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 Coming in November to Eternal Press Shoulder Vultures, you know them. They ride up there in direct competition with chips, tiny angels, little devils and parrots.
My personal vulture sneaks in with the delete and backspace keys on my lap-top. I remember the olden days, when color was grainy, hair was big and deleting things involved bits of torn off carbon paper and a sharp edge.
When mine has full run of the creative process, she congers up huge shadows of self-doubt. My shoulder vulture is what many writers refer to as writer’s block.
I only send her off during November when I participate in the National Novel Writing Month and I know she is fed, watered and set to work correcting spelling errors in various term papers. Nevertheless, when I pick her up after Thanksgiving, I find her withdrawn and pouting.
I am actually very attached to my vulture. She keeps me on topic, she catches plot holes and reminds me that just because I got it down on a page, isn’t enough to make it worthy of reading. Without her, my life would be one, very long, unfiltered, run-on sentence, and you would have to read it!
For the past few days, I’ve let my shoulder vulture pick and tear at my words, ideas and my faith in my ability to write and edit a story worthy of you.
Today, she flapped her wings and asked if she could go off for a day to visit another writer she knew who needed some counsel. I am not alone with my delete key. A younger and rather distracted vulture in training is visiting. She weighs a little less and seems distracted by the slightest activity.
Will the writer who has my well trained and somewhat naggy shoulder vulture keep her supplied with typos and mixed metaphors?
 No Tagging up There... We live on the east edge of town. We have an abandoned house to the west, abandoned mobile homes to our north, across the street to the south is an old livestock yard. To the east a mill house and granary are also abandoned.
I took a break from email, editing and laundry this afternoon. My darling husband suggested a walk over to the mill house property. Being a slow walker, I climbed into my t-bird and drove over to meet them.
The lower reaches of the grain towers and the metal out buildings are a practice canvas for young people with spray cans. Some local people have taken to dropping off 80s and 90s style couches. It also appears to be a requirement to smash bottles after they are empty.
We were poking about, stirring up the wild life and taking pictures. I appraised various tags and Jeepers, our grandson set about housekeeping.
 Shaman and the Tags He was putting a cushion on an eighties type couch. I looked just over his shoulder in time to see a police man with his shiny parts.
The officer told us the obvious things, people are vandalizing the area, others are dumping furniture and we shouldn’t go inside any of the silos or buildings.
He said he stopped by because he saw my car parked there.
I told him what he already knew because he no doubt ran my tag. We came over from right across the way and if anything we were making improvements because our grandson was putting the couches back together.
 So, should we put the TV over there? The officer didn’t seem to see the humor I tried to bring to the situation. But, he left us there.
We took more pictures. I wonder where the police were when the tags were going up. I am impressed by how quickly he arrived on the scene of our little family outing. I am sure my husband will let me know if we made the police reports.
 No grain in here, no tags either.. So, what do you do on a hot summer day?
I made it to the gym probably three days in a row. Maybe, four.
A few years ago, the shopping center did a parking lot makeover, a design for less accessibility. The property management company does not maintain the lot. I have come to accept the situation and even have a favorite place to park.
Today, a van was parked in my preferred space, so I took the one next to it. A woman using O2 was sitting in the passenger seat, chatting through the window with another woman in a summer house-dress. I remember my second mom wearing house-dresses and thought they were out of style.
I got unbuckled my seat-belt, I always wear one since meeting a fellow who was paralyzed in a car accident that he swore he could have controlled if he had not been tossed out of his seat at the initial impact. I folded my sunglasses and finger brushed my hair. After tying my gas lever to the steering wheel and covering the black part with a towel, I noticed the women were still engaged in conversation.
I used the hand sanitizer, a left over habit from the H1N1 and opened the passenger door. I got out, got Havan, Service Dog Delux from CCI, and closed the car door.
The two ladies were still chatting. Nothing wrong with a little parking lot chat. The passenger was obviously more physically challenged than I am. She was probably going to use the beauty salon or the bookstore, soon.
Havan performed her favorite command, a long down-stay, while I used the treadmill. I do not limp when I am hanging onto the treadmill so I can walk further, with less pain.
The workout was over, we left the gym and started back toward the car. I approached the van with the lady still inside, still talking but the conversation was directed at a person in the driver’s seat. This woman had by now, been in the van on a Montana summer day for a considerable amount of time. She should have passed out from sweltering.
