Like these.

They happened to be approaching a culvert beneath a dirt road. Mama Mallard steered the brood expertly clear.

Except for [...]]]> Emma Dog and I were walking south down Bear’s Ditch, headed back for the car on a pleasant summer evening, when we encountered a Mama Mallard and her family of maybe 6-8 adorable ducklings.

Like these.

They happened to be approaching a culvert beneath a dirt road. Mama Mallard steered the brood expertly clear.

Except for one who did not get the message in time. She began thrashing frantically and uttering panicked peeps – “Oh noes!” – as racing current swept her right into the culvert.

I waited anxiously on the other side. For a moment I thought she’d never emerge – although I thought I could hear her continued peeps for help. Her mother also was quacking steadily to help everybody formate on her.

Then the duckling came shooting out, still flapping and fussing. I started scoping out possible ways to help, and saw a watergate maybe thirty feet downstream where I figured I could either maybe steer her to the bank or even, worst case, snag her before she got hopelessly separated from her family. She was certainly way too small to survive on her own – these were bitty ducklings, sparrow-sized.

But I underestimated Mama. Here she came waddling down the ditchbank with the rest of the brood trooping obediently after. She led them safely past the race of the culvert and back down to the water, quacking the while.

Meanwhile the unlucky duckling had got her bearings enough to paddle toward the bank on her own, where the current was less and she was able to regain control over her navigation. Mama steered the brood into the main flow and sailed past serenely, with the whole flotilla following.

Except for one who swam right up to the one who’d gotten separated, as if to say, “What the hell’s wrong with you?” Then the two buddies paddled out after their fellows, and joined the procession safely, to my immeasurable relief.

I kept an eye on Emma for a while lest she decide she needed to retrieve some for me. She did seem to feign a certain interest in sniffing a grass clump not far past the flock. I called her on it and we, and the ducks, went our respectively merry ways.

With a shout out to Thin Lizzy and the long-lost Phil Lynott.

Yes, it’s silly. And I’m not even sure they just got back today.  But [...]]]> Guess who just got back today?
Those big blue birds who had been away.
Hadn’t changed, hadn’t much to say,
But man, I still think them birds are great.
The cranes are back in town…

With a shout out to Thin Lizzy and the long-lost Phil Lynott.

Yes, it’s silly. And I’m not even sure they just got back today.  But when, on this glorious autumn afternoon, I took Emma for a walk in the Vineyard in Albuquerque’s North Valley by RGB, I did see them for the first time this season.

It’s my favorite time of year for a reason.  It was calm, the sky clear but for a few subtle brush-strokes of cloud, warm enough I wished I’d worn shorts and a short-sleeved shirt, but by no means hot.  The trees remain mostly green, but they’ve begun to show a lot of color. Down south by Montaño stood three small trees in a row: two gold, one red, the last gold. Pretty.

We didn’t exactly set a blistering pace. We haven’t been there in months – I know; it’s criminal – and Emma had to sniff everything. Which was fine. I walked briskly in between sniff stops.

At first I saw few birds of note, except for big flocks of Canada geese grazing and flying in vees off to the west toward the river, and some ducks in the ditch. The first leg of our walk ran along the west side of the Los Poblanos Fields Open Space (the Vineyard’s “official” name; I officially call it, “The Vineyard.”) About two thirds of the way down I noticed a suspiciously tall and bluish-grey bird standing out among the Canadas one or two hundred yards away in the stubble-field to my left. I hardly needed my ever-handy Simmons monocular to confirm my first impression:  Sandhill cranes don’t look like much else. Except, of course, dinosaurs.

I counted five of them. I love the cranks. (I have pet names for everything. You may’ve noticed.) They’re striking birds, very imposing. Mostly I just like having them around.  And seeing them for the first time after they’ve gone away for the Spring is always a treat.

They’ve got the Maize Maze up again. Emma was naturally suspicious of the largish number of people near it – a lot of folks at the Vineyard today in general, and small wonder. Of course, Emma is convinced that dacoits, or possibly ninjas, abound everywhere, looking to fall on us unawares and end us.

Anyway, I’ve long wanted to do the corn-maze tour. I was thinking of maybe going this year if I could get a date.

After the fit of only slightly hysterical laughter died down, I realized I could go with my Meetup group a week from today. I need to do more with those folks. They’re nice. And it’s why I joined.

