Shooting One Up

"... and thank you for finding a kidney match for my friend Curly Haired Heidi, and her brave cousin who is donating her organ, bless them as I lift them up to you for your safe keeping as they recover in Mayo. Thank you for giving my friend Mitch someone new in his life to share ice cream with so he is not alone in his mourning. You kept Mickey and everyone around him safe and I thank you for that. Thank you for healing Eli's heart Lord. Thank you for the new job and all the great new friends I have made, both near and far. Thank you for my Sis and her shop and all the joy they bring me. I appreciate all my family. Thank you for giving me my husband and making his health better and giving us strength when we needed it. Thank you for giving me the challenge of my boys and letting me be their mom. Thank you God for my health and growing wisdom and bounty of blessing unmentioned...."

Who Knew

Here are some of the things I learned today:


Trying to perform a one handed ollie with a reverse kick up, even without a skate board on your living room floor is indeed harder than it looks. And much more painful.

Left over Halloween candy is a nutritious and appropriate breakfast for a growing child.

A jeep cherokee will not start after leaving every dome light on over night. Even if you happen to turn off the radio before you try turning the engine.

Answering your telephone when it rings by asking the question, "Hello, is Munkay there please?", confuses the caller. Continue with, "When do you expect her home then?", aggravates.

No matter how high of heels I wear, I am not leggy model material. Although it does somewhat give me the illusion of height, it is overshadowed by the clumsy factor.

Four pounds of cheese will not kill a dog. Just make him gassy.

The term "upper cut" is incorrect. It is apricot. As in ,"Mom! K1 just hit me with an apricot to my gut!".

Other corporate wives expect their hubbies to go on golf seminars in warm climates without them.

It is official, once a lad reaches the age of 13, he is a man. Men NEED video games to protect their manly status.

My neighbor really does know it all.

A nice piece of haddock from Iceland, when properly prepared will remind me of Professor Batty. If served with a simple dill sauce for waves, it will resemble a "Swan". That is the name of the post that turned me on to Flippism. Cooking fish to resemble foul upsets people, they just can't see it as art.

Wearing your tightest pair of jeans will not distract attention to the hair you have not had time to wash in 2 days.

I can, when challenged, fit an entire kit kat candy bar, in it's wrapper, sideways in my mouth without breaking it.

Trying to remove an entire kit kat candy bar from my mouth causes severe gagging and anxiety.

Gassy dogs will eat what ever I spit out.

Most people are stupider than they look. Munkays twice as much so.

Yelling obscenities will not get your battery charger to work. It will infact only embarrass the cheese lovin dog.

Hubbys will think your candy wedging ability as "hot".

That was today's pearls of wisdom. I hope you are not now stupider for having read this.

B.S., (thats like p.s. for postal script except the B is for blog) A munkay cannot be taught how to use a spell check.

No Rose Colored Glasses Here

5-7-5 For Ella

Pink was Ella's favorite color
Casket, floweres, outfit all in blushing hue
Sad was the day, goodbye.


This is not a poem but a curse to anyone foolish enought to walk into a flower shop and exclaim, "Oh how lucky you are to have a job were you get to play with flowers all day." These are the people who do not notice my sisters hands as they bleed from the chemicals used and the damage a rose can cause to your skin. When she smiles patently at them and asks, "How may I help you today?" they cannot see the tiredness behind the eyes that had not had the chance for sleep. Spending an intire Sunday rushing to get to a mortuary so the grieving family has a little bit of beauty in their time of sorrow is no cake walk. There is no joy in decorating a casket, even that of a stranger.

reminiscence of ice

Redolent blue cold is the soul from the north ticking in my cellar to warm . Soul that had expired in the ticking north of the warm shyly hesitant in emerging. Cellar now holds redolent souls cold from the blue north unforgiving. I gaze in my mirror my souls refection now ticking.

"Let Me introduce You..."

I'd like you to have the pleasure of meeting the canines in my neighborhood. Most are good friends that I spend time with everyday while I am on my run. They are always there for me. The dogs of my hood.

