Signs

There are lots of signs of various descriptions in Mathews County, and one of the most commonly seen is the No Trespassing sign.  I confess to being simultaneously intimidated and challenged whenever I see one of these signs.

For example, above, the sign partners with the closed gate to say very definitively: No.

But, below, upon closer inspection of what's happening on the left, the sign seems to beg to be challenged.  "I'm trying to say stay out, but if you just step over here, there's nothing holding you back except a little swamp mud."  (And your conscience.)

Not that I would ever disobey a sign.  I'm just telling you what goes through my mind when I see things like this. My mind is a frightening place, especially when I'm exhausted--as happens to be the case tonight.

Then you have your road signs that clearly mean well--with the best of intentions--but have been tampered with and rendered absolutely useless.

For example, this sign seems to say, "Watch out!  It's 15 miles per hour as you leave the roadway, venture into the ditch, back up for a moment, and then take off into flight at a 45-degree angle."

Even though it's only Tuesday as I write this, I feel like I've been working for forty thousand days straight.

There's lots going on (my workload is doubling; my commute remains an hour each way; I need to buy a new car and a new refrigerator but have no time to research either, Daughter's basketball season is underway, which means multiple games per week after that commute from work; Daughter is ramping up for the college application process next year; Son will be undergoing another major surgery next month to reverse a procedure done two years ago; Thanksgiving and Christmas are breathing down my neck; and nothing in my house seems to be working-- for example).  

As I do from time to time, I may cut back on blogging until things level out.  I'll post here and there as time permits but not on any fixed schedule.

Also, if you will, can you tell me how that last sign could possibly have been bent in that direction? Did a speedboat in the ditch hit it?  Did the people cutting grass just decide to back up and push it this way? Or did they cut it facing traffic and just completely disregard the sign?  How do you not notice a sign like this if your job is cutting the grass roadside?

It's questions like these that keep me amused.

For hours.

I look forward to hearing your theories.

Fall

This weekend's weather could not have been more perfect.

The skies were sunny and the humidity was low.

Fall is definitely here.

The signs are everywhere.  

The soybean fields have turned from lush green to yellowish brown. 

Sunday around noon I parked the car at Aaron's Beach and jogged four and a half miles along the road and fields pictured above.  The weather was crisp, clear and beautiful; the local nuisances of horseflies, mayflies, fiddler crabs and gnats were nowhere to be found.

Unbeknownst to me, however, the praying mantises and winged monkeys grasshoppers are in full swing these days.  They blended in very well with the pavement I was pounding (and also the soybean fields I was staring at).  The grasshoppers wait until you're just about to step on them and then leap/fly up, up and away.  There were so many of them leaping/flying forth unexpectedly that at one point I started to wonder if I ought not run with my mouth closed and breathe through my nose.

Because, as it was, if even one over-sized, blending-in-to-the-road grasshopper decided at just the right time and at just the right trajectory to fly forth as I was passing by gasping for breath on my otherwise blissful run, chances were pretty good I'd choke to death on that gigantic, winged grasshopper.

I thought long and hard about the obituary and the stories that might be told to anyone inquiring about my death.  "She was running.  It wasn't her heart.  No, it wasn't that cardiac event she often worried about while practicing for that half marathon.  No, it was a grasshopper.  She choked to death on a winged-grasshopper that flew into her mouth while she was running.  They found her in the middle of Aaron's Beach Road."

Then I thought, well, as long as I'm going to die--and odds are pretty good I'm going to at some point--it might as well be a grasshopper, because at least that would be a  humorous way to go.  No?

These thoughts on changing seasons and mortality are brought to you by the number 50, which looms over my head and is about as welcome as a winged grasshopper ready to jump down my throat.

Happy Monday.

Seaweed

Times are tough when Chesapeake Bay Woman tosses up some photos taken earlier in the year of a typical Mathews shoreline sprinkled with seaweed--and then dares to call it a blog post.

 But Chesapeake Bay Woman hasn't had time to take any new pictures.  On top of that, a monsoon has hit Mathews.  There's been nothing but heavy rains, high winds and dreary skies the past week few days.