So, um – birds. A kestrel flew low overhead, which was cool. Hadn’t seen one in a spell. I always love teh kesties, even if they are descended from penguins. Or rather, er, parrots. Whatevs.

I also saw a couple birds chasing each other in circles right above the shorn-off corn that I thought were meadowlarks. It’s usually a good guess in the area, and shortly thereafter I heard the distinct call of one. If it matters to you I think they were Western meads. What they were doing I’m none too sure, since this seems an impropitious season for starting a family.

Long story … slightly less long, Emma and I had fun. And we want to get out in the Vineyard a whole lot more in coming weeks.

So I decided the time wasn’t propitious. I waited an hour [...]]]> The elements made sport of me today. In midafternoon I decided to try for an early walk. In process of putting Emma out to tend to business before we set out I stepped onto the back porch. And a mighty crack of thunder pealed out.

So I decided the time wasn’t propitious. I waited an hour or two. Then let Emma, who by this time was eager to go for her walk, out the back door.

Only to discover it was raining. She didn’t even want to leave the porch.

Somehow Emma has discovered in rainwater caustic properties, not found in water which is properly lying down, such as we find in ditches and rivers, which threaten to dissolve her broad Lab butt. Despite the fact that she rejoices in soaking in running water up to her wildebeest neck.

I may give the impression, in my account of her foibles and phobias, that Emma is a timid person. She’s not. She just had a rough puppyhood that left scars. And in fact I still seem to recall she didn’t especially fear loud noises when she came to us. I suspect a neighbor, accidentally or on purpose, shot a bottle rocket or something similar at her, possibly scorched her and definitely traumatized her.

Anyway, I was fixing to be grateful that the thunder had warned us away from walking earlier, except that it turned out to be a solo shot, whereas once we got fairly embarked on the ditch it started to flash and crack and rumble like the Bowling Alley of the Gods.

As every schoolchild knows, the Hairy Thunder-Deities Jove and Jehovah enjoy a friendly rivalry. But if you know the respective mythologies you also know that both hate to lose, and neither is above working out his anger issues on hapless random mortals. So I was a bit trepidatious.

Still, I persevered. As I may have mentioned Emma’s a lot less fearful of rain and thunder when we’re out walking. Unless either or both start to get really overt, in which case she seems to decide Daddy’s protective magic isn’t measuring up. Which is true enough, as far as it goes.

Of course she’s not alone. Human kids, not just chronologically speaking, show similar behaviors when confronted with something they really, really want to do. Like the child who balks at mowing the lawn if there’s a cloud in the sky, certain she’ll be fried by lightning, but can’t see why a long-anticipated day at the beach ought be postponed for a mere Force Four hurricane.

Anyway … the southeastern Nature Center field was full of these small purple flowers, that made it look as if the lush green was overlaid with a mauve mist about a foot to eighteen inches high. I don’t know if the Forest Service planted that or it’s a weed. Pretty, in any event.

Heading north along the ditch I encountered a handsome woman of early middle age coming the other way, and a duck standing to one side of the path looking doubtful as to prospects. Emma and I stepped to one side, yielding right-of-way as is our practice. The woman stepped to one side as well.

For a moment we all froze. It was a true New Mexican standoff. I could almost hear the Ennio Morricone trumpet solo playing in the background.

The duck broke the tension by flying off into the trees that screen the ditch from the field. “Somebody had to make a commitment,” the woman remarked as we passed each other.

Walking on, I saw swallows flying and a bird whose long slender tail and sickle wings made me suspect it was a kestrel. Or, pardon me: Killer Parrot.

Although I admit that it is cool to write that: killer parrot. Although what could compare to the awesomeness if I were able to write, killer penguins? Nothing, of course. Nothing could.

Also later on I saw flying over the ditch a stubby-bodied, big-winged raptor, probably one of our fine local owls.

For some reason the Sandia Mountains looked unusually close at hand. I’m guessing it had to do with wind and rain scrubbing the air, plus the fact that some of the ridges and hills that jut from the main range were brought into relief by fog and rain in the valleys between them and the main peaks. Usually the mountains just looks like a monolithic grey wall.