First one is Buck, owner and protector of the Jakes. A Rottweiler mix, Buck is strong and loyal. But he will not even notice me as I pad by, unless I have a boy accompanying me. Bucky's yard and home is beautiful and well kept, by his single mom. But sadly there often is no food for Buck. Bucky always travels with the Jakes when they visit. Hubby wonders why we go through so much dog food.

Around the corner and behind the white gated fence is my pal I have named, Ollie the Collie. The stables that Ollie tend are prettier and better kept than most homes in the area. Hyper Ollie charges at me barking every day as if to scold me for not being at work and being more productive. He only allows me only brief acknowledgement before turning back to his job of checking the horses, herding the farm cats, or driving off a squirrel. He is all about business that Ollie.

Down the road a ways is my divine Hail Dog. Hail Dog never comes close to me, remaining somewhat aloof, but I witness his black form out in the front yard next to Bathtub Mary. I know his owners are religious if they have a statue of Mother Mary protected by an old bathtub set on end. I wonder if they genuflect when I elate a rejoyful "Hail Dog", as I pass.

If their people aren't home, Itchy and Scratchy on the bend, come out to start something. They never bother me, as they as gutless wonders. They are more chicken than dog and only brave enough to bark smack, as they follow me with the sole purpose of antagonizing other dogs while they cower behind my legs. Itchy and Scratchy only fight between themselves and once I reach the Wild Tree Mutts, they turn tail and run.

I have never seen The Wild Tree Mutts. I do not even know how many there are. Might be two, could be a dozen. Their bark is loud and as they thunder towards my direction they sound like the hounds of hell. I cannot see them behind the thick evergreens that stand in front of their containment. They are all bark because as soon as I acknowledge them with a loud "GO", the race is one. They always beat me to their corner, where they wait for be to catch up emanating their challenging taunts at me for being so slow.

As I struggle to my halfway mark up the killer hill, two and a half miles from home, I sometimes hear, sometimes see, Eli's dog, Tobby. Tobby never really knows if he is afoot or adrift. Toby has a very short attention span and doesn't always remember if he likes me or not. He has a habit of forgetting that I stopped and petted him on my way up the hill, on my return a few minutes later when he alerts everyone with startled yip or a growl. That reminds me I gotta return the sweatshirt Eli left last night at my house. And the one the night before that.

I know Decoy the black lab's name because his owner yells it when he sees his animal run out to greet me. His yard has numerous fishing boats and hunting parafenallia decorating it. Decoy doesn't bark so at the sound of his name, I instictly pull my hands up into my sleeves to avoid the run by puppy kisses that dog always gives my uncovered hand. Nothing says lovin like some doggy slobber. Decoy, ever the gentleman only kisses my hand.

The Violater is Decoy's neighbor and evil twin. The Violater has no manners. That dog takes liberties that I'd call the authorities and press charges for, if it wouldn't sound ridiculous. I should carry pepper spray for that animal. My patented for a canine groin guard will be named after him.

Sun Dog is a big yellow dog who lays on his warm steps in the sun to lazy to get up and visit with me. Best he can do is roll over with a lackadaisical "woof", if he has the energy. The only thing that changes in his domain is the number of automobiles in various stages of repair in Sun Doggy's yard.

Big Bad Menace is a huge German Shepard with some anger issuses. I would be too if I were to be kept on such a short chain. I know it is his road but hey, he probley smells all the other dogs on me and feels left out. I'd act to if so left out of the clique. The happy little peace flag at the end of his driveway fools noone.

Chester is my love puppy. He is a big harmless mix breed dog so ugly he is funny. Chester is in constant state of molt with perhalps a little mange. His body an eclectic arrangement of heritage. He is the ultimate in flirt. Chester knows he's got it going on. "Chester, (his real name) baby, please come out and let me run my fingers through that hair", I beg him as he struts his macho strut and he swags his tail halfway down his drive way. Chester will not share his mojo with me. He stops and turns his back on me and looks back over his shoulder teasingly before returning to his bright neon blue house.