By the way, when Chesapeake Bay Woman wishes to distance herself from her worse-than-usual work, she tends to lapse into the third person.  This way, it's as if someone else is doing shoddy work.  She can pretend she has nothing to do with it, whatsoever.  On the other hand, when was the last time you saw a close-up shot of seaweed?  Doesn't it look like green linguine? Where else can you go for such riveting reading, such tantalizing topics? When was the last time you thought about seaweed?  Have you ever really thought about it for any length of time?  I have.  Or rather, Chesapeake Bay Woman has.  CBW is also tired.  Let' return to our blog post, already devolving before our very eyes.  

CBW hopes to get out on Sunday and take some new pictures.  She would do so on Saturday, but she'll be 75 miles away in Richmond at her daughter's cross country meet.  All day.

Have a wonderful weekend.

Bay Blue

As I was loading these photos of a blue Chesapeake Bay taken from the shores of Mathews County's beaches, I contemplated a title and initially came up with nothing.  I walked away, came back.

Still nothing.

Realizing I couldn't have an untitled blog post, I called Me, Myself and I to a conference and declared the need for a brainstorming session.

Me:  "I see blue."
Myself:  "It's the bay."
I:  "Blue Bay. Bay Blue. Could be a play on baby blue."

The three of us decided this was the best we could do on short notice.

The three of us are also looking forward to some down time this weekend, if that's possible.

(When teenagers and their college deadlines and post-exam celebrations are involved, odds are never not always in your favor.)

I hope your weekend is a great one.

p.s. Welcome to November. It's here already.

Gwynn's Island Bridge

After a feeble attempt at exercise last evening, I decided to drive over to Gwynn's Island to snap a few shots, knowing full well I risked being marooned stuck on the island indefinitely.

Sunday, Sheriff Mark Barrick called county residents via the emergency notification system to inform us that the bridge was stuck open and was therefore closed to vehicular traffic.  No traveling onto or off of the island. Stuck. Nobody knew when it would be fixed.  Thanks to Facebook, I learned that within several hours it had been pulled closed by some boats.

(Note:  This Facebook intel has not been confirmed, but one thing I can confirm is the bridge is now open to vehicular traffic. Also, who here is confused about the fact that an open bridge can be closed to vehicular traffic? Of that by closing the bridge it can be open to traffic? Well, an open bridge is open to marine traffic, also known as boats.  If you're ready to jump off said bridge right now due to CBW's incessant rambling, you're likely not the only one.)

Anyway.

As I drove across last evening, I could just see it.

While I was off snapping mindless photos, marveling at the sunset and scanning the skies to see what was being highlighted best, the bridge would open to let a boat pass through and stay stuck open again.

Then what?

I'd either have to swim home (not really an option) or ask Son to retrieve me in the canoe. He'd do it, perhaps, but he'd probably come up with a "better" way that wouldn't involve him paddling a canoe all the way out of Queens Creek and around to Milford Haven just to retrieve his mother and turn around and do all that paddling again.  That better way no doubt would involve what I labeled as my worst case scenario:   I figured I'd sleep in my car in the Sea Breeze parking lot, because surely that bridge would stay stuck open all night long causing me to miss work in the morning.

But wait.

How would I explain my absence from work in the morning?

CBW's brain not only keeps her vastly entertained, it allows her to create unnecessary nightmares contingency plans for survival as well as all new sources of worry, such as how long it would take her employer to call local law enforcement to verify her statements.

But this is where CBW wins!

Because when they called,  local law enforcement would sing the same song as CBW.

"The bridge is stuck open. The End."

CBW:  "Hello?  I'm sorry, I can't come to work today.  I drove over to Gwynn's Island, and the bridge got stuck open, and I'm trapped here.  No. Really.  You can't make this stuff up."

Work:  "Wait.  Where is Gwynn's Island and how does a bridge get stuck open? What do you mean there's no way off the island?  Are you sure there isn't something bigger going on here such as the size of your nose growing with all these lies, Pinocchio?"

CBW:  "Just call the sheriff.  He'll tell you."

Work:  "Note for the file:  I've never heard anything like this before. Let's keep a close eye on this one."

See the heron? I didn't notice him until after I took the picture.

