tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-85757794614168638592024-02-20T20:09:31.897-05:00Cozy ToesCheck depth before diving in headfirst.Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.comBlogger137125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-23427751363617865222015-01-26T15:48:00.001-05:002015-01-26T15:49:45.751-05:00Maybe it wasn't the Me Generation after all.If we Google Ngram the word <i>me, </i>we see its occurrence takes a dive right around 1970. Intrigued, we press on to study trends for the word <i>I.</i> Very interesting, we say to ourselves. Is this some kind of cover-up? The power and vanity of baby-boomers working to expunge their beloved <i>me's </i>and <i>I's</i> from Google records? Or perhaps we've excavated a truth via Google Ngrams. The truth that the Me Generation was falsely labeled! Behold, the evidence!<br />
<i><iframe frameborder="0" height="400" hspace="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" name="ngram_chart" scrolling="no" src="https://books.google.com/ngrams/interactive_chart?content=me&case_insensitive=on&year_start=1900&year_end=2008&corpus=15&smoothing=7&share=&direct_url=t4%3B%2Cme%3B%2Cc0%3B%2Cs0%3B%3Bme%3B%2Cc0%3B%3BMe%3B%2Cc0" vspace="0" width="700"></iframe></i><br />
<i><iframe frameborder="0" height="400" hspace="0" marginheight="0" marginwidth="0" name="ngram_chart" scrolling="no" src="https://books.google.com/ngrams/interactive_chart?content=I&year_start=1900&year_end=2008&corpus=15&smoothing=7&share=&direct_url=t1%3B%2CI%3B%2Cc0" vspace="0" width="700"></iframe></i><br />
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<br />Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-72435429561911874142014-03-12T14:10:00.000-04:002014-03-12T14:10:41.783-04:00Didn't Catch a Single Worm. Didn't Even Try.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZZio2Qw3ezMBeZmijiTzkUGVXdEA2CjrmtfH31kWOtQajX1cdC2am7ykBd72abo9MMw3zaNAmtGF2hosBBEV9uXCmkQBjTprKtgz4rIwInYRopQkF6_OHbRferuzkn9UxOKZEpcxqro/s1600/IMG_0630.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyZZio2Qw3ezMBeZmijiTzkUGVXdEA2CjrmtfH31kWOtQajX1cdC2am7ykBd72abo9MMw3zaNAmtGF2hosBBEV9uXCmkQBjTprKtgz4rIwInYRopQkF6_OHbRferuzkn9UxOKZEpcxqro/s1600/IMG_0630.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Here's the truth. I like to sleep in. Between 7 and 8 a.m. the perfect Goldilocks temperature settles over my body. My brain swims around in the last dreams of the night. I fish for story ideas, character tics, conflict development. The day is untarnished by forgotten promises and obligations, dropped balls and time wasted. That hour in the morning contains all my greatest hopes, a sharp contrast to the hour of night that amplifies my greatest dread. Why would I spoil that one perfect hour of the day by getting up to do vertically oriented things?<br />
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Despite my lazy ways, I managed to write some pieces of short fiction and even submitted them to various literary journals. Lo and behold, a star in the east. No, wrong piece of fiction. Lo and behold, both pieces were accepted for publication and a third is forthcoming this spring.<br />
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So, maybe it's time to get back to blogging. Maybe I'm supposed to be doing other things to promote my works and the journals where they appear. I don't know. Blogging is such a relic. I don't tweet or facebook or instagram. I don't even have a smart phone. I'm not sure I'm ready to change those facts for the sake of trying to connect people to my work. I don't know where to begin. So for now, I'll get back into this and go from there.<br />
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My short fiction can be found at:<br />
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<a href="http://issuu.com/crackthespine/docs/issue_63?e=3842308/2652997" target="_blank">What You Don't See</a> - Crack the Spine Issue 63<br />
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<a href="http://fictionfix.net/issues.html" target="_blank">Flo's Gold</a> - Fiction Fix (at that link, scroll down to Issue 13 and click to read.)<br />
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I'll let you know when The Safe Escape of Bears comes out in <a href="http://www.stoneboatwi.com/" target="_blank">Stoneboat. </a>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-7449297274249236662012-09-22T21:12:00.001-04:002012-09-22T21:13:47.761-04:00Early Birds and Catching Worms<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I opened up the mailbox today I found a letter addressed to me, from me. Self-addressed stamped envelopes always throw me for a bit of a snail-mail loop. There's some metaphysical thing going that I'm not philosophically astute enough to analyze, but basically, it's <span style="font-family: inherit;">d<span style="background-color: white; line-height: 19.196969985961914px;">éjà vu</span></span> in a business-sized security envelope. <div>
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I wrote the letter the morning of the last day at writer's camp, sealed it up and handed it off to a woman named Pat, who promised to mail everyone's letter out at some undisclosed point in the future. This was one of those self-check-in letters to follow-up on a week dedicated to talking about writing, thinking about writing, listening to other people's writing and even actually doing some writing, too. Toward the end of this Dear Jen letter, my back-then self asked my future-self if I was being true to the small list of personal goals I'd established to help hone my writing craft. When I read the list today, I wanted to kick my back-then self in the arse. What was I thinking? Really? <i>That</i> goal? Again? I shook my head and thought, "Don't I know myself better than that? Maybe I'll just never learn." </div>
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I wish I had a tally of all the times I've said or written in a journal: "Tomorrow I vow to get up an hour earlier than normal and ________." At various times in my life the blank has been filled with: do yoga, meditate, go for a walk, write personal morning pages, go for a run, write fiction, revise fiction. </div>
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Not once have I been successful at this self-improvement goal. Yes, I love worms. In 5th grade I sported stickers in the upper right corner of my desk that spelled out, "I (heart) Worms". But getting up like the proverbial early bird to catch them is just not in my constitution. Or so I tell myself. What if I could do it though? For some reason I can't seem to shake the idea that there must be magic present in the early morning hours and if only I could get my ass out of bed I might harness some of that magic for myself. It feels like a character flaw that I can't overcome the desire to push the day's beginning off as long as possible. It seems like if I could just change my night-owl into an early-bird, something would be better. But I don't really know what exactly. </div>