I rarely get to see Inookook, but she is my favorite. It was along time before I had even seen this husky. She is still, silent as she sits on the edge of the driveway hidden in the birch trees. Her grey and white coat camouflage her well. The only thing on her that moves are her bright blue eyes as they follow me. She is a dignified dog. Quiet and reserved. I at first was self conscious under her scrutiny. She sees through me with the eaons of wisdom behind those amazing eyes. Inookook has my respect.

The busybody of the neighbor hood, Eddy's little bell that he wears on his collar annocesses his short visit. Being a social butterfly, it is up to this little Jack Russell terrier to know the who, what and why of the area. I must not be of great enough interested to Eddy, he flits off in search of better excitement.

The Coup is not a dog. But a bunch of funky chickens. Exotic breed birds they roam were ever they want on this dead end road. They always run squawking off as I approach. Occasionally I will find an egg in the gravel along the side the road. I actually followed them across the road one day. I had to chase them back to their own yard after becoming lost in the cattails. (Why did the chicken cross..) Entertaining, but I can't hold a conversation with them.

Listen, and sometimes when the widows are open, so he can catch a whiff of me, I am able to hear BB. Hound. His mournful blusey, "Owwwww,woow owww", echoes his lament of being kept inside. I have seen him only once on the front step, his sad face puddling around his short little legs. Sing it like it is, BB, sing it like it is.

Now we have come to the dead end of the road and to my nemesis, Mimi's territory. Mimi, is a little white bow wearing yap dog. As I cautiously scale the embankment leading into the one wooded quarter mile path of solitude, Mimi follows. "Yip, yip, yappity, yap, yap, " she badgers at my heels. If I stop, she stops, When I continue, so does she. I have tried numerous times to befriend that little bag of hot air. As soon as I turn around and bend down to her own level, she skurries away a few feet, to continue harassing my at a safe distance, interrupting my peaceful one with nature time. I have resorted to playing her bluff after futile attempts of peace making, by charging at the nasty little critter, hoping to scare her home. She stays farther back, but does not stop. Someday, that mutt will go death after I do catch her and lock her in the metal mailbox at the end of her drive, from the ringing in her ears from her own barks.

Harley, I am not quite certain which son he belongs too, is most often out with Grampa Doug. Grampa Doug is a father of four sons who, after they grew up, all built their own house within a stones throw from Doug's house. They are all married with lovely wives and kids of their own. Every generation of that family is into motorcycles and motosport racing. Three of the four sons have followed Dougs calling and became ministers. The youngest son, drums in a famous Christian rock band. Unfortunately Doug was in an accident causing brain trauma and can no longer preach, due to the memory loss and uncontrollable foul language that pours out of him while he is stressed. Both Harley and Doug spend a lot of time out in the yard, Doug working on his ever growing wood pile, and Harley now his limited congregation. I often sit on a stump to catch my breath and gain insight.

Last is Fluff Puppies home. Their abode is sorely neglected and in need of repair. Their mom, an aging woman has never married and lives there with her elderly father. Her show dog are the love of her life and she affords them by working as a dog groomer. Fluff Puppies are four top of the gene line type of exotic poodle's. One of them costs more than my car. Late at night I can here her calling them in after she has had too many greyhounds to drink. "Babies.... Babies? BABIES! YOU GET YOUR DAMN ASSES IN HERE RIGHT NOW!.... There's mamma's gurrlss."

Yeah, now I am home. As I sprint energize from my exertion up my porch steps I see Clyde, our big, calm, copper colored Chesapeake Bay retriever clumsily strain to get his age worn legs up off our door matt. He wags his tail just once looking at me threw his penny hued eyes as he waits for my brief unthinking pat on his head. I bought Clyde for my Hubbies Christmas present nine years ago. I tied a red velvet bow around the fat little puppy that resembled a bear cub. Hubby was delighted. Clyde was banned to sleep in our bathroom the first night, being that it was the only uncarpeted room in the house. Next morning I opened the bathroom door to find my Hubby asleep on the floor like a little boy, one arm around his new best friend so he would not be scared or alone.

