Sense of Adventure

Actually, that’s Joseph Reichert. I’ve known him about forty years now. That’s another story – or a volume. Maybe two.

What I was just moved to write about was my other best friend – or as I sometimes refer to him, “my best little friend.”

This would be my orange tabby cat TJ. Which, yes, is short for Thomas Jefferson.

You might think it would be Emma Dog, based on the volume of verbiage I generate about her in my posts. But that’s a sampling error. She’s a wonderful friend, don’t get me wrong. She’s also - even as we approach, in two days I think, the fourth anniversary of her coming to the Milán Pack – still something of a novelty in the house, whereas both cats have been with me over ten years. Also because she alone accompanies me on excursions and adventures outside the house, even no further than the backyard (and remember - if you can’t find adventure in your own backyard, why would you expect to be able to find it anywhere else?), she plays in more anecdotes. In addition, there’s frankly so much history between me and the cats that I hesitate to bring them in because I hardly know where to begin.

I’ll skip Teej’s bio for now – he’s worth a volume on his own – for an anecdote that may enlighten you as to why I consider him by best friend.

As a part of my daily ritual I recite a formula gleaned from the work of Napoleon Hill, specifically his Think and Grow Rich!* – still the best self-help book ever written, and pretty much the fountainhead from which most subsequent worthwhile self-help books have sprung. There have been advances on his work, as well there ought be: it originally came out, if I understand correctly, in the 1920s. (Nope - 1937, if one believes Wikipedia, as in this case, why wouldn’t I?) It still stands as well worth reading.

Anyway, since I began this ritual about six years ago, a curious thing has happened. I recite it by habit right after I finish breakfast or lunch (mostly semantics, there.) As it happens most times, and as it happened just a few moments ago (it’s currently 3:27 PM in the Mountain West. So, maybe chronology more than semantics.) And that is: if he’s in earshot and awake, sometimes even if he’s drowsing, TJ turns up.

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I hope - how I hope - I truly hope the new Indiana Jones movie doesn’t stink as badly as the “first” - i.e. the new - Star Wars trilogy.

Advance notice on the net is unkind. Of course, fanboys can be beyond hypercritical. You knew that, I’m guessing?

On the other tentacle … it wasn’t as if the subsequent Indy movies lived up to the first. The second lacked a plot; it couldn’t live up to its own opening sequence, which smoked, and ran rapidly downhill once the Gratuitous Kid Sidekick was introduced. The third was … deeply okay. Perhaps they didn’t bite as much cheese as Die Hard II, or any Lethal Weapon flick with a numeral. But the second wasn’t good, and the third, not great.

Still, I dare hope. Meanwhile, there’s always Iron Man.

So I had the German Bomber Channel on for electronic wallpaper a little while ago, and they were showing their Engineering an Empire show on Rome. And I was struck by a wonderful vision. (Thud.)

The scene: a couple years in the future. I’m enrolled in a course at Syracuse University. And the tall, lean, distinguished-looking professor points to some projection or exhibit and in his characteristic deep, slightly nasal, slightly metallic voice asks, “Can anyone tell me what this is?”

And I’ll pipe up in my best Professor Hikita accent, “It’s your hand, Buckaroo!”

Enough whimsy. Okay; like that’s gonna happen.

Yesterday was a good day. Got a lot written. Annja’s current exploit’s really picking up steam, and The Dinosaur Lords are going great guns. Plus I did a lot of necessary world-building on DinoLords, which helped the writing a great deal.

The key there was that I actually wrote story, not just typed notes and drew maps, both of which I also did. I know way too well what kind of a trap that note-making thing can be: a whole novel, The War for America, wandered off into the swamps and bogged down because, in large part, I devoted so much time to writing reams of notes. That and not having an actual synopsis, but rather an idea in my head where I wanted to go. Not so good an idea. It turns out that, while I have a great gift of improvisation, I need a certain amount of structure both to activate it and to direct it usefully. Who’da thunk it? Anyway that’s why I’ve got upwards of 700 pages of novel and am not half done - and have, I judge, upwards of a million words of notes. Seriously.

(Someday I’ll go back and finish that. If events don’t overtake it first. Which is a major possibility.)

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So today I decided, no more excuses, and went forth into the back yard to plant my honeysuckle.

It’s supposed to get really windy later. That struck me as not ideal for planting a tender transplant. Then again, it’s gonna have to get used to our wind soon or late. Also I’ve been putting it off already for, well, a year.