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I never stop wondering what it would be like to become a morning person, to add one more hour to my day, a quiet hour. Maybe there would be magic in that daybreak hour, maybe I would come to love it, to rise from bed not with dragging feet but with an eagerness for my day to start. For many things in life I believe that we can change our behaviors with practice and persistence. I should be able to will myself into a morning person, set the clock earlier, get up out of bed and carry on. Repeat until it's a habit. And so, here it is on my list again. Maybe this time...this time....this time...</div>
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Stay tuned....</div>
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Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-54929195963272669662012-09-09T23:13:00.002-04:002012-09-22T21:13:20.836-04:00 a run on Simple thingsI worked a good day with people and at a job I love then dined on delicious food and drink with a friend for 3 hours that felt like 30 minutes, leaving us with so much more to discuss next time, next time, then drove home on congestion-free roads to my simple home where I stepped out of my car under a galaxy of stars poking pinholes in the night, to eavesdrop on the melancholy conversation, "<i>who cooks for you, who cooks for you</i>", between distant Barred Owls. <br />
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Gratitude for all the beauty that surrounds my existence. Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-6895825329869196472012-08-14T12:24:00.002-04:002012-08-14T21:17:28.267-04:00Do you have this problem too? <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Pardon me for a moment while I talk about something unbecoming to a proper lady like me (hey now, is that a guffaw I just heard from you?). Car seats and shifting underwear - it's a real problem. Is it just me or is it truly impossible to remove oneself from the driver's seat without also then needing to adjust one's underthings? Maybe it's how I get out of the car. Maybe it's my underwear. Perhaps this is the unspoken reason why people opt for the "luxury" of leather seats at some point in their lives. Or does this still happen even on the decreased friction of leather? </div>
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Do you notice other people adjusting their underwear right after they get out of the car? I'm not sure I've noticed that, and believe me, I'm watching. Or maybe people are more tolerant of skewed underwear than I am. Maybe the popularity of thongs has made car seat wedgies a moot problem. Perhaps the perpetual wedgie given by dental floss underpants offers benefits that I've been ignoring. </div>
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Does this happen to you? If not, what do you think accounts for your ability to remove yourself from your car without underwear disruption? And please spare me the obvious answer. I don't want to know that about you! </div>
Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-74790961666149119002012-08-04T21:53:00.001-04:002012-08-07T16:21:21.928-04:00Writer's Camp Fallout<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Fair to middling<br />
Mediocre amateurs,<br />
Word, words, his, hers,<br />
Words, words, words, blurs.<br />
Unhinged.<br />
Unopened.<br />
Unable to stop.<br />
My, his, her words,<br />
blurs,<br />
wordswordswordswords.Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-67122009693670587702012-07-31T23:13:00.000-04:002012-08-07T10:11:30.332-04:00The fall of a giantWe idle three cars back from where the road worker turns the STOP toward traffic and the SLOW toward the yellow dinosaur juttering up the narrow road on its steel caterpillar tracks. All the workers wear reflective safety orange and should look burly, out-sized, like they do on the village roads. But down here in the hushed ravine, under the soaring forest cathedral, they seem almost inconsequential, furtive even. They know how the tree will fall.<br />
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It's just one more tree in a forest jammed so full. I know there are others waiting in its shadow. But this tree is not ready. In fact, there's never been a tree less ready to meet its end. Look at it and tell me otherwise. Look at how it stands there, proud without ego, strong with no effort, a sentinel along a ribbon of road, secured to a rocky stage. Think of how its gnarled and knobby roots reach down into the earth, beyond where our eyes can see, into the soul of the forest, with depth and mass that must rival what we see above.<br />
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The backhoe's bucket has been removed. Just a cylindrical metal finger juts from the end of the jointed arm. It rises up toward the prepared tree, makes contact with the wood and taps. Once. Twice. Like it's nothing more than a friendly finger hoping for the tree's attention. That's all it takes.<br />
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The first crack of the trunk's base - so big around that three of those men couldn't encircle it with a group hug, if they did that sort of thing - sounds like no more than a chicken bone, snapped in greasy fingers. Then a pause, space just big enough to take and hold a single breath before the King's Mast of a tree rends through a ringed century of growth. Boughs that towered since before these men were born, boughs that offer gentle benediction to the beech, maple and hobble-bush below, topple, whoosh and whoomp down through the arms stretched toward it. The sound never seems as big as it should. The moss and ferns, the deep years of duff, muffle the fall.<br />