They say owners resemble their pets. That Clyde is one fine dog.

Roses Are Thanksgiving

Roses are red,
this seasons holiday center pieces an autumn hue,
I have me a whole butt load of cooking to do.
I enjoy feeding the hungry masses, my crew,
this year though, lets order in a nice turkey pizza,
some movies, and screw.

The Drive

As he packs I purposely avoid his eye. I flitter around the rooms perimeter, with no other specific purpose other than to reassure myself he has not yet gone. He tries to include me, indirectly, by talking to "himself" out loud while he gathers and organizes his things. This is a part of our separation ritual. This is not the first nor last time we will play out this little senario. We know the steps to this dance all too well.

But this time I had him for an entire month. This is an unheard of occurrence in the dozen or so years we have spent as parents. I have had him here one other time, but as he was unconscious during a large majority of that visit, it's time does not count. The stress related anurism that tore his heart apart six years ago, drew us closer together. I realized then I would not have his visits, no matter how long, forever. I am lucky to have him at any time.

He does not have his own closet, or dresser drawer in our home. He is never here long enough to make it necessary. His suitcase, on the otherhand, has it's own designated spot by the door. I am fortunate to be able to curse it when I trip over it.

"I will never leave you", he promised me often in our early days together. As if he could pry me away if he had wanted. I went with him then, enjoying our gypsy lifestyle. But to afford the reason it pains his heart to have to go, he does. The good things in life, our family, does not come for free. But that is only part of the cause of his long abstinence.

He could take a couple steps down his corporate ladder and take a permenant in state job, closer to home. A demotion would not make him happy. I would have to take a couple leaps up to make a pay balance. Working more hours myself would not guarantee us more time together

In our honeymoon season my Hubby would drive us around the city looking at it's skyline. He would then pick out a tower crane off in the distance as our destination and drive close to it to admire the building's construction in progress. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he studied it's shell like a work of art, blue prints forming in his mind. "Someday, Baby,someday...", he would say softly, "someday I'm going to be the one building sky scrapers." And I always knew he would. I am his first love, but construction is his passion.

There is something to be said about his ambition. I admire how he has always know what he has wanted to do. In junior high shop class he decide his career and has stuck to it. He aced college before carpentry school. The day after he graduated he woke up early and followed an empty dump truck to find out were it was heading. He knew it would go back to a job site so when he knocked on the office trailer and asked the foreman for a job, his creative incentive got him a job when there were few to be had. It upset Hubby when his new boss would not let him start that day, he had to wait until the next day. He has worked for the same company ever since. He purely loves what he does. He has told me over the years, "I'd do this even if they didn't pay me. I envy that. I would never ask him to change.

Even though he is not one to complain about the long early hours, or the high pressure involved in his work, he does pay a price. He is still the first person I talk to evey morning, and the last at night, but it is on the phone. Computer screen images keep us close. When friends ask us how do you do it? I ask myself the very same question. I do not know any other way. "Where is your husbands next project ?" the neighbors will ask. I will never know the answer as it will be were he is most needed at the time. "For how long?", is the follow up question. As if it mattered. It is not here. Never here for longer than a weekend. It is lonely as hell at times, late night especially difficult. But unlike many service wives, I know my husband is coming home most weekends. That thought keeps me sane and grounded.

I know it is hard for our kids too. Being told you are the man of the house is one thing. Having to act like one when you are missing your father is another. When K1 tried to smuggle himself along, by hiding in his dads truck to go with him to the airport , it was heart wrenching . He could not understand the airport was only a stepping stone to Hubby's finale destination which was even farther away. In his mind, Dad was only driving to the airport.

