the reason most dogs are surrendered to shelters, and eventually euthanized, is anxiety. I understand this, I really do. It's hard to live with the constant whining, pacing, incessant barking and destructive behavior.

The same thing that would have made them successful at surviving harsh environments a century or two ago, is the same thing that is killing them now. The same thing that is making them sick. As a society, we've changed how we live. The stressors are different now. Canines no longer, for the most part, have to provide for their own food and protection. They don't have to fight for their place in the pack. A dog who could have survived adverse conditions is now put down because it is no longer a desirable trait.

It's sad really. We've changed the rules. It's the passing of an age. These dogs are being bred out of existence as much as possible. I understand how and why they no longer fit. Maaco has been neutered. The world no longer needs creatures like him.

And what about humans who have the same type of anxiety and depression? Could the problem be as simple (and as difficult) as they are simply wired with a different set of fight or flight calibrations than the majority of us? We put these people on medications and behavioral regimes. We make them feel different and isolated. They may well have been the heroes and heroines; champions and warriors; kings and queens at another time in history.

Gaia, Mother Earth is always changing. It's not out of the realm of possibilites that the day may come again when those traits are needed and desired.

Pet Meds

Pets are great!

So are pet meds.

Oh, I don't take them. Well...the Wonder Husband took horse tranquilizers once but that's another story. When you live with a dog that has Canine Separation Anxiety, pet meds are a must. Until 8 years ago, this disorder was one I with which I wasn't familiar. Now I live with it on a daily basis. If you've read or seen the story of Marley & Me, a memoir of family and their dog, there is an account of Marley shredding the upholstery off a sofa all the way down to the wooden frame.

Believe me, it can happen. My dog Maaco hasn't gone that far but he has ripped up blinds,



chewed through molding, bottoms of doors,



and devoured lampshades. He's put teeth holes in door knobs and flattened the sides so he can open them with his mouth.



He's torn boards off of the fence. We've put three different kinds of latches on the gate because two are not enough. He can figure out most of them.

He can't be alone for more than an hour or two before becoming panicked and anxious. If he's inside he is frantic to get out. If he's outside, he's tearing screens off to get inside the house. Or trying to stuff his 10 inch wide body under a three inch gap under the furniture. And, lord almighty, if there is thunder, lightening, high winds or fire works, he'd better not be alone or I'll find this when I get home.



And I'll find a dog that is round-eyed-wild, quivering, whining and salivating. I tried crating him when I left, but no matter how I secured the crate, he'd always find a way to escape. For a while, he was called Houdini Dog. Finally, I set the video camera up to find out what was happening. It is one of the most heart wrenching videos you'll ever see. He shrieked, in half-human tones, and bent the wires of the crate until his gums and mouth bled, for over an hour until the tape ran out. I was gone three.

I've worked with a canine behaviorist and the vet to give this dog as good of life as possible. She's helped me work on retraining and desensitizing him. It is a slow process with lots of backward steps. The very kindly vet is understanding and has helped with a medication regime.

Maaco's not currently on meds but in the past, we've used Clomicalm, an anti-depressant medication; and Acepromazine, a tranquilizer. I'm not one to drug animals, but there are instances where it is necessary. The vet only wants me to use enough to take the edge off but not sedate him. I have to admit, sometimes it would be nice to knock him out when I leave so neither of us have to worry about how long I'm gone or what I'll find when I get home.

Maaco is the smartest dog and the worst dog--all rolled into one--that I've ever owned. In fact, smart dogs are often prone to the disorder. He is not easy. The behaviorist said that even a dedicated dog owner would have surrendered him long ago. It may happen yet. Since he's nearly 8, I'm hoping to keep him safe and wear him down into old age so he can leave this world and me, finally, in peace.

I know people who've gone to the vets and lied to get pet meds so they can take them themselves. My case is just the opposite. I've thought about telling my doctor I can't sleep so he'll give me sleeping pills I can give to my dog. There are times a passed out doggy is a happy doggy. And happy is what life is all about.

Marriage Vows

The Wonder Husband and I just celebrated our 34th anniversary. To pay homage to our marriage vows, we drove up to Shasta Lake which is just a few miles from our home.


We've had so much rain this year that the lake's 365 miles of shoreline is completely accessible. The steep, sloping hillsides, flush and green, send up eau de pine and manzanita.


The Tail O' the Whale Restaurant, at the Bridge Bay Resort, offered us its sumptuous lakeside view as well as tasty cuisine.


We headed upstairs to the Pelican's Perch. Sitting outside on the deck, we had boat drinks, hand holding and sweet, sweet kisses in the light of the setting sun.


Today, I'm contemplating how lucky I am to have made marriage vows with a man like the Wonder Husband instead of one like King Henry VIII. Taking vows with the wrong person can be a sharp and cutting experience. I like my head where its, right on top of my shoulders, thank you very much.