It turned out to be an evening for curious encounters, mostly of the human variety. A bit surprising, giving the threatening sky and even more threatening thunder. But it only rained a little, and lightly, and while it was pretty thickly humid, the air was cool and occasional breezes did a lot to keep it from turning slam-in-the-head-with-a-cast-iron-skillet unpleasant as muggy days can. Actually, I really enjoy a nice, lightly rainy, cool summer evening.

On our way back a skinny, exceedingly pleasant family group – mom and dad in their thirties, ten or eleven year old boy dressed only in shorts, a five year old sister – emerged on the ditch from a yard to the east. For some inexplicable reason the little girl chose to announce her arrival on the ditchbank by letting fly a couple of shrieks that could penetrate Chobham armor.

To avoid causing alarm I took Emma across a convenient footbridge to the west bank. As we went by the parents hailed me.

“Do you know anything about turtles and tortoises?” the father asked.

Happens I do. A bit. They showed me an animal about six or seven inches long; from the stumpy legs and high-arched shell I guessed it was likely a desert tortoise, and said so.

It turned out they had found it wandering in the yard and decided to see if it wanted to return to the water. It quite manifestly did not, turning and waddling purposefully back up onto the dirt roach road whenever they started it promptingly down the weed-grown bank.

I explained it was almost certainly a tortoise, and didn’t need to be in the water. It’d be quite happy back in their yard, eating bugs and snails. “It’s not,” I pointed out, “as if it needs wide-open range to roam in.”

The mother mentioned, somewhat nervously, they had a dog. I told them tortoises had ways of coming to terms with dogs. Obligingly the beast, which the little boy had picked up and was holding on its back, withdrew into its shell. “They have pretty good defenses,” I said, reinforcing the tortoise’s emphatic statement. “Also they have pretty vigorous means of showing their resentment if dogs try to bother them anyway.” By which I meant giving Fido a brisk nip on the snoot, although it seemed a bit cold-blooded to put it that way. They were all awfully sweet and earnest.

“Are you kidding?” the boy, who had tow hair cropped close to his head, sang out. “Our dog’s afraid of our cat.”

“Well, there you go,” I said.

Somewhere in this exchange a jogging woman’s loose dog ran up on Emma, who spun around and growled at it. She seemed as engaged by the conversation as I was. Of course, she probably thought one of the harmless and cheerful family group was going to whip out a Micro-UZI and fire us up. She always thinks that.

In any event the stray dog was startled and sensible enough to back quickly away from the large unfriendly black dog, and its mistress spoke to it pretty sharply. They went on their way without further incident.

It turned out that it was the mother of the family unit who had for some reason been convinced the beast was a turtle. She remained skeptical. “Our only turtles are red-eared sliders,” the father said, correctly pointing out that this creature clearly wasn’t one of those.

“Actually, we’ve got snapping turtles and soft-shelled turtles, too,” I said, and I hope I sounded friendly enough to overcome the innate discourtesy of contradicting him. Wish I’d put it another way; oh, well. I mean, he’s right that we do have red-eared sliders. “And this isn’t either of those, either.”

“He bit me,” the little girl announced happily, holding the tortoise out toward me in both hands, which like her brother’s were encased in enormous yellow rubber dishwashing gloves like fireman’s gauntlets. The tortoise had emerged from its shell and seemed to peer at me like a pet hamster.

For some reason the parental units weren’t distressed by the fact she’d been bitten. Gods know the girl could emit sufficient noise to let the universe know if she was actually hurt or scared. What exactly had prompted her to produce her earlier demonstrations of sonic destructo-power I’ve no idea; I suppose she’s only waiting to meet the age requirements for Professior Xavier’s Home for Wayward Boys and Girls.

“Does it have red eyes?” I asked, playing my trump card.

“Yes it does,” Dad said.

“It’s probably a male desert tortoise, then.” I found one in my own front yard, years ago. It spent a winter bunkered in a spare aquarium, declining all but a tiny bit of food and water. I’d let it loose on the RGNC grounds proper in the spring.

At last that seemed to satisfy Mom’s doubts that the hapless creature might really be a turtle in imminent danger of desiccation if they didn’t pitch it immediately back in the water. Where it likely would’ve sunk like a rock. They thanked me, and bade me a cheerful farewell. I returned it and Emma Dog and I walked on.