"This one is only a year long project", Hubby tells me as he closes his bulging case. "Sure", I answer, knowing full well it is phase one of a three year project. "How many million?", I quiz him. "Two hundred fifty eight million". "In one year?", I push. "No" he says, knowing I am on to his ruse, that is the three year projected cost. "Ahh", I play along. I have been with him too long for him to fool me.

"K1, carry my suitcase out to the truck for me, it's time for me to go." "Time to drive to the airport?, our boys ask. "Yes, K2, grab my laptop, I'll need it for the long wait at the terminal. Take good care of your mother," he tells my boys as we follow him out the door for more good bye hugs. "Call me if you need me, I'm only as far away as the airport." We are all crying now and trying to believe our little charade. "See you in a week", he calls out the window as he pulls away. "We'll be right here."

I miss him before he even before he leaves our yard. The airport is only an hour away. Damn that drive.

Dinner and a Show

I've enjoyed a copious amount of wonderful food in my life. I have had the pleasure to partake numerous epicurious delights and gastronomic wonders. I have even managed to construct a few of my own tasty meals. But last summer I sampled one that stands out above all others.

As I recall, it was a warm July evening in our little suburban nirvana. My youngest son, K2 is watching me assemble the ingredients for potato salad. "What else is for dinner Mom?" "Baked beans, watermelon, brauts," is my answer. "Brauts on the grill?," he asks, as I notice the little spark light in my young piro's eyes. "Yes, on the grill", I answer chopping onions as I do, knowing full well what he will ask next. "Can I help?." "Of course". "Can I cook them myself ?", he then ventured to ask." "Hmmm", I vacillate on this one. "Please Mom, Please? I'll do it real good! I know how! Dad and I have done it a million times." "Ok, K2", I concede, "But I help you light the charcoal-deal?""Woot!" yells my happy little camper as he disappears out the side door to our lawn.

I find the matches and together we start the flames burning. After a few minutes I bring out the platter of meat and set it on the pick nick table and roughly calculate the amount of weenies that will be fed to our Chesapeake Bay retriever and the loss of the ones that will be covered in ash. It's ok, I figure, we can fill up on salad if need be, this is important to my son. As I hand him our extra long handled tongs, I remind him, once again, "Stand back and don't get too close to the flames. Most people get burned when their clothes catch fire." "I know Mom", he answers looking at me as if I were the child here. "Just go back in the house, I'm doing it. I got it under control. This is man's work here," he demises me. I chuckle at how much he sounded like his father as I turned back to the house so he could prove to me he was capable of this responsibility.

I am setting the table and slicing watermelon next to my open kitchen window. I can hear my son singing softly but cannot see him. After what I determine to be long enough to cook our food, I find an excuse to go outside to check on my young chef. I open my door quietly and go around the corner to see K2, singing and dancing, standing way back from the grill, holding the long tongs in his extended hands. He completely bare butt naked.

He was not going to set his clothes on fire.

Best meal ever.

Without Passion

Roses are red,
violets are ordinary.
I hope you know that you are temporary.
Until I find love with a capital L,
you will briefly sufice,
and don't hardly smell.

Beware of the Backsides of Snakes

Conversation with an emotional retart-


idiot- " I can't believe anyone would do something so low!"

wiseone- "Grow up, this is no skock to you. Did you expect anything diferent? Consider the source."

idot- "But shit, even that amazes me. I can't phantom doing that."

wiseone-"Get real- you are feeding on the negitive. That,s what attracted you in the first place. The negitive drama."

idot- "No- I am NOT dramatic! I was straight up doing that!"

wiseone- "You did not NEED to do that. Back a snake into a corner, do not act all surprised on his reaction. You were bored and things were going to well for you and you needed a shake up, a negitive fix."

idot- "But...I wanted just to..."

wiseone- "You will never hear an apoligy or admit he was wrong. You know that."

idot- I know, I just wanted my...."

wiseone- "Knock it off, he won that dirty game from day one. I know it hurts, just walk away the better person. You cannot ever fix or right it. If you are upset then he is effectivly causing you pain. He wins then."

idot- "Duhhh- hitting forhead on countertop."

wiseone-"Stop that- you do not need to hurt yourself I keep telling you. Causing yourself brain trama can cause you to revert to crawling on your belly yourself. Then you can find your own nice rock to hide under".

idot-"Damn you for being so right."

wiseone-"Hang with an asshole, expect only shit".

idot- "Can I quote you on that?"

wiseone- "Make it your mantra to stop you from the drama bullshit."

idot- "Want some candy? Drama free?"