Mystery at Bear Mountain

 

I’d worked late last night…into the wee hours of this morning. Rolling over in hopes of catching a few more zzz’s, I pulled my pillow, tight, over my head to escape the husband’s morning routine. Television blaring the morning news. Shower, all too merrily, spraying away sleeps lingering shadow. Coffee maker rumbling to a finish. Dogs bouncing around, slapping tails on the floor and whining to go out.

“Hey, honey! Isn’t that Babette’s real name?,” he shouts over the blow dryer.

“What the hell is he rambling on about?,” I think. Lifting my bed head out of hiding, I hear the newscaster continue:

“Early this morning, the body of Elizabeth Leann Evans, 54, of Redding was found by firefighters inside the wreckage of her burning double wide mobile.”

“For crissake, it is her!” I growl back as my stomach tightens with fear and anxiety. She’d been my best friend through high school. We’d been tighter than pegged jeans at one point in our lives but had slowly drifted apart. She’d headed down a haphazard and random path. And I? Well…let’s just say mine was orderly and calculated.

Our friends always seemed to think of us as the polar opposites of each other. The good and the bad. The light and the dark. The beautiful and the cute. The skinny and the fat. The sure thing and the not a chance in hell. Despite our differences, we were fast friends.

Babette had a thing for drugs. Hell, for a long time, we both did. After all, it was the 60s. Nearly everyone was trying everything they could get their hands on. In my case, it was always about having fun, experimentation and the thrill of getting away with anything I tried. In Babette’s case, obsession, compulsion, fascination and a deep, undying love of getting high motivated her every move.

Drugs shaped her entire existence. She followed the stem and seed laden trail of excess from pre-pubescent sex to alcohol to pot to psychedelics to snorting coke to freebasing to meth and beyond. Babette slung dope and rolled lids into joints for spending money. She gained notoriety as the best female grower in the area.

She went into nursing to be close to the drugs. It was no mistake that she was the best in her class at giving injections. She and the needle had become friends long ago. Not so much for herself, but she was good at hitting veins so her friends always asked her to tie them off and fire them up.

Over the years, she got thinner and thinner. She always had some lame excuse when asked about it. She was too poor to buy food. She was so busy and working hard at her new job. She was selling these fantastic new vitamins that just melted the fat away. And did I want to buy some because I could stand to shed 20 or 30 pounds. Why do people with addictions always think everyone falls for their transparent excuses?

Eventually, she became the lover of one largest pot growers in the area. Chief belonged to one of the Indian tribes that grew in the canyons between here and Humboldt. He was a good and handsome man and I truly believe that he loved Babette. But in the end, she went deeper into the murky forest of dealing than he wanted to go. And that is saying a lot.

After they split up, she kept company with some really scary and unsavory people. The few times I tried to visit her at her home, I was met by armed men and had to have her, personally, come to the gate to grant me access to her property.

A string of arrests followed. Babette pleaded no contest, in November 1996, to transportation or selling of a controlled substance. She also pleaded no contest, in February 1997, to possession of a controlled substance and illegal possession of ammunition. Deputies were called to her home, at Bear Mountain, numerous times on drug related issues. Her neighbors kept reporting her for running a meth lab and drug operations.

But, as of this morning, all that was left of  Babette for the corner to identify her charred body by, was her fingertips. 

Snapping out of my reminisce, I hear the newscaster continuing:

“A fast moving blaze gutted Ms. Evans mobile home, parts of an outbuilding, seared branches on overhanging trees and blackened two pickups parked in the driveway.

The investigators won’t say how she was murdered, but they say it’s obvious she died prior to the fire. About 35 crime scene investigators spent the morning sifting through the ashes and searching for evidence at the rural home, the surrounding 60 acres of property and the nearby road.

Furthermore, they say her case is eerily similar to two other cases in the area where people were murdered and then burned in their homes. But they don't believe there's a serial murderer -- one with a penchant for burning bodies -- on the loose.”

 

SUCKERS! I think to myself as I hop out of bed and head to the bathroom to tend my  burned and blistered fingers.

Dog-net

On Sunday, I was out working in the yard on one of those half and half days. Partly rainy and partly dry. Partly clear and partly cloudy. Cool, pushy breeze tempered by a warm blush of sun. The air, scrubbed clean by a morning shower, was infused, by mid-day, with a warm, rose sachet. The adulation of last night's thunderstorm, a distant, clapping memory.

Tweety birds trilled. Lady Bugs flew. My fluffy, furry trio of dogs, muddy and happy, romped. One buried her snout in the tiny, lavender, lantern-shaped flowers of the newly emerging Comfrey plant. Then engaged, eye to eye, in a Humming bird stare down. The oldest one taught the youngest to flip rocks over with his nose, flushing out sun bathing lizards.

Shadows and scents...chased on the ground.

Ears pricked and cocked and rotating...collected sounds I could not hear. Noses, wet and working, raised in the air, collected smells I could not detect. Eyes, bright and fixed, scanned images I could not see. Picking up bits of code from the ethers I could not imagine.

Shadows and scents...caught out of the air.

Long before the Internet, there was Dog-Net.

I am completely in awe of the animal kingdom.