Needless to say, the bridge did not malfunction last night,

and I didn't have to worry about sleeping in my car 

or what to tell my place of employment.

Thankfully.

I drove home, loaded these pictures and spent way longer than anticipated sharing my inner thoughts on the whole prospect of the Gwynn's Island bridge malfunctioning.

It malfunctioned on Sunday.  It's working now.

The End.

Six Miles or Anatomy of a Run

My six-mile run begins and ends at beautiful Bethel Beach, which is acres upon acres of swamp marsh and vast expanses of  beautiful vistas. This one happens to be of dead trees, but trust me.  It's pretty.

In a fit of winter madness, I signed up for a 10K run at the end of March even though the farthest distance I'd ever previously run was 5K, otherwise known as half as far.

Oh, also, I am 47 years old and not exactly strutting around like some spring chicken, a term I seem to have grown fond of lately, no doubt due to my love/hate/mostly shock that there's no more spring chicken in my lifetime relationship with aging.

No matter, I gradually built up to barely running six miles.

My particular route begins and ends at Bethel Beach and takes me well over an hour, usually about an hour and nine-ish minutes.

Numbers, details, specifics and particulars are not my forte, which was made abundantly clear when I signed up for a 10K as opposed to a 5K.

My only goal for this 10K is to finish without walking.  Pace and speed are a worry for another year.* I was born a sprinter. Distance running is a foreign concept to me. 15 to 16 seconds for the hurdles, and that was it for me.  All done.

As such, this particular 47-year-old jogger is not used to tapping into endurance, which is really a clever word for patience when you were born a sprinter.

Distance running easily bores me, and that translates into my becoming completely unmotivated.

Which is why the Bethel Beach route is so wonderful.

There are many things to distract you from agony boredom.  These same things also distract you from wondering, about one mile into the thing, why you suddenly feel electric shocks shooting through your right leg, which quickly turns into your right foot feeling utterly and completely useless and numb even as you continue to plod along.

You wonder what would happen if you suddenly collapsed here in the Middle of Nowhere since you're dragging one foot like Quasimodo-- even if you're not entirely sure that Quasimodo actually dragged one foot.

Still.

Who would find you and how would they know who to contact?

This is what flashes through a disturbed person's mind when they're a hypochondriac 47 and running six miles.  In the Middle of Nowhere.

That's why I look forward to seeing these goats.

These are the very same goats that sprung loose and jumped directly in front of my car one time.

(Click here for that story and photo).

Now, though, the goats and I are BFFs.  They call out to me whenever they see me, jolting me out of my Quasimodo-like foot deformity/death is nigh thoughts.

The little shed below is near the goats.  I compliment it every time I go by, but not out loud.

The goats might think I'm crazy.

Eventually I get to around the two-mile mark and remember there is a very legitimate reason why my right foot feels numb and electricity is shooting through that leg.

A couple of years ago I actually did lose some use of my foot attributed to nerve damage caused by......wait for it.....sitting at the computer too long with my legs crossed.

A nerve conduction test (also known as Modern Day Torture condoned and performed by doctors nationwide on a daily basis) confirmed there was significant damage. A year later, though, everything was just about back to normal, like the doctor said.

Click here for my 2008 post on that delightful experience.

Anyway, it starts to talk back to me on these six-mile runs, that cheeky little nerve.

Daffodils  are barely visible to the right and left of this house if you squint. 
Or pull out a magnifying glass.

After the goats, I pass some boisterous chickens who always make it clear they're the boss of their territory. The chickens mean I am close to this gorgeous house, which always beckons me to pay her a little attention. I'm very happy to oblige even if around this point I'm not feeling so great.

The goats, shed, chickens, and this house do a good job of distracting me from all that though.

There. That's a little better.  That sea of yellow on the right = daffodils.

My favorite part of the run is when I see a red barn off in the distance.  The red barn means I'm nearing this lonely horse, who always says hello even if I do look like Quasimodo a little distressed.

This horse tells me I'm nearing the halfway mark, the turning around point.

Poor baby is for sale. He always looks so forlorn.

And I am all about turning around and heading back.

Here's what the turning around point looks like in summer.
(This was taken a while back.)