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An orange, safety vest spins the STOP to SLOW. Another catches my eye as we pass. His lips press together, his face is grim. Like mine. He nods once and I reply.Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-52491845419961940352012-07-27T17:24:00.004-04:002012-07-29T20:30:18.127-04:00Time's Messenger<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8EDypdThli4-zYpklHBTC3b_k1cYYgDJF2E1u_gcdEae5cPo1Rjt4NZCVQ00bbwivPVGGL4LIIoOtKmyLxp6Y-WjIBw6Q0Nh1SdsiR4ivw6NNad9TTupj87EwdUloouP51-vvXKT2B9I/s1600/CIMG0040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8EDypdThli4-zYpklHBTC3b_k1cYYgDJF2E1u_gcdEae5cPo1Rjt4NZCVQ00bbwivPVGGL4LIIoOtKmyLxp6Y-WjIBw6Q0Nh1SdsiR4ivw6NNad9TTupj87EwdUloouP51-vvXKT2B9I/s400/CIMG0040.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Maybe the news you've come to tell me is unexpectedly good. Maybe, as Time's messenger, you've screeched into my driveway with raucous honks, pounded at my back door on the night of my birthday, to tell me that from now on, Time's passage will be different.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">The montage </span><span style="background-color: white;">of my thirty-eight years bullets by like scenery through the window of a bullet train, smeared into a silky ribbon of visions that slips through the grasp of my mind. Even just twelve years ago is too far gone to remember with any truth, it seems. "What did we cook for dinner back then, back on Walnut Avenue in Belmont?" I ask my husband. I can't remember. But neither can he. We shake our heads, laughing at our inability to remember such a simple detail and change the memory question to something more recent, more tangible and solid: "Did my parents bring us this old green couch when we lived on Dorsch Hill or not until we moved to Springfield?" Consensus is shaky and takes a while to form. "It's gone by so fast. It's just a blur almost" we agree.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">So maybe you're standing here on the threshold of my house, smirking at me because you've come to grant my wish. Just moments ago, I'd squeezed my eyes shut, let the last line of that awful, annual anthem drift away and puffed out the candles on my cake and thought : </span><span style="background-color: white;">"Oh, Time. Please slow down. Please. It's all so good now." </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Because suddenly, life is flying by. That's the catch. Once you figure out where to find your joys, the things that fill you with wonder, the love, the friendship, the connections to be discovered around every corner, time starts to go faster. I swear it does, like some kind of quantum mechanics riddle. Once you find the secret to uncovering all the nuggets of beauty, life speeds up. I want to savor it all two times, no fives times, no infinity as long! </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">And so here you are Time's Messenger, telling me with that smirky smile that you shall grant my wish. For me - no more speeding bullet train. For me - time will become like a butterfly that floats and pauses, meanders and rests. And oh, how I rejoice at this bit of unexpected good news! Until I realize that I can't have it both ways. There can't be both infinite time in this life and infinite moments of beauty, wonder, friendship, love. Those things are precious because of their inevitable end, because of my inevitable end. And yours. And yours. And yes, even yours. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">So, Time, I take back my wish. I retract the breath that extinguished the candles on my birthday cake. Fly the way you will. Let the years blur by, the days feel too short. Let there not be enough hours to in the day to wonder over ever bit of Nature. Let me never have enough time to read Nabokov until I fully understand his dizzying prose. Let there never be enough years to hold my husband's hand as we listen to the silence of a black and starry night. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Time - do your thing. Race! And I'll do my best to keep up. </span>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-50395268209349196852012-06-20T16:42:00.000-04:002012-06-20T21:09:14.087-04:00Hello, Summer!I've always been a lover of summer. Long days, fireflies, sun tans, bare feet, bare shoulders, skin touched by warm breezes, cool lakes for swimming. Yes, insects like mosquitoes, ticks and deer flies are a serious nuisance (especially the ticks), but the butterflies, beetles, dragonflies and hundreds of other interesting insects available for observation make up for it. And let's talk about the heat. I know many people hate it and I can sympathize. I feel that way about being cold, which I am for most of the winter. Today it's 98 and humid. Sweat trickles down my skin under my dress as I sit here typing, barely moving. And I like it, dammit. For someone who spends most of the fall and winter covered in goosebumps even while cocooned under triple and quadruple layers, this heat is a relief. I know that sounds crazy.<br />
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No, I don't want the heat to linger forever and I wouldn't love it if I worked an 8-10 hour day in the fields and greenhouses or on a road crew somewhere. But for the first day of summer I wouldn't want it any other way. I pulled my beat-the-heat Driving Dress (<span style="background-color: white;">a tropical looking sundress I bought at Reny's in Ellsworth, ME back in the summer of 1998 when my car had no AC and my boyfriend lived a four hour commute away in Cambridge, MA)</span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span><span style="background-color: white;">out of the closet today and slipped it on, always shocked that it continues to fit after all these years. That long-ago boyfriend of mine, he lives with me now, and is bringing home dinner and cold drinks tonight. I can't think of a better way to celebrate the summer solstice. </span>
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self-timed jumping photos crack me up</div>
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<br />Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-58290026194752812572012-05-21T22:03:00.000-04:002012-05-22T09:13:59.264-04:00Spilled soupMy ears have no more room for listening. My heart has no more room for understanding. My nerves have fatigued of their ability to hold me back from wringing the necks of rude humans shopping for frivolous plants or breaking down in tears at a story of a nephew shot in Afghanistan, or explaining to you why your ears are ringing and that there's nothing we can do about it. I'm like a bowl of soup filled too full and spilling over; what once was warm, nourishing and sustaining, is now nothing but a mess slopping all over the floor.<br />
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Why do I need to find a way to connect with everyone? Why do I need to make everyone else feel at ease, understood, relieved of their burdens?<br />
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Why does my way of interacting with the world end up overwhelming me? Why can't I figure out a better way?<br />
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Solitude. I need you.</div>