We’d gone maybe twenty yards when I heard them call. They were heading through the gate into their big backyard, presumably to put the tortoise the hell back in the yard where it was perfectly happy in the first place, and had called out to smile and wave a final good-bye. I returned it. Really lovely people.

As we walked back along the final, tree-lined stretch we were accosted from the far bank by a most ferocious beast. It was white, about eleven inches long inclusive of tail, and about six inches tall. I think it was one of your indomitable little terriers, or terrier crosses. It wanted us to know we were in big trouble, and should fear. I told it we were duly terrified.

Fortunately it didn’t choose to come running across a nearby footbridge and press the issue. I’m really not entirely sure Emma thinks those little bitty mop-dogs really are dogs. I don’t want to find out, especially.

Then I almost gave myself cardiac arrest standing in line at the Smith’s checkout on North Fourth, when I suddenly realized my Palm was no longer in my shirt pocket! Fortunately, as I walked out to the car (working myself into quite a state) I realized I’d zipped it away in my water-bottle carrier when it commenced to rain.

So ended another cheerful summer-evening adventure in Albuquerque’s North Valley.

Updated 10/30/2008 1:08:03 AM: Inexplicable spelling error (dirt roach?) corrected.

After writing some more on the new Rogue Angel yarn, I gathered up Emma Dog and took her off to the Nature Center for an afternoon walk. It’s a perfect Albuquerque Spring [...]]]> Or actually, just a pair of muskrats. They didn’t get up to anything … untoward during the short time I had them in view.

After writing some more on the new Rogue Angel yarn, I gathered up Emma Dog and took her off to the Nature Center for an afternoon walk. It’s a perfect Albuquerque Spring day: warm, clear, calm; the trees are getting green and the fruit trees and the lilacs fragrantly in bloom. A marked improvement over the gale we walked through a couple of days ago, and the Arctic day that followed it.

From the levee bike path I saw some big, soft-shelled spiny turtles sunning themselves down on the ditchbank. A guy cruised by us on a nifty recumbent tadpole trike, lower-slung and probably more expensive than my TriCruiser. Sometime this week I need to get my tricycle to a bike shop for an overhaul so I can start riding it before it gets brutally hot and I’ll snivel too much.

Not a lot of birdage about, though some of interest. Our usual Piper Cherokee-sized Canada geese kept flying low overhead, honking stertorously. As we walked north up the dirt path along the east side of the clear ditch, which is very pleasantly shaded by trees and brush, a bitty grey wren-like thing flew over with a whir that seemed to be a call, rather than the sound of its wings. It gave a little cheep as it lit in a tree to our left. Naturally it went promptly around the other side of a big branch where I couldn’t see. It seemed to have a very curved beak, almost like a thrasher. But they’re way bigger than this bird, which was so tiny I first thought it was a cicada – although we’re at the wrong end of the season to see them. It may’ve been a Canyon Wren.

There’s a notch in the ditchbank that leads right down from the trail to the water, perhaprs halfway between the footbridge that leads back to the east side and Montaño, where it’s convenient for Emma to go wade in the water and drink. As we approached it I heard a big woodpecker thudding away off in the bosque proper, across the ditch and the bike path.

And then when we got to the notch, right there swimming south and not eight feet from the bank I saw a muskrat. A beat later I saw a second toward the other side of the ditch. They both dove pretty promptly; one surfaced briefly under some brush overhanging the far side. I bet they have a burrow under there.

As alert as Emma always is to possible threats, to my amazement she didn’t even seem to notice the muskrats. Which was good, since I don’t want her getting in any disputes with others creatures. She might’ve been too fixated on the water’s edge where she was heading.

On the way back we ran into kind of a knot of people, bikes, and dogs near the footbridge leading from the levee path to the RGNC proper. Not that surprising, given the day and the nature of it. But it tended to really slow us down.

Emma’s job, which she carries out with fanatical keenness, is to be my bodyguard. Whenever she perceives people and animals approaching us, she usually has to give them a suspicious stare. If they’re in front of us, this entails stopping; if they’re overtaking, she has to keep peering back over her shoulder and slowing way down. It doesn’t matter if they’re fragile granny-ladies or young mothers pushing strollers: they must be scrutinized. (“Dad! They may pack heat!”) I’m always having to chivvy her along.

