Last weekend, Buckshot was initiated into the Mississippi River. Our trip up the river was the equivalent of a wild bronc ride. My visor flew off. I expected it to float. It didn't.
We pulled up to the sandbar where friends and family gather. Probably more so than in church. (I only mention that because it was Sunday.) The older the ladies, the more their bathing suits covered. I kept my jeans and long-sleeved denim shirt on. As fair as I am, I knew I'd pay for it Mon. I am. My forehead and the tops of my feet are on fire. Plus, I grew up with no more water to play in than the bathtub. I'm easing into this "Big Water" life.
Barges were busy moving up and down the River. The lapping of the wake startled Buckshot. He backed to higher ground. Before the afternoon was over, he waded to the boat and jumped in.
He had great fun digging in the sand. Whatever "soft" items he found, he ate, along with a little extra sand for his gizzard. Monday he pooped a sandcastle.
©2014 Red Convertible Travel Series
Showing posts with label Mississippi River. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mississippi River. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 04, 2014
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
A BUCKET OF BATS
After 200 miles on the road with Madchen & Schatzie protesting being kenneled, I was ready for the Jacuzzi, pool and a nice dinner at the motel. My grandpa said to eat dessert first. Child-like I giggled over German chocolate cake with coconut frosting, a wee piece of snickers cheesecake, a taste of cannoli, and something white and gooey with coconut, pecans and a hint of rum. Delightful! My second course was three green beans, a variety of other cooked veggies and one small barbecued rib.
Cats settled in for the night, I walked around the parking lot talking on the phone. I forgot I was in a protected wetland. The only enemy the mosquitoes have here is bats, and bats need water. Just over the levy is the Mississippi River―plenty of water. Pausing on the patio was a mistake. Mosquitoes didn’t have to chase me, they just moved in and feasted on my ankles. Where’s a bat when you need one?
When I worked for Galen & nellie in downtown Omaha, their brick building was over 100 years old. Mortar had disintegrated around the windows allowing bats and breezes easy entrance and exit. Do breezes exit? On the phone one day, I looked down and saw a bat on the top of my foot. “OH!” I don’t know how long it had been there; it didn’t feel like anything. Was it hovering? My "Ohs" grew progressively louder until I noticed a peanut butter bucket on top of the file. The lady on the phone kept talking. I tilted my foot. The bat jumped off, did its clicking sonar sound and climbed up the brick wall. Lady is still yacking. I laid the phone down, grabbed the bucket, scooped the bat in with the lid and clamped it down. Big-eyed co-workers gathered to see what my “Oh’s” were about. I didn’t explain, just slipped outside and turned it loose. It wouldn’t surprise me if the bat was back in the building before I was. I picked up the phone, and she was still talking, oblivious to what had happened.
Tonight I wish I had a bucket of bats.
2009 Red Convertible Travel Series
Cats settled in for the night, I walked around the parking lot talking on the phone. I forgot I was in a protected wetland. The only enemy the mosquitoes have here is bats, and bats need water. Just over the levy is the Mississippi River―plenty of water. Pausing on the patio was a mistake. Mosquitoes didn’t have to chase me, they just moved in and feasted on my ankles. Where’s a bat when you need one?
When I worked for Galen & nellie in downtown Omaha, their brick building was over 100 years old. Mortar had disintegrated around the windows allowing bats and breezes easy entrance and exit. Do breezes exit? On the phone one day, I looked down and saw a bat on the top of my foot. “OH!” I don’t know how long it had been there; it didn’t feel like anything. Was it hovering? My "Ohs" grew progressively louder until I noticed a peanut butter bucket on top of the file. The lady on the phone kept talking. I tilted my foot. The bat jumped off, did its clicking sonar sound and climbed up the brick wall. Lady is still yacking. I laid the phone down, grabbed the bucket, scooped the bat in with the lid and clamped it down. Big-eyed co-workers gathered to see what my “Oh’s” were about. I didn’t explain, just slipped outside and turned it loose. It wouldn’t surprise me if the bat was back in the building before I was. I picked up the phone, and she was still talking, oblivious to what had happened.
Tonight I wish I had a bucket of bats.
2009 Red Convertible Travel Series
Monday, July 28, 2008
A walk with Lincoln
We were far from his home and mine when we strolled the asphalt parkway along the Mississippi River northwest of the Twin Cities. Born at Lake Itasca, the River was still and in its adolescent stage. When it takes on the big boys, like the St. Crois, locks are needed to keep it and its gang in check.
Abraham Lincoln, our 16th President, will be 200 in 2009. At 6' 4" and 180 pounds in his early life, he looked like a pencil in a big hat. He has improved with age, is better looking, better fed, still chivalrous. A gentleman. Gentle man.
Never have I walked so with living history. The only sound the scuff of our shoes. Even the trees were silent, listening, eager to know. I had to ask, "So, Abe, tell me something about your childhood."
Anguished, he replied, "My mother died from milk disease when I was nine. The cows ate a weed that was poisonous and passed it through their milk. Others died too. I stood at her cold grave crying; I couldn't leave her there." We walked a spell in silence, mulling his predicament.
The River is outlined by woods on either side. Excited I asked, "Abe, could you help me build a raft? I could surprise JB. Can I get to Louisiana in a week?"
Recollecting his river memories, he frowned, "I think it's too many twist and turns for a week's journey." A foolish hope. A brief imagining of a long pole, a sack lunch, and adventure dissipated.
Eager to extract all I could from his memory bank, I proceeded, "Tell me something funny from back then."
In a grownup, tired voice he replied, "Well, I was walking down a dusty road one hot August day on my way to a trial, when a fellow driving a buggy happened along. I sure needed to get off my feet. I waved."