This is almost 3 miles from Bethel Beach, where the car is. So even if I can't run back I am forced to at least walk.

However, I've not been forced to walk yet, electrical shocks, numb feet, and  absolutely ridiculous thoughts notwithstanding.

Usually the run back feels better than the first half, and I get to see the horse, the chickens, the house, the shed and the goats all over again.

They really do a very good job of keeping me motivated, even as I wonder how many teeth would be chipped (or lost) by falling face first on the pavement when my foot finally gives out.

That last mile in to the car can be brutal, even without the irrational thoughts. Actually, irrational thoughts make way for mind games at this point.  I have to convince myself that if I just keep going to the end, I'll win the lottery and be able to make ends meet and perhaps take a trip to Bora Bora.

I end having overcome certain negative thoughts by focusing on wholly unrealistic, yet positive, thoughts. And it works.

For some reason, however, my time gets worse each time I do this.

Whatever.

Thankfully, I'm not doing it for the time.

I'm doing it for the goats, the chickens, the house, the horse.

But most of all for me.


~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*This week's Gazette Journal features a story about an 80-year-old man on Gwynn's Island who runs six miles every single day, even in winter, unless it's raining.  80 years old!  Also, he's running the same 10K at the end of the month.  

Bushel Basket

Barely distinguishable from the sand, Saturday evening's snow still hugged this bushel basket and the surrounding random marsh grasses at Aarons Beach on Sunday morning.

Barely distinguishable from these wind-up chattering teeth were Chesapeake Bay Woman's own poor teeth as she shivered, huddled, stomped, and then bounced her way through these photographs at a very blustery Aaron's Beach.

It's surprising the amount of instant warmth you can generate by a good round of beach stomping and jumping in place. There are residual benefits as well, including stress relief, but only if nobody else is there to see you.

Then it works against you.

OK, that site linked above, with the chattering teeth, sells something else that caught my eye--Vampire Bubba Teeth (click here), not to be confused with Regular Bubba Teeth (click here).

Brrrrrr. This was facing the wind.  It was brutal.

Although I'm sure this blog post originally had a point and a direction or was at least headed somewhere reasonably productive, I must apologize and excuse myself to peruse the completely unrelated, utterly unproductive world of bubba teeth, fake bugs and rubber chickens.

Dear Spring,

If you don't hurry up and get here, there's no telling where this blog is headed, but there's a good chance its owner will be found jumping up and down wearing vampire bubba teeth on some desolate, isolated Mathews County beach. I eagerly anticipate your arrival so things can return to normal, where "normal" is defined as only wearing crab hats for stress relief.

Thank you,
CBW

p.s. Please click this link for my mother's blog post about Gustav's Valentine's Day fiasco adventure. Because the way we amuse ourselves, particularly in the winter, evidently runs in the family. Some of us, however, require more accoutrements than others.

********
If you are interested in a 20% discount and free shipping for my book on Mathews County, which did not once reference bubba teeth or rubber chickens, but perhaps did make a vague reference to this county's isolation from mainstream society,  please click the link at the upper right corner of this page or  here for Arcadia Publishing's special promotion, which runs until Sunday. Use the coupon code of MATHEWS at checkout. 

Signs

Williams Wharf

..."Signs, signs, everywhere there's signs

The boathouse at Williams Wharf

Blocking up the scenery, breaking my mind

Just a random No Trespassing sign

Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?" 


( Youngsters who have never heard the song, click here. )

It's a swamp filled with fiddler crabs and water moccasins.  

CBW's answer:  Yes, I can read the sign.

But I can't seem to heed the sign....

And really do we need the sign?

Because maybe the sign just makes me want to do the very thing it's discouraging all the more.

But for the record, I am a long-haired freaky person a law-abiding citizen.

***********

Are there any unusual or noteworthy signs near you?

Who here remembers the railroad crossing sign next to the high school?  

Three Things

-near Public Landing, Onemo, VA

Welcome to another edition of Three Thing Thursday, where we share three random thoughts on any topic at all (provided it's suitable for a PG audience).

Let's go.