Sugar Pie Honey Bunch

This little munkay has a monkey on her back and it's name is sugar. It is my drug of choice. It has it's sticky grip in me and I can't shake it no matter how many ho-ho's I swallow. I eat and I eat and I eat and I still can't lose weight. With my body chemistry, I am so sweet I make honey bitter.

Maybe it started with that cheese cake day I had a while back, I dunno. But when my kids came home with twenty pound of halloween candy I knew I was in for a rocky road ahead. Twenty sweet delicious pounds and not a single Dot in those bags. That has forced me to eat the non-Dot type candy in retaliation.

It was my kids who pointed out my problem. When they found me napping once again, snoring soft Snicker smelling snores, chocolate smudge on my cheeks as I slept off my latest binge. "Mom! Mom! Wake up!", they yelled while shoveling off the wrapper litter from my bloated body"The cat has gotten into our candy again and tried to bury you in the wrappers!" "There, there, little ones. Mommy's ok, I'll always protect you.", was my blurry reply. From what? Tooth decay? Empty calories? Our phantom candy eating cat?

I'll admit I have a problem. I'm working on my own twelve step program. Phase on, give up the Smarties. Phase two, good bye licorice....

Intervention time is now, just let me whip up a batch of brownies before you come.

Albins Trophy

I never got to see him very often, but then again he was different then the type of men I was familiar with. Uncle Albin was a soft man. Quiet and gentle in spirit, with hands like a woman. Clean and well manicured, hands that never had been used for heavy manual labor.

Albin was not my actual relative. He had married my aunt Tilly and become part of my extended family. They lived far away in the big city and raised lap dogs in place of children. Tilly had worked for a short period of time as a teacher before her rumitoid arthritis handicapped her. Albin looked after both her and Mitzi, their chiwawa breed puppy. After coming home from his office job at the car dealership, my uncle lovingly and patiently cared for his little family. Age had affected both Albins hearing and sight.

In the fall, they would come up north to our family's farm for deer hunting season. It was never a question of if my dad and older brother would be hunting every year. For us, it was a necessity. The venison meat that was harvested, along with my mothers garden vegetables, was the mainstay of our diet. Too poor to afford costly equipment, the men of the family hunted in heavily patched and well worn camouflage clothing. They did not need to waste money on ammunition target practicing, both were a crack shot. My dad was inventive enough to have carved the stock of his rifle himself one winter. The hunt was vital for our family, but that did not stop them from looking forward to it every year. A holiday season of our own.

For my sisters and myself, who were never included in the hunt, our enjoyment was second hand at best. The girls would mend the red required hunting gear and make lunches. During the summer, Butch would sometime include us when he surveyed the back fields, looking for signs of deer. I would have to run to keep up to his long hurried strides with my little legs. He would carry me over the creek that my limbs were too short to reach across. Being youngest, I was left with the job of picking any stray hair from the venison we had butchered ourselves, before my sisters would wrap and freeze the coming years meat.

While Dad looked at it as a means to feed us, it was my brother, Butch, who delighted in the sport. Quiet the outdoors man, my brother, he knew the 360 acres of farm like the back of his own hand. He knew the deer population, as well as moving times, and trails of the future possible quarry. It was his dream for the local fame and fortune of winning the area big buck contest held annually by the local merchants. Butch had internal buck fever. Every year he anticipated and planned for the next hunt even before he even registered his current deer.