This woman was entitled to the prized parking spot. I have no doubt about this. However, there should be some sort of code of conduct, good manners, or even a rule or two about occupying a handicap parking space if you are not using a store.
Well thank you all for wading through my complaint, some day I will tell you about the construction worker who used a space and when I explained how he could get a permit, I was commanded to perform an oral sex act. Gosh, try to be nice about it.
Keep coming back, I’ve been reading out of town newspapers and feel another commentary coming on, soon!
 Fawns It is the first weekend in August, already. I have tan lines on my feet that won’t fade till late winter. The flowers in the clay pot are looking a bit done but the petunias are enjoying the cooler nights.
This morning I settled down in front of my lap-top to gather links from various Authors’ reviews. I’ve set up my ‘office area’ in front of the north windows and the view is as good as it gets.
I see rabbits, birds, voles, owls and a lot of deer. I keep a camera near to capture these creatures. Today, I gathered up two fawns. I did get the links up on the Eternal Press Website and I even sent out a press release.
Earlier in the week, our cat, Emma, who has a starring role in my novel coming out in November, was in a front yard brawl with some unknown and unphotographed thug from the animal kingdom. She evaded us for the better part of a day and lost an upper canine tooth. Emma seems better and wants to go outside to try her luck again. I’d like to give her a weapon, first.
The Oil Spill seems to be wrapping up. I hope BP can start making some money on it, now. They are going to need it. My granddaughter was listening to the news the other day and said, “Granny, I know what BP means. Oil Spill.” She also knows what to do in the event of a school shooting. Sigh. “Lockdown, Granny, you get away from the windows and stay really quiet.”
We opened the trunk of my car and discovered a mouse invasion, where was Emma when they were moving in? We scattered them with some mystery ‘bait.’ I should have added mice to the list of things in our yard. The bear seems to stay out on the road closer to the creeks. We haven’t had any stray horses in the yard for a long time. Did you know there is no one who takes care of lost horses?
I really don’t have much to say, I will try to have a more exciting week or at least pick a topic worthy of comment. Till next time, enjoy another picture of deer in my yard.
Welcome my Guest Justyn Field from Summit Independent Living Center, Inc. This article first appeared in the Summit Newsletter and the kind folks at Summit gave me permission to re-print it here.
There live a people who will never feel the sacrifices their forefathers made to fight for their freedom. They will never truly understand that only a short time ago their people were not citizens in the land of the free—they could be shipped off to an institution against their will, be arrested for going out in public or be barred from even applying for work.
These people will know, though, that it is their right as Americans to exist—to be a part of the fabric of American society.
They will demand employment, because the promise of America lies in the opportunity to improve life through hard work and dedication.
They will expect the right to use the buses, planes and trains that their money goes to support. And roads. And sidewalks.
They will shop in stores, sleep in hotels, play in parks, compete in sports and view the events in their hometowns.
They will communicate freely with other Americans, even with those whose voice they cannot hear and those who cannot hear their voice.
They will do these things because a document, a guarantee signed by the representatives of the people of America, promised them freedom. This paper, this sheath of independence, was signed, not on July 4, 1776; but on July 26, 1990. These people are the first generation to be protected by the Americans with Disabilities Act.
But in their lives, these people will not find everyone is a willing supporter of their right to co-exist.
There will be those in opposition. Those who point out that people with disabilities have not found their place in the job market despite the promises of the ADA, even as they bar them from homes and businesses. There will be others, still, who gather up the precious resources of our country and use them to build structures or develop programs for the many in a way that shuts out the few. These people do not believe that disability is a part of life, but an affliction cast on those more unfortunate than themselves. These people will be untouched by arguments that people with disabilities have families to support, to entertain, to travel with. Families that will not use their services if made inaccessible. They will exclude, not with hatred, but with naivety, with their belief that they are choosing not to follow an unjust law.
The people of the ADA generation will have to be strong. They must realize that the ADA is not a floodwater that carried barriers away, but simply a bucket that must be constantly refilled to wash away the relics of injustice, prejudice, apathy and intolerance. A bucket filled with their own belief that as citizens of America they must not only bear the burden of the country’s demands, but must be allowed to reap the benefits of this great nation.