1. Am I the only one who cringes, flinches, slams on the imaginary brakes and then lets out a scream when the car hits a butterfly? Tonight driving down the Colonial Parkway, I hit two butterflies (in separate incidents) and was troubled the whole way home, which is approximately sixty thousand fifty miles. It takes them so long and they go through so much just to get their wings, then off they fly until WHAM they're hit by a car and I scream and then nobody thinks of that butterfly ever again. The End. Yes, I am weird.

2. Yesterday at the paying job, our new admin person-a most delightful individual who will soon be my BFF--said, "I haven't heard coffee lately." She knows since I'm the first one in every day, I always make the coffee. But she doesn't drink it, so I was a bit puzzled as to why she'd notice whether the coffee pot was brewing or not.

Nevertheless, the rest of the conversation went like this:

CBW, who drinks three pots of coffee before 10 a.m. and is still sniffing around for more: "No, I didn't make any this morning, because we ran out. I have to bring some more in next week."

Delightful Person, who drinks hot tea: blank stare

CBW, nervously trying to fill in the silence: "Actually I did make some yesterday but couldn't muster the energy to make any on Monday, because I was too sick. But yesterday? There was a whole pot just a-waiting. "

CBW: Wonders why Delightful Person Who Drinks Tea Not Coffee is smiling politely but not saying a word.

CBW: "Yeah, I do try to make it every day and will get back on the stick next week."

Delightful Person: Continues to employ the "pregnant pause."

Delightful Person: "I was talking about coughing. I hadn't heard (you) coughing lately."

CBW, who has been sick all week spreading germs throughout her work environment: "Oh! Well then, that's a different story entirely. Neeever mind. Yes, I'm feeling better, thank you."

CBW: Laughs nervously, then crawls back into her cave of an office where she writes a Note to Self on a Post-It to buy some Q-tips. Or a hearing aid. Or a four-pronged walker. Or a cemetery plot.

3. My son is having a party here tomorrow night, one which includes girls. I'm distracting myself by obsessing fretting over the menu.

Now it's your turn to share three (or more) things, whatever you want, anything at all.

If you can't think of three things, leave a suggestion as to what I can feed approximately 10-15 starving teenagers who can eat around the clock. Then leave a suggestion as to how a mother is to survive the whole ordeal.

The Skiff

Warning: Thanks to the plague a really bad cold, CBW presents a post loaded with far more ridiculosity* than usual. Please accept her sincerest apologies for the mental roller coaster ride that follows. Thank you, and come again soon.

The term "skiff" is loosely applied to all sorts of small boats but to me there's only one type of skiff, and it's pictured above.

Skiff is a funny word, don't you think? I mean really. Say it a few times. Skiff. Skiff. Skiff. It sounds like something is wrong or something is missing, no? Like there should be more to the word but somebody forgot a letter. Or something.

Our very first boats were wooden skiffs. One was a rowboat with oarlocks; the other was like the one above, which used to be pretty standard fare around here. My mother, who loved to crab, would stand on the bow and use the pole end of the crab net to push herself through the shallow areas of our cove. When she saw a crab she'd reach over and scoop him up with the net.

We never really did the whole "tie a chicken neck to a string" method of crabbing other than a few times, maybe. There were so many crabs, we could just sit and wait for them to jump right into the boat come near us and scoop them up without the need for bait. Plus, why go to all that trouble when you could just set pots?

The previous paragraph is sponsored by the same portion of a person's brain responsible for "fish tales" or stories about "the one that got away." It's quite probable possible that we did use bait more than a couple of times, but my brain only remembers waiting patiently for the crabs to come near the boat and scooping them up. Oh, also? I'm still sick and I think the sinus pressure has exacerbated my ADD is killing off the last few remaining brain cells that didn't kick the bucket a few weeks ago at Blog Fest.

But back to the topic at hand, which is not crabbing or sinus pressure or please get me some decongestant or fish tales or bait so happens to be skiffs.

The other day I was reading some entries in my childhood diary trying to discern where my life started to unravel and came upon this entry dated April 25, 1974:

Dear Diary,

Today is Thursday. I went to school. It was cold. We had a test. It was hard. I rode Thunder when I got home. I watched the Waltons on TV.

CBW
Age 9

This isn't the exact entry I wanted to show you, but this clearly demonstrates that my ability to construct complex sentences is no further developed at age 45 1/2 than it was at age 9. Seriously.