First I dug a hole by the wall to embed the fan-shaped wood trellis I bought from Mundo Wally for the purpose. There proved to be a sort of lip of foundation at the base of the cement-block north wall which served nicely to prop the base against. A small chunk of busted-up cement from something or other I’ve had to demolish since moving in helped wedge it in place from the other side.

At this point, as usual, Emma took my presence in the yard as meaning I wanted nothing more than to play with her. So nothing would answer but that I had to roam around the yard holding my arms out before me like Calvin playing Frankenstein’s Monster and making zombie noises. Which is how one plays the Puppy Monster. Emma happily raced around fleeing the Puppy Monster until she got tired and went to lie down in the shade. Fortunately it wasn’t too hot out there yet.

A few years ago I tried planting honeysuckle and it just flat died. This amazed all the people at local nurseries I asked about it, who unanimously said that honeysuckle’s so robust that if it didn’t have purty flowers it would be roundly hated as a weed. I did a little more research this time.

Hope it helps. Fingers crossed.

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The Internet: what you don’t know, can’t haunt your dreams forever.

First Corollary: Be careful what you search for. You might just find It.

I’m fortunate enough to have some really wonderful friends. Some even go so far as to extend their friendship to Emma Dog. Unless it’s the other way around.

When the group goes out together to restaurants Emma’s Aunt Kathy (Kelly-Kubica) and Aunt Roslee (Orndorff) are especially thoughtful in donating meat scraps for me to take to Emma. Which is very sweet of them, and much appreciated by Emma. And me.

So tonight - technically yesterday evening, now - as threatened I attended the monthly ASFS meeting to hear Ian Tregillis read from Bitter Seeds, the WWII “secret history” novel he just delivered to Tor. As I was going in I was hailed by Kathy. She’d been out to dinner before the meeting, and had actually got a doggie box to bring scraps for Emma. It was just incredibly nice of her. She even brought a baked potato for my compost heap, which is going above and beyond.

It was a great reading, very well received. The book’s going to be killer.

After the meeting several of us (Roslee, who’s a nurse, had to work and didn’t make it out tonight) went by Craig’s house while he prepared some packets for art-show participants. Then we headed over to the Applebee’s on Menaul. There Kathy got another steak (she’s on a reduced-carb diet), and darned if she didn’t send another box o’ scraps home to Emma. So she’s set up for the next few days. A happy dog indeed.

As we headed out to the cars Kathy suggested I check the box she had given me. “Emma won’t much like it if you bring home a box full of broccoli,” she said. “She’ll look at you, like, ‘Why don’t you love me?’ ” And she pulled an appropriately mournful face.

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I have a black dog. This is very important to me..

It wasn’t when I got her initially. I just wanted a dog. It’d been a year and a half since I lost Bear, whom the wonderful Pat Rogers so aptly called “the little golden dog” - who acquired a large and active fan following who continued to query me for months after her death as to where she was. Enough time had passed for an emotional reset. And to prepare myself I’d read the amazing and useful The Other End of the Leash by ethologist Patricia McConnell. So when I happened by the animal-adoption fair being held at the nearby PetSmart, my main concerns were a nice dog who’d get along with me and the cats and not eat too many house guests or neighbor kids - after one or two, people start to talk.

But more of that tale later. It’s just that the dog I’ve grown to know and love and rely upon to defend the redoubtable Milán Pack and territory against the wicked (lately, mostly young moms strolling past with prams and little dogs on leashes - as every schoolchild knows, among the leading perpetrators of home invasions!) is black. A very deep, glossy black, except for a white blaze on her chest that’s seldom visible.

So why, oh my, when I open the back door, is what I get back a khaki dog?

This just happened. Again. It’s about 1:30 PM Friday. I’m trying to get some writing done and maybe at last plant the honeysuckle I’ve nurtured in a pot on the kitchen counter all these months in the backyard, before heading out to dinner with some Wild Cards Mafia types - including Denver’s own Carrie Vaughn, of Kitty and the Silver Bullet fame - and then to ASFS to hear Ian Tregillis read from the first novel of his upcoming Milkweed Triptych trilogy. I love that name, by the way. Anyway, I read the ending (I mean, silently, to myself. Without even moving my lips much) as part of the Critical Mass authors’ group, and it completely rocks, and Melinda says Ian’s a great reader, so I’m much looking forward to it. Anyway.