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<br />Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-61587493896966181802012-03-22T09:46:00.002-04:002012-03-22T13:26:44.383-04:00Toothbrush Technology<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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If you're like me, you probably wait too long to replace your frayed and splayed brushing device. Or maybe you're one of those people who uses batteries and replaceable heads. I don't really understand that level of toothbrush technology. It seems like it would be embarrassing to admit that you weren't capable of handling the responsibility of brushing your own teeth. It's a wonder that the electric toothbrushes don't automatically tweet to your dentist and update your Facebook page: "OMG! I'm brushing my teeth!" Or text reminders to your phone: "WTF, you left the house without brushing? That's disgusting." <br />
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The dental hygiene aisle puts me in a state of choice-overload panic, much like the grocery store's bread aisle and stylish clothing stores. Maybe that's why I don't replace my toothbrush often enough, make my own bread when possible and haven't had style since, well...ever. Overwhelmed with choice, the consumer in me retreats to the safety of buying nothing. So the toothbrush aisle: name brand, store brand, angled-head, flexible handle, massaging bristles, color coded, compact, regular, single-pack, 3-pack, on sale, full price. I just want one damn toothbrush that doesn't need a list of parts and features on the back of the box! Just think, there are highly educated toothbrush engineers working on the problem right now: what will be the next leap forward in dental hygiene technology? One can only dream.<br />
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No matter what choice you make in the dental hygiene aisle, using a brand new toothbrush ranks right up there with pulling slouched socks back to their proper height. But never did I imagine that chevron-shaped ridges could alter my brushing experience so dramatically. Those little nubbles on the back of the brush? Genius! Suddenly, something I've done every day since I started sprouting teeth, is new again. The moment the back of the toothbrush slid past the inside corner of my lips, my eyes widened. <i>Whoa! This feels cool!</i> (yes, I am always that eloquent while brushing). And it made sense. Our lips are full of nerve endings. The surface that touches our teeth doesn't usually get much stimulation while brushing, so the sensation across the inner surface surprises your brain with input. Was I being titillated by my toothbrush? What were those toothbrush engineers doing to me? As with most good sensations, it fatigues after the first few back-and-forths. Which is probably for the best, otherwise, I might just stand there all day brushing, amazed by the fact that, <i>Whoa. This feels cool!</i><br />
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The day after my first nubble-backed brushing experience, I was in the checkout aisle at the grocery store, waiting my turn. I noticed toothbrushes hanging above the candy - you know, for all those times when you want to impulse buy a toothbrush along with a deck of playing cards, 5-hour energy shot, and sex advice from Cosmo. (Hmm...that sounds like the recipe for a creepy date.) They also had some kind of ridges or bumps on the back. It's clearly the new "it" thing in toothbrush technology and I'm in favor of this advance.<br />
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Now if you'll excuse me, I just finished breakfast and I need to go brush my teeth.<br />
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<br />Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-68881053147540216492012-03-19T18:20:00.001-04:002012-08-07T10:25:16.356-04:00Separated by too great a distanceThe four hundred pound man lay face-up, immobile, at the end of the mossy alley. One ambulance had already peeled away from the curb, red lights revolving, sirens screaming. Out of a second, quieter, ambulance, medics wheeled a gurney. Standing around, watching the scene unfold were some of the town's most undesirable. Grown boys who would never be called men, loitered at the mouth of the alley looking like perpetrators. One pale, twiggy kid tugged against the metal-prong collar of a pit-bull as I walked by. It wasn't even Spring yet, but unseasonably warm weather - high 70s and sunny - brought out the summer clothes ahead of schedule. Their long, loose, NBA jerseys, showcased scrawny arms, white and weak. Red and black polyester shimmered in the sun. Shoddy scrawls of blue-black tattoos adorned their bodies, signifying nothing to me, but perhaps everything to them. Rural thugs, fed on high fructose corn syrup and cigarettes since birth, (second hand followed too quickly by first) some with missing teeth, some with missing cognitive abilities, all with nothing to do, intimidated me. Conversation halted as I parted their sidewalk gathering. Down the alley, the man-in-blue (tall, clean, broad, armed), loomed above the 400-pound man, talking to the only woman in the mix - she and her t-shirt were both too thin, an ACE bandage wrapped her arm.<br />
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I had the Norton Anthology of Short Fiction weighing down my little red backpack. I'd walked 2 miles to the library to return this hefty tome and check out a few other light authors: Thomas Paine, Saul Bellow, Samuel Beckett, since, hey, there he was in the general area of Saul Bellow. I finished my business quickly hoping that I might be a chance bystander as they hoisted the 400-pound man onto the gurney and wheeled him to the waiting ambulance. How was something like that managed - with the weight and the alley and the people loitering? But the alley looked back at me, empty. The cop and the woman were still talking, but out on the sidewalk now, in front of the cafe window. Without any sense of urgency, the ambulance pulled from the curb, lights revolving, a few brief siren blasts as it pulled into traffic. Was its passenger dead? Over my shoulder, with my ears straining backward, I heard the police officer ask: "And where's the baby now?" The woman started to answer, but too much distance separated me from the scene, from those people. I couldn't hear her answer. Not without stopping, not without an effort. </div>
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</div>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-23308313930941772142012-03-08T11:48:00.000-05:002012-03-19T18:48:10.456-04:00Thriving<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Rosemary - April 2009</td></tr>
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<br />Back in April of 2009 I <a href="http://www.cozytoes.blogspot.com/2009/04/sending-signals-to-outspace.html">nurtured our rosemary plant through its first long winter</a>. That was three years ago. Take a look at Rosemary now. What's funny, is that the snow blower is still back there in the same spot as usual, but you almost can't see it because the plant's too big.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me and Rosemary - March 2012</td></tr>