In Montana, we are preparing to celebrate the 20th anniversary of the passage of the ADA. We see the ADA as a paper, made not just of words and legal obligations, but as a symbol of the coming together of a great people. As a house becomes a home through the toil of those it shelters, so too has the ADA become something more than a law. It embodies the ideas, the vision of those who fashioned it.
And although it has done much, we must envision a future where it can do so much more. We will not cease to fashion a world in which we are true citizens, where our voices are the catalyst in our lives, where we shape our own destinies—where we are as free as our families and neighbors to choose our own paths.
Because the ADA is not a cheap gimmick to tug at heartstrings, but a cloak of independence as real as those of us who grew up wearing it. We stride into the world as adults demanding our freedom — our right to be citizens brave enough to continue the legacy of those who came before us.
- Justyn Field
Public Relations
and
Member of Youth Opening Doors through Advocacy
Summit Independent Living Center, Inc.
In Montana, we have two seasons, Winter and July. I know I’ve complained about this before. I am at my lap-top with a fan blowing on me at regular intervals, a smaller green fan clamped to the table that blows across the keyboard and a third fan beneath my computer.
 Big Mushroom I have a flowerbed and a few potted plants that seem to be very happy. The squirrel thermometer that guest stars on my blog post during the winter has sweltered under days reaching into the 90s. We are still figuring out how to go about home repairs after the record setting hailstorm.
 Summertime Flower Yesterday morning, I was at my lap-top and was startled by a young buck who had nudged right up to the window to see what I was doing. I knocked on the floor.
We have a special code that brings whoever hears it, up the steps and into my presence. This is a power that I enjoy. My Darling Husband came up obediently. Gotta Love Him.
I shushed him and motioned toward the two bucks in the yard. He took the camera and began snapping photos from the front door. Then as he handed it back, the fellow at the plum bush turned. Then boldly saddled up to the window and eyed me again. Yes, I got his mug-shot. If you see this juvenile in your yard, beware, the fellow is bold.
 Mug Shot What are they up to? I imagine they are suggesting a scene in one of my novels or short stories. Maybe, one of my characters will come face-to-face with a very aggressive buck.
Till next time, be well, comment if you wish and keep coming back.
I’m back, I’m back.
Recently, I have made changes to my website and through misunderstandings between me, the code and tech people, I have seriously wounded my site.
Great news, I am now very intimately familiar with something called a “404 Error.” I also know the feeling of being FORBIDDEN. Sigh. I have learned another, what not to do in my directory index files.
These experiences have left me wondering if I am too attached to the internet. Just a few hours of local broadband or router failure is enough to send me right into withdrawal. I get out my Smartphone and start emailing people who probably would have never missed my web absence. I am forgetting the feel of paperback books in hand. I cannot imagine a Sunday evening without dropping by the Writer’s Chatroom.
Yes, I’ve got it bad. It would be a nightmare if Dr. Phil sent a crew out to unplug me. Oh, the horror. I read Stephen King’s short about an experimental application on Kindle and still am not spooked enough to put the electronics aside.
I have memory chips from the hearts of the last two desktop computers that failed of heat and old age issues. I have a fax/scanner/copier/printer with a cheap HP printer on top of it. I have dead cell phones, several dinosaur monitors and numerous plugs that belong to something long retired, but saved, just in case.
I don’t want to leave you with the idea that I cannot function without a cell phone while I am driving or that I am constantly checking my email. I toss my cell into the back seat with Havan when I am driving. I turn the computer to hibernate in the evening and always leave chat in favor of a rerun of Criminal Minds. We won’t go into television addiction.
Anyway, my website is back online and all is right with the world.
 Hail? On the last day of June, I sat on my porch, happy for a long awaited summer day. The huge pine trees standing guard at the end of the driveway had new, spring green growth at the tip of each branch. The grass needed cutting and the flowers I planted a few weeks ago were recovering from the shock of being outside of a greenhouse.
Later in the afternoon, a weather alert crept ominously across the top of a weekday talk show on the television. My Darling Husband, on vacation this week, suggested I move my car into the protective cover of the spring colored trees. Then, he left for a trip to the local grocery store.
 Change for a Quarter? The storm darkened the sky, thunder rumbled and the wind began to bend the trees and bushes. Thump, thump, became clang, bump, clang.