As we approached the Candelaria exit of the path that connects it to the bike trail, a sturdy Latino gentleman with a moustache, upon seeing Emma, said, “My lord, that’s a beautiful dog!” Which was nice. I thanked him on her behalf.

And then, dear merciful heavens, the … special bike club emerged, mustering to be taken back to the home under the watchful eyes of their minders. Who must have patience far exceeding that of saints – the saints I’ve read of tended to be a crabby, censorious lot. I mean, gods guard over the Down syndrome folks and send them happiness, I was just as glad we got clear of that narrow passageway from the bike path before they came through.

Then, because our timing was on tonight, we got back in time to catch the bottom of the 1^st inning of the Sunday night ESPN between the Yankees and the Red Sox. Now, I certainly have no rooting interest in either team; to me it’s kind of like the Mordor-USSR exhibition game held each Spring in Hell. But I do love me some baseball, and they’re always … interesting to watch.

It’s been wa-a-ay too long since I’ve been walking. Just ask Emma Dog. She’s been keeping me up all night, asking out (or back in) about once an hour. I reckon she’s antsy and bored and needs exercise.

Me too. But what with being sick much of the last almost three months [...]]]> But not all by myself.

It’s been wa-a-ay too long since I’ve been walking. Just ask Emma Dog. She’s been keeping me up all night, asking out (or back in) about once an hour. I reckon she’s antsy and bored and needs exercise.

Me too. But what with being sick much of the last almost three months (!) and the late heat spurt, and travel – and a host of other miserable, sniveling excuses – I haven’t been for a walk, nor taken Emma for one, in an age.

Last night I slept pretty well (despite Emma’s alarums and excursions) and woke up with clearer lungs than I’ve had since the flu hit me for real a couple weeks before. I actually … felt good. And I decided that one way or another we would hit the trail today.

Even though we got a later start than intended (what else is new?) the afternoon wasn’t hot, with the rain we’ve gotten the last couple days to break the unusual late-season heat spurt. So, on with the water-bottle carrier (carrying a water bottle, go figure, along with sundry useful items); on with the twelve-buck red Convo knock-offs which are the most comfortable walking shoes I’ve owned for a while, possibly ever; on with the wraparound shield-style UV-resistant shades, and the 8 x 25 Simmons monocular that’s a contender for best $20 I ever spent, in case birds break out; on with the Omron pedometer; on with the sweat-stained tan painter’s cap with New Mexico Land of Enchantment on the front I bought for 69¢ at the thrift store. And out the door we went.

We went to one of our favorite paths, the bike trail along the levee by the clear ditch that runs past the Rio Grande Nature Center. It was a beautiful afternoon, a little warm (big surprise!), a little muggy, but not bad. The trees are still green, late-season flowers are beginning to bloom. The hummingbirds are out in profusion – I gather they’re heading back to Central and South America for the winter. The cranes and the geese are flying in yet, but that usually happens later in September.

Wildlife was out. A squirrel ran right in front of us shortly after we turned off the path that leads from the end of Candelaria, before we reached the RGNC bridge across the overflow ditch. Emma didn’t deign to react, although she peered after it as we passed where it had gone through the fence into the Center and, presumably, into a brush pile. She’s a bird dog by avocation, after all, with a specialty in waterfowl. She has standards.

Although she did perk up when a big bunny ran across our path as we took the ramp off the bridge up to the bike path. She’s such a good dog, though; she didn’t try to bolt after it.

So we had a good walk, up to the second bridge and a ways along the shaded dirt path that runs between the ditch and the fences on the east bank of the ditch. Very pleasant setting.

Went a bit over 2.6 miles; took about 53 minutes, decent time after allowing for Emma to sniff things – highly important! – and occasionally wade in the water and drink. My goal is to get first to 4 miles a day, and eventually to 6 over the winter – or about 10,000 steps. But for now I need to remind myself that we can do 2.5 or so falling down. Rain or shine, even if I’m not feeling good, it’s pretty easy. Also there’s not a huge time hit. I reckon once I get in the habit of doing that daily, I’ll be well placed to kick it up by degrees to 4. And then when that habit’s ground-in, moving toward 6.

So: a good start. Yay!

Definitely not a Day from Hell, thank goodness. A Day from Hell is when somebody dies or a major body part falls off. Or at least a concatenation of lesser but still substantial evils.