But once again we really must focus on return to the topic at hand, which is not my writing skills or lack thereof or the Waltons even is the silly sounding word "skiff."

April 26, 1974
Dear Diary,
Today I went to school. I came home and rode Thunder, my pony. It is hot! We went over Charlie's house and borrowed his skift (sic), which is a little boat. Daddy had to do something under the dock. I had chicken for supper.

CBW
Age 9

See? Even then I thought something was wrong with the word. Skift sounds more like a complete word, there's nothing missing. Skiff sort of leaves you hanging, wondering where the rest of the word is. It's like saying "adriff" instead of "adrift."

Or something.

The End.

p.s. Remember, the sinus pressure is limiting the amount of blood and oxygen flowing to my one and only brain cell. Please tune in tomorrow, when hopefully the Mucinex--or a sledge hammer--has released some of the death grip of pressure on my sinus cavities.

*Ridiculosity is definitely a word. You'll find it just before "skift" in any dictionary.

A Conversation with Gustav

Below is a recent conversation between Chesapeake Bay Woman and Gustav, the killer beast of a winged demon goose who resides next door at CB Mother's wildlife refuge:

Gustav, to himself: (Jeeminy Christmas. What does she want now? Quick, maybe I can get away before she starts yackin' aimlessly. She always accuses me of being evil. Little does she know I have good friends in high places, like California and Texas. Canada even.)

CBW: Hey, Gustav. I never spent much time on Facebook back in the Dark Ages when I had dial-up internet, but now that Jim from Hallieford has hooked me up and dragged me into the current century, I've been visiting more frequently. Imagine my surprise when I logged on last night and saw you conversing with people--people I know!


Gustav, beginning to swell with pride: Oh, well then, that's different. Let me slow down for a chat. Yes, of course I have a Facebook account, I even have a fan club. I have friends--and lots of them. Many of them are coming to Blog Fest 2010, which is exactly a month from today, and last time I checked there's no law saying I can't be friends with your friends.

CBW: (Insert sounds of crickets chirping here because CBW has done this much to prepare for Blog Fest: a big Gustav egg-- if Gustav could actually lay an egg, which he can't, unless there's something I'm missing. This ridiculous sentence is now over.)

CBW: Blog Fest is exactly one month from today? One month? Just the other day it was four months away. One month?

Gustav: Girlfriend, I don't stutter. Hiss, yes. Stutter, no.

CBW, frantically pushing the internal emotion button labeled Avoidance and Denial for Survival, because she has done nothing to prepare for Blog Fest other than think about it: OK, well, never mind about Blog Fest and Facebook. Do you think it's at all possible for you to smile for the camera? Would it kill you?

Gustav: It might. Anyway, I am smiling! It's your tough toenails if you can't see it. But if you insist, I'll try harder. How's this?



p.s. Big Hair Envy and I do intend to talk about focus on Blog Fest over the next week(-ish), so thanks for your patience.

p.s.s.t. Does anyone want a winged demon goose on the noose loose?

Graduation

This cute red shack lives at the intersection of some major roads leading to the county beaches. Or maybe this is a major intersection of some cute red roads leading to the county beaches. How about a cute red intersection leading to a major county beach and on the way there's a shack?

Either way, no matter how you slice and dice it, today Chesapeake Bay Woman is so worn out and spread so thin that she can't correctly situate her adjectives or construct a proper sentence can't see straight and wonders why she refers to herself in the third person, as if to distance herself from herself.

After reflecting upon that opening paragraph, she understands and no longer wonders about the need for distance.

This week Chesapeake Bay Son graduates from 8th grade, and aside from the fact that I never knew one graduated from 8th grade, this entails an awards ceremony today; an 8th grade dinner tomorrow night, and a graduation ceremony on Friday morning followed by lunch and then a pool party down Ware Neck. Then he takes off for a week at the beach with a friend.

I went from 8th grade to 9th grade without anyone's acknowledgement any ado; graduated from high school with a class party down Port Haywood where I slept in the back of a Volkswagen Vanagon with six other people; then graduated from a major university. I don't remember pool parties or ceremonies or free beach vacations being involved.