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Is your supermarket ripping you off? Probably!

It might just be worthwhile to stay alert. Specifically: make sure the price the item is offered at on the shelf is what you get charged. If you look closely, you just might find it often isn’t – that you get gouged a higher price.

Just now I went to the Lowe’s across the street to buy some English muffins (I shouldn’t be eating the starch, but as I’ve said I’m not making equal progress on all fronts.) They had the regular ones for $1.99. There was also a big sign under the sourdough ones offering “Meyer’s” sourdough English muffins for $1.59. Now, the name on the label says “Nature’s Grain.” But two things: these were the only items the sign could refer to; and you’ve probably noticed that sometimes one umbrella corporation operates numerous different brands, sometimes actually in competition with each other.

- And as if by magic - the magic of the Internet! - here we have an excerpt from an article on Harlan Bakeries: “Meyer’s Bakeries … [p]urchased by [Harlan’s] subsidiary, Southern Bakeries…. [T]he business also sells baked goods under the Nature’s Grain brand.” So yes, in fact, Nature’s Grain products are distributed through Meyer’s, as the article mentions a couple paragraphs later. The items marked as on-sale were in fact the ones I tried to buy.

So I decided to go with the sourdough bagels and save 40 cents. No big deal. I like ‘em well enough, and with food costs skyrocketing every little bit likely helps.

The cashier, who was a young woman I haven’t seen before, rang them up. The price: $1.99.

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I know that sounds like the beginning of a limerick. Sadly, that’s all there is and there ain’t no mo’.

It’s just that today I was reminded of the tool’s excellence by the simple fact of using it to begin expunging the weeds from my front yard. It’s just great for that. It’ll take the little bastards off level with the ground; sometimes it even hooks them and yanks ‘em out by the roots. Which is definitely bonus.

It’s about the only thing I know to get rid of the foul weeds locally called goatheads, shy of a flamethrower (which, granted, I so wish I had), or just grubbing the things out one by one by hand. Which, given the properties of our North Valley soil (the phrase “cement-like” springs to mind) would be a slow and brutal task. The monstrous things produce horrid miniature caltrops, which in fact greatly resemble a goat’s head, complete with horns - especially with horns - that endlessly torment my dog. And also me, when she tracks them inside and I walk around barefoot. As I prefer to do. The plants themselves sprawl on the hardpan as if defending against a Brazilian jiu-jitsu takedown, making it extremely hard to get at them. Unless you attack them right flat along the ground.

That’s what the scuffle hoe will do for you. New Mexico gardeners: buy it. Use it. Love it.

In other news from the terraforming of my yard, the compost I’ve got separated into its own container now, after a night’s airing-out, looks and smells and feels like nice, rich soil. Which I am given to understand is the point of the whole damned operation. Meanwhile the stuff in the composter, while it still smells a little evil, is generating heat again. I may need to turn it again in a couple days, although I confess it’ll be a spell before I’m willing to wrestle with screening it again.

Things progress. Likewise on the writing front, I’m pleased to report. I’ve slacked a bit on dictating, but that’ll come along as well.

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… I think.

As mentioned before, late this winter I decided to get serious about landscaping (among numerous other things.) I started researching inexpensive and easy composters. Despite some excellent advice from friends I wasn’t finding anything quite cheap and easy enough.

Then my friend Harriet Engle, who lives in a duplex next to my friend Roslee - both from the science-fiction club - revealed she was helping put a garden in their shared backyard. Since she seemed experienced I asked for her suggestions. She said she’d had success just getting a big old covered trash bin with wheels. Bingo! Thus was born what I call the Harriet Engle Rolling Composter.

(Before I went into any detail on this I asked Harriet if it was all right for me to use her full name. She allowed as she didn’t have any stalkers or outstanding warrants she was aware of, so it was.)

At Wally World I found just such trash bins, of 50-gallon capacity, for $25 each. Which definitely rang the cherries as far as “cheap” was concerned. Not too long thereafter I chanced to accompany my best friend Joe to Wal-Mart, as well as, more to the point, Joe’s pick-up truck. So I bought one of the bins and brought it home. I thought of buying a second - some systems recommend up to three separate composters - but decided I wanted to see how this one worked before expanding.

Harriet mentioned drilling holes in the bottom for drainage. I was initially concerned about compost dribbling out, but realized the quarter inch holes I intended to drill weren’t going to allow for much of that.

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