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<br />Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-54373894280501196772012-02-21T13:53:00.001-05:002012-02-21T15:46:28.753-05:00Becoming Our MothersIf you are now, or ever have been, a daughter perhaps you'll understand. I can't say if these observations hold true for sons. (Does it seem strange to you that three out of four nuclear family roles are two syllable words:<i> mother, father, daughter</i> and then <i><b>bam</b>! -</i> <b>son - </b>showing up with just its single, solid syllable?).<br />
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If you were lucky, like me, and born to the best kind of mother, there was a time when she could do no wrong. Your world revolved around her love, her approval, her kindness, her all-knowingness, her hugs, the way she told stories or made cookies. In turn, her world revolved around you. </div>
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But then you got older and you started to see you'd been wrong. She wasn't perfection, not really, you'd been mistaken. How could you be so blind to her faults for all those years? <i>To hell with that</i>, <i>I won't be like her! </i>you may have said sometime in the <b>two decades</b> between 12 and 32. Those were the years you broke away, saw how other people lived, maybe went to college, became the most annoying of creatures: a privileged young idealist. You may have turned on your family, dating someone they didn't like, moving far away, judging them harshly and often. You launched yourself out of the gravity pull of mutual orbit. All good and necessary, but never a very flattering time. </div>
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Eventually your 20s faded and with it some of that idealism and, I don't know why, but that also may have been about time you found yourself whispering in horror, "oh my god, I sound just like Mom." Or even worse, you felt your face or body act in such a way that for an instant you looked or moved just like her. You could feel it in your guts, in your bones. You may have panicked and said to yourself and to your very best friend since childhood, "I will not be like her! You have to promise to tell me if I'm getting like her." And that's also when you realized that you'd heard those words before. You remember hearing your own mother say that about her mother, usually after a long holiday visit or car ride with your grandma. Your mother would finally be free, she'd sink into a chair with exhaustion and say, "Please shoot me if I ever get like that." You remember laughing, nodding and promising you would while thinking, <i>but, Mom, you kinda already are. </i>And you thought it was funny, quaint, that your mom couldn't see the inevitable happening to her. </div>
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As your 30s rolled along you slowly resigned yourself to "being like mom" in the way you left the toaster-oven on long after your'd finished eating your snack, or left the mail sitting out next to the garden because you got distracted by some weeds on your way back from the mailbox. The weeds made it to the compost pile, but then you noticed that the blueberries needed water and so you did that and then you heard the kettle's distantly shrill whistle and remembered that you'd been boiling water for tea . The mail neglected until your husband came home from work and noticed it gathering evening dew by the tomato plants. <br />
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When you'd get together with your mom, you'd still notice many of the patterns and habits that could get under your skin but you tried not to let them bother you. You stopped vocalizing your judgments about her life and her approach to the world. Not because you'd become a more mature person, really, but because you realized that you, too, were permeated with faults in behavior and thinking, many of them similar to hers. Calling attention to her short-comings would be calling attention to your own. Such judgement was uncomfortably close to your own skin and psyche, so self-protection kept you quiet.</div>
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But then, if everyone made it this far and you eased steadily toward solid middle age, your mother's mother - your grandmother - began to fail. Maybe you watched this process from a distance with fear and humility. The daughter became the caretaker. Illicitly, she brought Cheez-itz and candy to her mother, one small joy for both of them. Your mother's every waking thought, and probably her dreams, became filled with "how do I help her get through this?" A mutual orbiting returned for a brief flicker of painful time until it was finished, save for your mom getting down to the business of consolidating a lifetime of memories. </div>
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And maybe a year or so after your grandmother's death, you began to see a profound beauty in the inevitability of "becoming our mothers". Maybe you got to spend a few days with your mom, you listened to her ways of talking and saw the mannerisms you share. You no longer got annoyed with how she interrupted her own quiet reading with interjections like, "Huh!" and "Wow!", so that you always asked, "What?" as she told you about something interesting she'd just read. You don't get annoyed because you heard yourself doing the same damn thing. And you knew that she couldn't help it, couldn't stop herself from doing it, because neither could you. That was when it dawned on you that, dammit, there isn't enough time left. This will all be over way, way too soon, even if it's 30 years down the road. You imagine orbiting around your mother again, not as a child but as the caretaker. How will you negotiate that strange and looming landscape together? And then, how will you negotiate your own without her? </div>
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Someday it will happen, there's no way to stop it, you can't pretend anymore that it won't. And so you let yourself imagine what it might be like. You imagine, when you sit at the piano there will be times when it's not you playing, but her ghost, rolling the big chords and holding the sustain pedal down too much. Even in the way you play the piano you've become "like your mother". The hemming and hawing over the mistakes and difficult passages, will not be your voice, but hers echoing in your ears. When you walk over uneven terrain and your body moves awkwardly, you will feel that your are not yourself, but her. When you leave things behind at other people's houses or your purse at a restaurant, your best friend will teasingly call you by your mother's name and you won't feel embarrassed, but proud and connected to your past. "Damn, it's really happened. I'm just like my mother." And so maybe, as you imagine this dreaded inevitable future, if you're lucky, you get to a point where you realize that in the time you have left there is no room for judgment and criticism. Becoming our mothers is how we carry them forward, not just in our memories, but tangibly, visibly in our own gestures and habits, embedded in our own flesh and bones. There is no longer room to force her to fit some idealized "mom" shape and no time to fear "turning into her". If you're lucky, you understand that there is only room and time enough for love, however you understand it. </div>