Yet I'm very proud of him and will try not to make comparisons happily cheer him on at each event.

Do you remember any major graduation festivities other than college or high school? What is your most vivid memory of any graduation event?

Conversation with a Cormorant

Cormorant (rolling eyes): Oh no, not her again.

Chesapeake Bay Woman: Hi, Mr. Cormorant!

Cormorant: How do you know I'm a cormorant?

CBW: I don't. I'm just making an educated guess.

Cormorant: Did you know cormorants don't talk?

CBW: Who says they don't?

Cormorant: Most sane people. Normal types who don't have conversations with aquatic birds and then post said conversations on the internet.

CBW: I never claimed to be one of those.

Cormorant: Clearly.

CBW: What are you doing over the upcoming Memorial Day weekend?

Cormorant: What part of "cormorants don't talk" did you not understand?

CBW: All of it.

Cormorant: You have issues.

CBW: And yet you keep talking to me. Anyway, Friday I am leaving for the Eastern Shore to go (drum roll) CAMPING.

Cormorant: Oh no. Not that. Haven't you learned from past camping trips that all you're asking for is a disaster such as a hurricane, a tropical storm, a nor'easter, an insect infestation, a thrown-out back, a case of almost-appendicitis, sweltering heat, jungle humidity, crowded bathhouses or all of the above--and worse more?

CBW: And your point is...?

Cormorant: Gotta go. Have to call my friends over on the Eastern Shore and tell them to get out of Dodge, or at least out of the greater Cheriton/Cape Charles vicinity, before the Disaster Magnet arrives in town on Friday.

CBW: Party pooper.

Since I could easily continue this conversation for a minimum of three days without taking a breath, I'm forcing it to come to a merciful conclusion.

But in two days the Chesapeake Bay Children and I *will* be going camping, and although I'm getting very excited, there is a small part of me that is a little nervous based on past disasters experiences.

Stupid cormorant.

How will you be ushering in the start of summer? Has anyone heard the extended forecast for the Eastern Shore? Are locust swarms predicted?

Gustav and Friends

Here is my mother's killer goose, Gustav, frolicking amongst daffodils with one of his friends from Canada. I snuck up on him the other day and overheard this conversation:

Gustav: "Did you hear all the commotion going on around these parts last night?"

Canada Goose: "No, I had to run up the creek and spend the night with my wife in the cove. She gets mad if I stay out past sunset because she has to sit on the nest all day long without a break and claims she has to do 'everything' while I'm out gallivanting with those white geese."

Gustav: "Well, count your lucky stars. That crazy, frizzy-haired Chesapeake Bay Woman next door was whoopin' and hollerin' last night, and nobody could sleep."

Canada Goose: "I've heard similar antics during the day and pretend not to notice. What happened this time--ants everywhere? Snakes in the yard? Spiders? Rodents in the attic? A dead opossum on the shoreline? Fiddler crabs in the garage? Have mercy, it's always something goin' on over there."

Gustav: "No. This was a different sort of shriek. Evidently after a long day at work, she came home and ran around like a chicken with her head but unfortunately not that frizzy hair cut off. Hoping to soothe her last unplucked nerve, she gave the shower door a good yank and it fell off its hinges, sending her backwards as she struggled to keep the glass door upright."

Canada Goose: "What is wrong with her that every day something either breaks, invades her home, or turns into a disaster?"

Gustav: "She's a magnet for disasters. I try to keep my distance and when she gets too close I let her have it with the hissin' and the spittin'. This is somehow translated into Gustav is evil!, but let me tell you somethin'. I want no parts of that frizzy-haired woman and all her shrieks and disasters."


Gustav: "Don't look now, but I think she heard what I said. Quick, act like you have some sense and pretend we were talking about the weather or the cracked corn buffet over here in Chesapeake Bay Mother's Wild Kingdom. If she gets too close, though, you have my permission to bite hiss and spit. You must save yourself and your family."

In unrelated news, Chesapeake Bay Mother is concocting some Gustav memorabilia for Blog Fest this summer. Thus far, T-shirts and coffee cups have been discussed, but no matter what he will be depicted in his preferred stance, which is: neck arched, mouth wide open, and pitchfork under his right wing tongue stuck out in his best hiss.