"Need a lift?" he asked with a smile.
"Could you take my coat to the next town, Sir?" I asked politely.
He took his hat off and scratched his head, "Yes, but how would you get it?"
"Why, I intend to be in it."
The walk ended too soon. But I must tell you, I met his wife. She is beautiful, kind, capable, accomplished, mentally sound. And the children are fine.
Lee Williams is an offical Abraham Lincoln presenter. The first time I saw him I noticed the natural resemblance. He speaks at schools and reenactments, and has presented in Dubai. You can contact him at abelincoln.org
2008 Red Convertible Travel Series
Abraham Lincoln, our 16th President, will be 200 in 2009. At 6' 4" and 180 pounds in his early life, he looked like a pencil in a big hat. He has improved with age, is better looking, better fed, still chivalrous. A gentleman. Gentle man.
Never have I walked so with living history. The only sound the scuff of our shoes. Even the trees were silent, listening, eager to know. I had to ask, "So, Abe, tell me something about your childhood."
Anguished, he replied, "My mother died from milk disease when I was nine. The cows ate a weed that was poisonous and passed it through their milk. Others died too. I stood at her cold grave crying; I couldn't leave her there." We walked a spell in silence, mulling his predicament.
The River is outlined by woods on either side. Excited I asked, "Abe, could you help me build a raft? I could surprise JB. Can I get to Louisiana in a week?"
Recollecting his river memories, he frowned, "I think it's too many twist and turns for a week's journey." A foolish hope. A brief imagining of a long pole, a sack lunch, and adventure dissipated.
Eager to extract all I could from his memory bank, I proceeded, "Tell me something funny from back then."
In a grownup, tired voice he replied, "Well, I was walking down a dusty road one hot August day on my way to a trial, when a fellow driving a buggy happened along. I sure needed to get off my feet. I waved."
"Need a lift?" he asked with a smile.
"Could you take my coat to the next town, Sir?" I asked politely.
He took his hat off and scratched his head, "Yes, but how would you get it?"
"Why, I intend to be in it."
The walk ended too soon. But I must tell you, I met his wife. She is beautiful, kind, capable, accomplished, mentally sound. And the children are fine.
Lee Williams is an offical Abraham Lincoln presenter. The first time I saw him I noticed the natural resemblance. He speaks at schools and reenactments, and has presented in Dubai. You can contact him at abelincoln.org
2008 Red Convertible Travel Series
Saturday, September 09, 2006
Ole Man River' s many brides
He came from humble beginnings: Lake Itasca, Minnesota, born tumbling over rocks I've walked across. His mission: to travel toward the equator collecting brides. They come from the melting snows of the Rockies across Nebraska joining their sister the Missouri traveling to St. Louis to meet up with him. Like a harem master he selects and collects. From up north, Canadan brides of cold, cold water come to his call.
The St. Croix bride joins him south of St. Paul, MN. The Ohio and Illinois further south. The more brides he takes, the more powerful he becomes through their mingling, joined forces. And he's used. Twenty-seven locks corral him at a level for passage. Barges bringing supplies ride his back to and fro. Local news announce his "level" daily.
Before levee's castrated him, he roamed where he pleased across Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, and more. But when he gets riled up, he spills his guts on the countryside. All are reminded he's still a force to be reckoned with.
Not all about work, he moves the sand leaving huge sandbars. Visitors camp for the day and night. Pontoons pull up between the sandbars and the bank out of his swift current. People put out lawn chairs to sit in the water to cool their booty and feet. Some stand in him to their necks to visit and sip cool drinks. Sand buckets and little kids dot him. Barbecues are set out to cook hotdogs and sausages, vegetables optional.
His fish are legendary. Storytells love him: Mark Twain. The mussels are brought to the surface, their shells cut into tiny pieces, shipped to Japan, and seeded into oysters to produce pearls.
The Lord put twists and turns in his life to slow his pace. It keeps him from a straight shot to the end. He's already fast moving. Some places he twists and a piece of him goes backwards higher than the rest. It looks strange. He's busy all the way to the bottom.
Why do the brides rush to him? What's his pull? Binets? No. They'd be soggy. Freedom. He carries them to freedom, giving them to the Gulf, pleased a piece of him goes with.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
The St. Croix bride joins him south of St. Paul, MN. The Ohio and Illinois further south. The more brides he takes, the more powerful he becomes through their mingling, joined forces. And he's used. Twenty-seven locks corral him at a level for passage. Barges bringing supplies ride his back to and fro. Local news announce his "level" daily.
Before levee's castrated him, he roamed where he pleased across Mississippi, Arkansas, Louisiana, and more. But when he gets riled up, he spills his guts on the countryside. All are reminded he's still a force to be reckoned with.
Not all about work, he moves the sand leaving huge sandbars. Visitors camp for the day and night. Pontoons pull up between the sandbars and the bank out of his swift current. People put out lawn chairs to sit in the water to cool their booty and feet. Some stand in him to their necks to visit and sip cool drinks. Sand buckets and little kids dot him. Barbecues are set out to cook hotdogs and sausages, vegetables optional.
His fish are legendary. Storytells love him: Mark Twain. The mussels are brought to the surface, their shells cut into tiny pieces, shipped to Japan, and seeded into oysters to produce pearls.
The Lord put twists and turns in his life to slow his pace. It keeps him from a straight shot to the end. He's already fast moving. Some places he twists and a piece of him goes backwards higher than the rest. It looks strange. He's busy all the way to the bottom.
Why do the brides rush to him? What's his pull? Binets? No. They'd be soggy. Freedom. He carries them to freedom, giving them to the Gulf, pleased a piece of him goes with.
copyright 2006 Red Convertible Travel Series
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