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<br /></div>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-14664992335348489222012-02-04T10:55:00.001-05:002012-02-04T16:09:32.041-05:00Promo Poster CautionBefore placing your gig promo poster in the restaurant's <b>bathroom</b>, consider the potentially unintended humor your band name may create. Also, when writing promo poster content, consider refreshing your memory regarding excessive use of adjectives. Consider employing stronger verbs and nouns instead. This ends the "Promo Poster Caution" public service announcement. Thank you.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihNYQEuYjYuXsX7P7Ch49RTayqCPFSAzstkQ5CT1U3dPImYJigxDjcn4Z-fvBI6fKg5-vB_H1nIsWPVZswX6U6OoiBfyMQ9F5cckyWQAiElzv1w22JjaMU-pXpAa5vEkDweLFXpmX_GBY/s1600/CIMG0013.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihNYQEuYjYuXsX7P7Ch49RTayqCPFSAzstkQ5CT1U3dPImYJigxDjcn4Z-fvBI6fKg5-vB_H1nIsWPVZswX6U6OoiBfyMQ9F5cckyWQAiElzv1w22JjaMU-pXpAa5vEkDweLFXpmX_GBY/s640/CIMG0013.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-68347586007342021012012-02-04T10:49:00.003-05:002013-03-10T10:27:22.169-04:00And the creepy continues...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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I know you've all been waiting patiently for more images and stories of decapitation. Cozy Toes is, after all, the smart internet surfer's main source for such educational treasures. Your wait is over! Here in Cozy Toes Land, Friday night involved a trip to the inspection 'scope with many months' worth of (mostly) dead insect samples. A last second inspiration was to take a sprig of my rosemary plant which has some evidence of aphids. I put that in the container with the insect bits. Without further ado, here for your viewing pleasure, the magnified treasures. Click on the image if you'd like to see the larger version. Go on, do it. Go big or go home, right? </div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Just slightly down and right of center you can see a pale yellow blip of a creature.<br />
I'm pretty sure that's an aphid that crawled off of the rosemary plant. When I looked<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMQ2gCh5fp7o9Z-8YcfvTshiQFJj-1b1z_j4j45-GpTBhDC7sSs9xlWHUWfrvlDHvDCIN8t1cfAbuRLGeKlG43h5iQ46Ff_OJpo74mMzOya20vK_8csceVg9DMj_jvOUQMmUYmNo4Uvg/s1600/CIMG0032.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxMQ2gCh5fp7o9Z-8YcfvTshiQFJj-1b1z_j4j45-GpTBhDC7sSs9xlWHUWfrvlDHvDCIN8t1cfAbuRLGeKlG43h5iQ46Ff_OJpo74mMzOya20vK_8csceVg9DMj_jvOUQMmUYmNo4Uvg/s400/CIMG0032.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I wish the camera could fully capture how stunning this Cuckoo Wasp looks in magnified glory. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4gOjrLlhXfFNa2ZINJJ4RaNQtKX-6ya1UxUyPBjnrhsfa_hc0j9oPuQz-eqvmUaiYSnBtAaSMbROlpd8fIBtesVdHfKUreFWV7-VjPv7ziCPYuukToX4azlTX8qK7MREQO4bEphN02TM/s1600/CIMG0034.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4gOjrLlhXfFNa2ZINJJ4RaNQtKX-6ya1UxUyPBjnrhsfa_hc0j9oPuQz-eqvmUaiYSnBtAaSMbROlpd8fIBtesVdHfKUreFWV7-VjPv7ziCPYuukToX4azlTX8qK7MREQO4bEphN02TM/s320/CIMG0034.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the actual size of the cuckoo wasp. I've been saving this<br />
in a Gladware plastic leftover container since the end of the summer.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0i9E6e5fJyZw6PjG-vCAc7FuGBFSaDYzzYVNRO4ag1-Eb4M2yl6jMIIp_PCCNjMl6jyUgCzoUtF_aCpwDu5DbrITBbgujYlAsaR9uWyAGdDPZfpETE0MfV9UBn4KpnUEAZ3Y1OG-str0/s1600/CIMG0041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0i9E6e5fJyZw6PjG-vCAc7FuGBFSaDYzzYVNRO4ag1-Eb4M2yl6jMIIp_PCCNjMl6jyUgCzoUtF_aCpwDu5DbrITBbgujYlAsaR9uWyAGdDPZfpETE0MfV9UBn4KpnUEAZ3Y1OG-str0/s400/CIMG0041.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is the husk of some kind of beetle - similar in size to a ladybug. I probably found it on a<br />
window sill while inspecting my rock or feather collections. So I added it<br />
to the Gladware Plastic Sample Repository for future study. <br />
In this photo, the beetle husk is resting on it's back, allowing us to see the iridescent hind wings<br />
folded up under the hard outer elytra. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TVNk3-7_EOT9_z3KAn-Vn0n20SKhA7pnvv641nvbmFLqYZ0Tg01Rkeg8SiWksjo4tW_R66VlaOVclh3poqiNSZ1hEjmTgMGU_lblGrYGK0ucVIJG4t64zHGl1q7Fv4H9RyuGpcLKvNs/s1600/CIMG0064.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5TVNk3-7_EOT9_z3KAn-Vn0n20SKhA7pnvv641nvbmFLqYZ0Tg01Rkeg8SiWksjo4tW_R66VlaOVclh3poqiNSZ1hEjmTgMGU_lblGrYGK0ucVIJG4t64zHGl1q7Fv4H9RyuGpcLKvNs/s400/CIMG0064.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A small colony of aphids on that piece of rosemary I brought. Dang it!<br />
They are sucking the life blood out of my beautiful rosemary plant! <br />
Actually, several weeks ago I sprayed Rosemary with Neem Oil and the infestation<br />
is relatively under control. I sprayed her again last night and I'll check in another 10 days<br />
to see if I need to do another treatment. She should make it.<br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Here you can watch one of the aphids plodding along after I disrupted it with some tweezers. Thrilling, groundbreaking, cinematography. I've never tried to capture video with my silly little camera through one eyepiece of a binocular 'scope. Not as easy as you might think. </span><br />
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<br />Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-6336884083039525962012-01-26T11:21:00.001-05:002012-01-26T19:49:40.427-05:00Trajectory of a Coronavirus<br />
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<b>Pre Sick Day</b>: I think I might be getting sick. Yes. Definitely. No. Maybe not. Allergies? Just tired? No, I'm getting sick. X was sick last week and I probably picked it up there. </div>
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<b>Pre-Sick Night:</b> Ugh, I'm definitely getting sick. Stupid sore throat. So scratchy and hard to swallow. It burns! It burns! </div>
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<b>Day one: </b> Oh, hey. It's not that bad really.My sore throat feels a little better. I can beat this thing no problem! Bring on the OJ and soup! I'm winning, I'm winning! </div>