I slept fitfully after getting back the night before. I started getting wakeful and worried [...]]]> Yesterday was a day from Heck.

Definitely not a Day from Hell, thank goodness. A Day from Hell is when somebody dies or a major body part falls off. Or at least a concatenation of lesser but still substantial evils.

I slept fitfully after getting back the night before. I started getting wakeful and worried after only a few hours because I hadn’t gotten the check back for a contract I had sent off before leaving town (from a place that’s usually very prompt), and because my cats didn’t seem to be eating. The latter was especially troubling, since as most of you who know me in person are aware I almost lost both of them to liver failure brought on by not eating – for only a couple of days! – two years ago.

I was finally roused from my pitiful attempts to sleep by a rap at the door. Proved to be FedEx Guy, bringing – the missing check! Worry One resolved.

(Worry, of course, is one of the few emotions that simply has no benefit at all. Doesn’t always stop me, though.)

So, being up anyway, I pulled myself more or less together, made myself my customary morning cocoa, which I hadn’t gotten to do in STL. To avoid paying an extra day for Emma Dog I had to collect her by noon. It’s usually a twenty minute trip to the kennel. I left about ten after eleven, figuring I had plenty of time.

Just driving down the block the car handled strangely and I heard a distinct flap-flappy sound. Uh-oh. I’d had to repair the left rear tire right before leaving, and the right front’s been running a slow leak. Indeed it was a touch low, but the real problem was the right rear one was dead flat.

No worries. Plenty of time. Knowing I’d likely be spending some time, not to mention exertion, there, I’d pulled into the shade of a tree over on 3rd Street, next block over from where I live. I hooked up my new compressor. The flat took the air fine and filled as rapidly as these things go. No biggie. I sat on the curb and read a David Drake Leary/Mundy book on my Palm. I love the Leary/Mundy books.

Got full. Took off up Second Street. And just as I was approaching Paseo del Norte (which I usually think of as Paseo del Snort, mostly because that’s how I am) the car starts handling funny and I hear disconcerting noises. Obviously we’ve lost air in our problem tire.

The worst of it was there wasn’t a good place to pull off. Second Street is not a place to do that, especially if one is fond of life and having all four limbs in their customary alignments. I had to go through the underpass and up a block or two to find a side street I could dive down. Fortunately there was a wide spot to the right with even a touch of shade. Packed dirt, but that proved enough for the scissors-style jacks I’ve got – much better than those awful pillar things we used to have, that just looked for an excuse to cut loose and come flying out with leg-busting force.

So we did the thing. I was pleased I maintained my positive attitude. OK, situation. Solution’s clear; I dealt with it. I did call the kennel and let them know I’d be late.

Got there with no further incident on my spare. Eleven after. They were kind enough not to gig me an extra day – which would have been a tad crass even without my calling in with a legitimate emergency. But Corrales Kennels always treats us right, just the way they took pity on me and let me drop off Emma at 7:20 when they don’t open until 8 on my way outbound, so I could get home in time to meet my friend giving me a ride to the airport. They’re a bit of a drive, even from the North Valley, but inexpensive. Also Emma seems pleased enough to go there; if they didn’t treat her right she’d be recalcitrant at best. She’s a good dog – surprisingly so, sometimes – but a young lady with strong opinions, withal.

The next thing was I’d cleverly forgotten her harness and leash. The kennel guy brought her out to the car on their leash. My bigger concern was belting her in, for which I usually use the harness – works great for that, although my main reason for using the harness is that I don’t like putting pressure on a creature’s throat. The shoulder harness went around her, and she was amenable, but it slipped off shortly. I stayed ready to grab her collar if need arose. Fortunately it didn’t.

We went home the leisurely way, down Rio Grande Boulevard – RGB, as it’s mostly going to be known hereinafter. A very pretty country drive. When we got home I thought about grabbing Emma’s collar to take her in. Then I thought, no, she’s a great dog. We’ll just trust her. And it turned out I’d reckoned without her eagerness to be home: she trotted right up to the door and waited, almost vibrating to be let in.

We got her ensconced. The cats had seemed worried about her absence. They like her, and perhaps more important they’re used to her. Cats hate change. So we had everybody together safe and everyone was happy.