 Nature Then Darling Hubby came up the drive and swooped the van into the cover of a huge tin shed, a horse arena in earlier days. The sound was deafening for him as the hollow shed with a tin roof amplified each pelting hailstone.
My son and I stood in the hallway with the dog. The cat became a grey streak like a quick brush mark on a canvas.
Bang, Clatter, Bang, then the glass began to break. We closed the doors to both bedrooms as the glass shattered on the other side of the doors. The bathroom window shattered at some time during the crashing and banging.
Then, the wind stopped, the pelting stopped and Darling Hubby emerged from the shed.
In our corner of town, today, it looks like most homeowners are missing their west facing windows. Some siding is terribly pocked and I have no doubt our roof and gutters will be needing repair.
In this time of digital cameras, my two guys ventured outside to take photos.
 Mugshot The spring green pine tips are a carpet on our porch and driveway. The car was blanketed by the new growth as well and suffered no indignity from the storm. My son and husband set about posing the bigger than golf ball sized hailstones in various poses and situations to dramatize their considerable size.
Today, we drove through the neighborhood, put in a claim and began twitching a little bit as the thunderstorms circled. We got some more hail today but were so emboldened by yesterday’s event that we made a little fun at the stuff resembling new age pellets from a leaking bean-bag chair.
The first Kindle came out in 2007. Pricey little gadgets. Still, I’d like to have one. But, I can’t just drop, what was it, nearly 400 bucks on a device my family would see as a geek’s toy.
I’ve been voicing birthday, Christmas and Mother’s Day wishes complete with ‘but they need to seriously drop the price.’ I think we’ve bought a printer, a laptop, a desktop and a few cell phones while I’ve been wishing.
Last night, charging my cell so I could continue reading an e-book in a cell phone sized window, I announced to my family that I would soon have enough money to buy a new model Smart Phone so I can read longer before it flashed the low battery icon.
Eventually the idea of checking the current price on my ‘wish’ set in and I called up the Amazon page. My tweets were at the same time mentioning a price war on e-readers. There were more tweets on the topic when I had to turn the phone to airline mode to save the rest of the battery.
This morning, news of the Kindle’s price cut had made its way into my email. So, I checked my pay-pal, it was good to go. I went to Amazon to confirm this wasn’t some really bad joke or a very cool dream.
It looks like I have fulfilled my wish. Now, when people ask what I want for this event or that birthday, I have nothing to say. Unless, of course, this gadget needs a winter coat or a reading light.
I said from the start, if I wait, the price will come down. Well, there it is, and it should be in my very hands before the week-end.
Now, I have to get back to doing the work that made this possible to begin with. Till next time, stay well and keep reading. And if you have a wish list, don’t forget to add my novel, If I Should Die, but you have to wait till November.
I wonder if I can send email through Kindle? Does it have a camera? Can I make a call? Well, I guess I can’t have everything and holding an e-reader to my ear would just look silly.
 Same Pot, Different Year I have always been very up front about my thankfulness for indoor pluming.
Did you know that in the days of outhouses people kept what I call Thunder Pots? They were mostly used for those late night, gotta go and it is too darned cold and dark out there to make the journey, times.
My father’s second wife collected and sometimes sold antiques and had a thunder pot displayed next to an antique hurricane lamp. She was a very prepared woman.
I never know when a memory is going to take root in a short story, novel or blog post. But, since the Thunder Pot showed up in a remote cabin within reach of an abducted character, I thought I’d do a sort of info-dump for a modern reader who would be more apt to have a five gallon bucket as a stand in.
A Thunder Pot is also called; a Po, Pot, Pot de chambre, John, Jordan, Potty, Thunder Mug, Chamberpot , and Bourdalous.
The thought occurred to me, just now, the handy modern day potty chair could be rebranded as any of these names and sold in those very expensive baby boutiques.
Thunder Pots have a rich history going back to at least 1300 B. C.. During the Victorian Era, they were all the rage, decorated and very expensive.
You can google and find enough information on the history of these pots to make you, well, you know, want to be thankful the next time you use your modern day toilet, also known by many names.
I wish I had a photo of the Pot and the Hurricane Lamp, sitting side by side on an equally antique table in the living room with the very fake fireplace.
I have posted a cell phone photo of one of my ‘potted’ plants instead.
Enjoy your week-end. I’ll be back soon.
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