The chilly mornings Albin would pull into our yard, late, in his brand new vehicle, Dad and Butch would look at each other with a sideways glance, and would always warmly and sincerely welcome him on the hunt. Our family had no all terrain vehicle's then, and Albins show room models were too shiny to scratch, so the hunters would have to walk back into their hunting spots. Albin was not in very good physical shape so Dad and Butch would carry his rifle for him before depositing him at the best possible spot before venturing father on. Albin had went to all the effort of coming on the hunt, the men figured, so they were determined he would have a deer to take back for his effort. After a cold opener with no success, when I was around eight years old, Albin confessed he had never even seen any deer to shoot on that day. This baffled Butch, who at one point had walked throught the woods loudly to scare the deer to the front of Uncle so he could bag his deer and free my father and brother to go about harvesting our own winters meat supply. The next morning they all hunted together and sat at the edge of the clearing in line, when my Dad realized Albin just couldn't see the deer walk across the meadow directly in front fireing range. Albin was staring with unfocused eyes at the deer my brother was silently begging my father to let him have a shot at. Ever the gentleman, Dad motioned my brother wait so Albin could take the first shot. Finally my father elbowed Albin and gestured toward the direction of the deer. Albin shoots vaugly in the right area and my brother then fires immediately after Albin shoots. I can remember the conversation after Butch dragged "Albins" deer back. The men were drinking coffee while warming themselves in our kitchen and enjoying the retelling of the hunt. "Honestly, at first I didn't see the deer standing there, did I ever get lucky", Albin happily recalled. "Yes, a deer like that anyone would be proud of," Dad replied with a meaningful look at Butch as he finally made it back, covered in blood and sweat from his exertion. He then flushed even a deeper shade of red when Albin asked him,"Was it a buck Butch?".

After that successful hunt of course Albin came back again. With a new rifle with a high powered scope to better see the deer that evaded his limited sight. The cost of that gun could of feed our family for the winter. The gun was high caliber enough to take down a large elephant. Albin was aslo sporting a single hearing aid. First day out, with Albin in between my brother and father, Albin brings down his own deer when cued. I ran outside to see how big this one was once Butch had him loaded into the back of his own pick up truck to register in town after Albin had sufficiently warmed up. "Wow!", I had exclaimed when seeing the dead animal, "Nice size." I could see the half dollar size bullet holes in the deer's side. "Too bad, really, it's a damn waste of meat", my Dad said with a wistfully shake of his head as lifted up a stiff leg to reveal the jellied mass of ruined coagulated flesh that had been the exit side of Albins bullet.

After that, the next season Butch could not stomach sitting still waiting for the chance of a deer coming to them, as he waited with Albin and Dad. He was out before the older men to drive the deer into Albins sights and get that prelude to his own real hunting out of his way. My brother was behind a few deer parading them like a row of ducks in Albins line of fire. Leading the group of animals is a huge trophy sized buck, the kind generations of hunting stories are made of. Albin fires a single shot that brings the monster deer down. It was an extremely elated uncle that told me this story as I poured him his coffee. Albin tells me that unfortunately Butch was too far way for his own shot to be as effective.

It was with mixed emotions that I slipped on my boots to run out to see this legendary deer that would be taken into town. I knew Butch would be disappointed that Albin had not entered the big buck contest so it was with some trepidation that I peeked over the trucks side to see this years bounty. As I stood on tip toe and peered over the trucks side I braced myself for the mass amount of blood I was sure to encounter. There wasn't much. Shocked, I asked unbelieving, "Butch, were is the bullet holes?" "One shot, little one, right here", Butch answered taping the front of the deers chest before turning to go into the house to bring the now warmed Albin into town to register his buck. I was still puzzling the lack of blood and the much smaller hole than had previously had caused Albins deers death when my dad came back from cleaning the gutting knives. "Dad! How come half of this deer isn't blown to smithereens? How did Albin shoot him from the front?" Dad paused thoughtfully before answering. My father would never lie, so I totally believed him when he answered, "Sometimes, Babe, when shot at....a deer will just change the direction they are running and fatally run straight into the bullet." Trying to fathom his explanation I asked,"Did he turn into Albins bullet or was he turning back towards Bu- ", I am figuring out outloud before dad interrupts me as my brother and uncle approach. "Thats right, one bullet straight in the heart"* my dad says loudly. "Run inside now, see if we need to pick up some more freezer paper for when Butch and I get our own now", he dismissed me.