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<b>Night one</b>: Oh. my. god. My brain is clogged with phlegm and it's running out my nose unstoppably. I've used up all the toilet paper in the downstairs bathroom because we have no tissues. I'm sleeping with a bandanna under my nostrils to keep my pillow dry. Just let that snot flow, baby. Ugh, I feel like crap. </div>
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<b>Day Two: </b> Oh, my god. I'm going to die. I can't breathe. Every time I swallow my ears make a crazy glugging sound and then I can't hear right for a few minutes. I can't taste anything. Every fiber in my body aches. I can hardly keep my eyes open. When I blink I hear my eyeballs creaking. I'll never be healthy again. Waaaahhh! </div>
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<b>Night two</b>: I will never again be able to sleep. If I breathe through my mouth, my lips, tongue and throat become the Mojave and I wake up unable to produce saliva or swallow. But if I try to breathe through my nose, I die of suffocation. I'll just make a little tent around my head out of my blankets and breathe through my mouth under here like a little virus-breath-filled steam tent. Still no sleep. </div>
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<b>Day three:</b> Hey, I can breathe a little bit! I haven't had to wipe snot for the past 30 minutes! Cool! Wow...look at my nose. Red, raw, flaking skin. Disgusting. Hawrk, hack, cough, Have I been smoking for 40 years? That is one hell of a barking cough. I go to the store for some cough drops and people look at me like I've got TB. What are you lookin' at, you stupid healthy people. Get outta my way or you're next. </div>
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<b>Night three: </b> Can't sleep. Can't lay flat without coughing fit waking me every time I start to drift off. If I cough one more time like that I'll either vomit, hack up a laryngeal fold or cry. Maybe all three. But wow...I think this might be a good abdominal work out program. I will spend the night in the recliner chair watching Youtube videos, drinking tea and feeling sorry for myself. </div>
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<b>Day four</b>: F-U cold! Fine, you're winning. Whatever. I am going to the store and I'm buying DRUGS, dammit! Did you hear me, coronavirus! I'm gonna bring the 'Quil hate to rain down of your MF-ing head, beatch! You're not keeping me down anymore! I've got things to do, people to see, important life to live! Ah...Dayquil. The friendly kid sister to the Nyquil nighttime bully. Relief. Why didn't I take drugs sooner? </div>
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<b>Night Four</b>: Well, hello there, anise flavored, syrupy green, elixir for the sick...where have you been all my life. Ah...the taste of sleep and crazy effed up dreams. Thank you, Nyquil. I love you. See you again tomorrow night?</div>
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And so ends the story of the first four days of a coronavirus' trajectory. </div>
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of note: I am not currently sick nor do I hope to become sick with anything common or uncommon. Thanks for sparing me from your potential germs, M. </div>
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<br /></div>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-29443352703532397332011-12-23T11:50:00.001-05:002011-12-23T11:51:15.337-05:00"If you give up, it's all over."Nature's drive to persist despite disaster seems, to me, a more truthful and powerful inspiration for our own perseverance than any imaginary divine purpose could ever be. <br />
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h/t www.brainpickings.org<br />
<br />Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-88515675743736180522011-12-01T15:18:00.001-05:002011-12-01T16:27:59.019-05:00Mob warnings?Obviously, I was going to. But then I didn't. I even threw away the evidence. But then, later, I started picking it out of the trash. Then I stopped. What was wrong with me? I was conflicted. But, for you, dear readers (all 3 of you) I asked myself: what, in your heart of hearts, would you really want me to do? So, I donned a pair of rubber gloves, pawed through the small amount of trash and pulled out what I'd thrown away this morning.<br />
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This morning Chip commented on how annoying the cat was being last night. I asked why he didn't shut her in the other room (her food/litter box/water place) which is what we normally do late at night when she's being irritating. She usually follows us happily into the other room and then we close the door and she hangs out in there until morning. Chip said, "She wouldn't follow me into the other room." </div>
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I replied: "Huh, I couldn't get her to follow me either when I got up to pee. Not even when I rattled her food bowl." </div>
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To which Chip said, "Huh. Weird. Maybe she was busy waiting for a mouse or something." </div>
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She gets obsessed with guarding certain spots if she's had a hint of mouse activity. I nodded and said, half-jokingly, "Yeah, in the middle of the night I thought I felt her pouncing around on the bed like she was chasing something. I had a brief thought that maybe she'd brought a mouse up on the bed, hahaha. I just pushed her off the bed with my feet and she went away." [fyi, she has done this very thing in the past. Live mice. Running around. On the bed.]</div>
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As I flipped the covers open to swing my legs out of bed, something odd on top of the extra blanket caught my eye. I had to grope for my glasses so I could verify my suspicion. </div>
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You're probably familiar with the phrase "sleeping with the fishes", a classic mob-movie line that means - you're a deadguy. And even if you've never seen it, you at least know about the scene in the Godfather where the guy wakes up to the severed head of his prized horse in bed with him. So, what's it mean when you wake up in the morning and discover that your cat has left this for you in the folds of the extra blanket; that all night long you've been sleeping with a severed mouse head? </div>
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<i>Picture artfully cropped to protect those of a more delicate constitution</i>.</div>
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It's been quite the season for severed animal heads around here. </div>