Full Moon

Early Saturday evening a most unexpected visitor came knocking on my back door. It wasn't the usual northeast wind or horizontal rain or my twenty-seven starving cats. Nor was it a hungry heron, a Canada goose or a herd of savage fiddler crabs a next-door neighbor coming over to borrow a cup of flour.

It was a gorgeous, gorgeous moon.

Let your eyes wander slowly from that moon up high down to the horizon which slowly turns from pink to blue.

"The water is my tranquilizer," is my new favorite saying, but the water plus a sunset plus a full moon? That's Heaven on Earth.

The more I'm here and the lazier older I get, the more I hate leaving even to go to the next county over for whatever item might be required from civilization, although I must say that there's nothing civilized about Wal-Mutant, or Route 17.

Anyway, Mondays--which are not especially popular with most people to begin with--are particularly difficult for me. It isn't just the getting up and going to work, but it's the leaving part. Just leaving the county is drudgery. Even if I had the same hour-long commute but could stay within the confines of this county, I'd be fine with that.

Instead, the car takes me from this rural retreat to the urban jungle which becomes more and more repulsive every time I see it. Toss in the monotony and, quite frankly, the ridiculosity (it's a word) of my paying job, and you'll know why I would never want to leave here.

Once you have heard the lark, known the swish of feet through hill-top grass and smelt the earth made ready for the seed, you are never again going to be fully happy about the cities and towns that man carries like a crippling weight upon his back. ~Gwyn Thomas

To find the universal elements enough; to find the air and the water exhilarating; to be refreshed by a morning walk or an evening saunter; to be thrilled by the stars at night; to be elated over a bird's nest or a wildflower in spring - these are some of the rewards of the simple life. ~John Burroughs

Take one full moon rising over the creek, add the scent of cold air mixed with salt water and a hint of a brush fire off in the distance. Sprinkle generously with the absence of sound except for the heartbeat of the universe and the calls of the occasional bird. This is the recipe for Calm. To achieve the opposite result, throw in a Monday, a commute to the city, and a day full of ridiculosity. (It really is a word.) - Chesapeake Bay Woman

May your day be filled with calm and not ridiculosity. (Seriously, it's my life a word.)

The Conversation

This lucky sea gull is perched near the Sea Breeze. He's lucky because he's not trapped in a training class for five days straight with no access to the internet. He's not missing his children's basketball games. He's able to enjoy the peace and quiet and relax. He's not stressed.

This week I'm in Northern Virginia without access to the blogosphere--or my children. Although I wrote this post last Saturday, I'd like to make a prediction about today, Wednesday: I'M READY TO COME HOME.

Update (as of Tuesday night): I am spending $6.00 for fifteen minutes on here to say I AM READY TO COME HOME BEFORE I GAIN 20 POUNDS. Vietnamese, Mexican, and now I see there is a Thai place right near where I'm staying. Too much. It's just too much. I'd be 400 pounds if I lived up here, plus I'm not exercising at all. OK, enough whining.

I've notified this sea gull that I'd like to be rescued. Here's how that conversation went:

CBW: "Hey, Gull. It's CBW."

Gull: (silence)

CBW: "Listen, I know this is asking a lot, but can you fly up here and take me back home? I've had enough."

Gull: "What?"

CBW: "I know it's asking a lot, but if you come rescue me I'll be your BFF."

Gull: "You better come up with another offer. That's not cuttin' it."

CBW: "Popcorn and bread crumbs for life?"

Gull: "Deal."

So, folks, as you can see I've officially lost my marbles and have resorted to talking about flying home with a sea gull even though as I write this I haven't even left home yet.

Update: As of Tuesday night, it would take a 747 to lift me off the ground now after all I've been eating. Please get me out of here before I hit someone in the eye with the buttons popping off my clothes.

If you can follow any of this madness, you should seek medical attention immediately you're doin' good.

Now it's your turn. Tell me what conversation you'd have with this sea gull. Or tell me what sort of food you'd want if you could have anything that is currently not available to you.

Then contact your nearest mental health professional. Tell 'em the talking sea gull CBW sent you.