My brother continued to hunt every year after that. He still lives on a part of the old farm. He never did bag another deer of that proportion. His own sons have grown and do not relish the hunt by any means like their father.

Four years back, partly due to diabetic complications, my brother suffered a severe stroke. Butch has lost is ability to speak, our hunting story's are no more. He also the control of his right side, making hunting, his passion, near impossible. Near. But not quite.

He now has a pistol of a high enough caliber that he hunts with his left hand. It's not big enough to bring down an elephant. But with my brothers aim, he could if he wanted. He walks with a cane and his gun straped across his chest.Two years ago he bagged a sizeable deer with it. No record winner but good eating.

Last year, K1, passed his fire arms safety test. I packed up our city vehicle and we braved the subzero weather for a hunt. I carried my son's rifle as the cerebral palsy that affected his leg muscles makes it difficult for him to traverse the deep snow. I have hunted in the past, since growing up, I just do not make the time for it as I should. I have even helped build stands on the farm since my youth that I have taken my own deer from.

I thought I was doing my brother a favor by giving him someone to hunt with. We all sat on the edge of the field that Butch signaled as our designated lucky spot using hand gestures. Nether Butch or K1 were physically able to climb a tree stand. I helped them both across the creek. As I sat shaking with cold, listening to my son trying not to fidget, I was the one stealing sideways glances at my hunting companions. K1, so excited at being included could not concentrate and sit still. Butch on the other hand, was the only one who was not shaking. It might have been because his stroke left him with out nerve endings to feel the cold invading his extremities. But I know instead it was because he did not want us to miss the opportunity to know what elation he had felt bagging Albins trophy.

We were not able to go up north for hunting season this year unfortunately. I will however call my brother with a cup of coffee and talk hunting. I'm finely going to tell him I know who really shot those deer. I'd give every trophy I ever and will ever win to hear him talk back.


*When hunting, the best target where you have the highest chances of dropping a deer is from the side. To the back top of his front leg is his heart. You can also drop one from the front and reach the heart, but your chances are less and at a full run near nil unless you are a heck of a shot.

Love Equals

1= The number of cakes I've eaten in one sitting.
5= The number of times I've yelled "Pick that up" today.
21= The number of loads of laundry I have done this week.
69= The number that comes after 68.
131= The number of pounds I currantly weigh.
150= The number of pounds I would buy of bulk chocolate for candy making at Easter.
250= The number of dozens of roses my sister sold this week for a fund raiser.
750= The number of single roses I helped her tube.
789= Why 6 is scared. (Seven Eight (ate) Nine).
7004= The number of meals I've cooked for my hubby.
6242= The number of meals I've cooked for K1
46o8= The number of meals I've cooked for K2.
10506= The number of hours spent in kitchen making meals.
3600= The number of miles I have ran/walked since my transplant.
264,000= The number of steps taken running per month.
10= The number of pairs of running shoes.
2267= The number of deep fried cheese curds I've made since starting at the Bistro.
224,000= The number of calories disgused as deep fried cheese curds.
34,944= The number of insulin injections I took while diabetic.
22,680= The number of pills, vitaimins included since my transplant.
9= The number of times I've woken up naked with a stranger.
8= The number of times I've woken up naked with strangers who were emergancy medics.
14= The number of times I was told "I love you" today.
Infinity= My number of blessings.

Tea in China

Not for a billion crocodile tears
in a trillion zillion years
would I have your back again.
Whining backstabers I do not befriend.
Even your memory sickens me.
Fuck off. Drop dead.
Do not talk to me again.