I had wanted to take Emma for a walk on the way home, hoping it wouldn’t be too hot (and humid, it being that time of year.) The double flat tire thing decoupled that even before I found I’d spaced bringing the leash. Instead I caught up my notebook PC, stuffed it in the pack with my trusty in-town travel teddy bear, and headed off.

First I deposited my check (yay!). Then I went to VI. Had my usual breakfast of huevos rancheros, which they do surprisingly well (Important Safety Tip: Village Inn often offers huevos rancheros in restaurants outside New Mexico. Order them at your own risk. Or better: just don’t. You have been warned: it likely won’t be pretty.) I got some good writing done on Annja’s latest caper.

After that it was Tire Time. Headed to Costco, where I’m a member. They had kindly fixed my flat free last time; this time I had two. Then I went into the store and just kind of wandered around looking at stuff. Who knew they had a poster-sized coffee-table book apparently full of lurid photos of crashes or whatnot entitled They Walked Away? My first thought of course was of one called They Didn’t, which would have on its cover Jayne Mansfield’s severed head or some such. Of course then Costco wouldn’t carry it. And I wouldn’t buy it. I like my gore fictive. And truth to tell, it’s not a major draw for me then, either.

Before long I got a call. Turned out the flat was a write-off: apparently I’d driven on it too far. Oh well. More to the point they had no replacement in stock. The slow leak in front they were fixing.

They were willing to order me a tire. Fine, but I wanted this done. Once more they didn’t charge me. I went off to Discount Tires. By this time it was after 4, rush-crush had begun on Montgomery, and just getting in proved quite a challenge.

But they set me up. Didn’t take terribly long, even though they apologized for the wait.

Then I went off to the grocery store, then – finally! – home.

What I was most pleased with was my attitude. I never let any of this bother me – as I am prone to do. I kept cheerful, simply took things as they arose, and dealt with them. Didn’t make a big deal of them, nor put them off – as I am also prone to do. Just smiled along and did it.

A friend mentioned in an email today that naturally I’d be tired after my trip, thereby accounting for what she termed a “lovely Murphy-day.” The thing is, yesterday I didn’t have time to be tired. It’s today that I’ve been dragging like a wet sandbag. I started to fret about that too until the light finally came on as to why it should be.

Anyway, a phrase occurred to me, somewhere in the midst of yesterday’s hassles, which is something I’ll strive to live by more and more – and recommend to your consideration:

It’s all an adventure!

Keep adventuring!

- Vic

===

Update, 8/10/07 – just figgered out this here new-fangled WordPress thang has a button right on the toolbar I can use to split me some messages.  I’ve only been using it, what, four months now?

Mr. Techno Wizard, that’s me. Yup.

Anyway, I split this so it’s not just a big glop on my blog page. Which I suppose you’ve noticed by now, if you’re reading this…

Victor Milán says: “I’m glad I [...]]]> OK, this is even more trivial than the last post and pretty ephemeral to boot. The home page for Meetup.com’s Urban Exploration Meetups headlined their snippets of news and views from the nation’s – and world’s, I guess – Meetup groups with my comment on the Discover Albuquerque group:

Victor Milán says: “I’m glad I joined! I hope we can get more expeditions into unusual and out of the way places going.”

OK. It’ll probably be gone by the time you click over should you happen to bother, which I certainly don’t expect (there won’t be a test … this time.) It’s not that big a deal; it’s not as if seeing myself quoted online is a total novelty. I just got a kick out of it.

I’ve been meaning to post about Meetup.com. A friend of mine told me about it at the 4th of July party. It’s a clearinghouse for people to meet other people with similar interests. Through it are organized various activities and get-togethers. A week ago I did the Old Town Ghost Tour through Discover Albuquerque, and it was a blast. The various Meetups offer everything from dances to coffees to concerts to political rallies (the Ron Paul people are really working it.) Group topics cover a wide range, and I suspect there’s a way to propose new ones if your particular fetish interest isn’t yet listed.

Not everybody’s in my situation: shy by nature (yes, I am) and self-employed. I’ve been way too reclusive, and hoping for a way to meet more people. This would appear to be a godsend for me.

Even if you’re not in danger of staying home alone all the time ’til you turn into a cheese, you might check it out. It seems to be a pretty cool idea. It will get better as more and more people become aware of it and sign on.

And, oh – I’m not the only registered Sense of Adventure member to belong to Meetup.com.