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<br /></div>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-30583598612097476092011-11-17T09:43:00.001-05:002014-03-14T14:45:03.403-04:00Something to watch. To make you think.The first term paper I ever wrote, in 10th grade A.P English class was on assisted suicide. That was 21 years ago. In most of the world we don't seem to be any closer to providing healthy, safe, compassionate spaces and protocols for dignified, self-determined deaths. Talking about death - real, personal, individual death - is still a great taboo, even between loved ones. Perhaps most especially between loved ones, for where else are stronger emotions and greater attachments generated? We need more conversations about death, we need better options for dignified, compassionate, self-directed deaths.<br />
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This documentary is worth your time.<br />
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Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-42388476810720964252011-11-07T17:29:00.000-05:002011-11-07T20:28:49.147-05:00Kangaroo briefs, rocks and eggs: A day in the life of me.<b>1.</b> Public radio likes to talk about those "driveway moments" when their stories are so compelling that you delay getting out of your car upon reaching your destination in order to keep listening. This happened to me recently. The last sentence of a Vermont Public Radio on-air job opportunity ad for a producer/announcer at the station:<br />
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Announcer: <i style="font-weight: bold;">"Excellent creative writing skills, a must." </i></div>
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Wouldn't you expect the ad to say: "Strong journalism background a must"? Creative News Writing. I kind of like the idea. I think I could be really good at that job. We could have a whole network dedicated to this kind of stuff. ImagiNews. I wanted to call it Creative News Network, but obviously....already taken - CNN. </div>
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<b>2.</b> Also on VPR, a local announcer was reading one of the "underwriter" bits between segments (i.e. a donationally paid advertisement): </div>
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<b><i>"With underwriting support from so-and-so </i></b>[I don't remember the company name, which I guess makes this a terrible ad ]<b>. <i>Now featuring men's kangaroo pouch briefs." </i></b></div>
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Public radio underwritten by underwear? Weird, but times are tough. What the heck are kangaroo pouch briefs and are they really so much better than regular ones that they need a special ad? And yes, of course I googled "kangaroo pouch briefs" (and now you are too, you weirdo looking at underwear pictures. I sure hope you're not at work). And besides, aren't kangaroo pouches only for females who need to carry baby kangaroos? Ha! They are. I just looked that up too. </div>
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<b>3</b>. Being that this is New England, our soil is chock full of rocks. When I dig in my garden I hit a lot of them and it's pretty tedious really. So sometimes I find my mind slipping into "entertain Jen" mode and it starts imagining that my shovel might be hitting buried skulls or giant femurs from who knows what (but usually a human because that would be the most freaky). I finally get the spade wedged under an edge so I can pop the obstruction out of the soil. I feel a tiny moment of panic when something grayish white and rounded breaks the surface and then a brief moment of disappointment that it's just another damn rock. </div>
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<b>4.</b> Cracking eggs never ceases to be fun. Every time I do it there's the possibility that I'll mess it up - break the shell too hard so that the yolk gets punctured, not hit it hard enough so you have to go in for a second crack and then shell bits are guaranteed to get into what you're making. Or maybe I'll hit it perfectly. I can tell by the sound it makes and the way it feels in my hand. I split it open and the perfectly formed insides slide out. Satisfaction. Cracking eggs, a small moment of wonder from something that seems so ordinary. </div>
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<br /></div>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-58548078193988686222011-11-04T13:01:00.001-04:002011-11-04T13:16:19.709-04:00Bird Brainless: An Update<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
First the earwigs came. Then the worms crawled in, the worms crawled out. The eyes bulged from their sockets. There was even some fuzzy mold after that. There might have been a slight odor of decomposition, but let's not dwell on that unpleasantness. I sprayed the skull a little with the "Jet" setting on the hose and unexpectedly excised the lens of the eye. At least, I think that's what it was. But the hose is not a precision instrument and bird skulls are pretty delicate, so I gave up the hose surgery endeavor. Still, much of the skull was covered with bits of dried skin and tiny feathers as well as the cartilaginous bits that had supported the eye (on the side I hadn't blasted with the hose).</div>
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I decided to boil it. When you boil a chicken carcass it eventually comes pretty clean, right? And also - true story - when I told my neighbor about my cardinal head treasure, she told me about how she boiled a penguin head (super envious) she'd found on a beach years ago; that's how she got it clean. (You see why I like living in Vermont?) </div>
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So I took my camping stove and an old camping pot that's too small to be useful and I made rotten cardinal-head soup. Unfortunately I accidentally deleted the two pictures I took of that. I did it outside so that any smells would dissipate on the wind. I boiled the skull for about an hour, maybe occasionally picking bits of skin and feathers off as I could (I wore gloves, but again, let's not discuss such unpleasantness) and then just left it in the garage for another week while I was away visiting my family near Buffalo. </div>
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This is what it looks like now. Skulls are so cool. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuWZtDbYueL8RlwPgXv2AODuq1-Vtec0eWvQSYbenmJwu41jfxaLijdPhvahEGVE2flkOL0qTUXG6i0evEOYzRf67BI3d9ka7tkjYAxPL2TvFQ2ZAo4iylKghi-XVFyC4K85Yooxfxaso/s1600/CIMG0003.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuWZtDbYueL8RlwPgXv2AODuq1-Vtec0eWvQSYbenmJwu41jfxaLijdPhvahEGVE2flkOL0qTUXG6i0evEOYzRf67BI3d9ka7tkjYAxPL2TvFQ2ZAo4iylKghi-XVFyC4K85Yooxfxaso/s640/CIMG0003.JPG" width="476" /></a></div>
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<br />Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-25248804025155341612011-10-20T02:08:00.000-04:002011-10-20T02:27:29.012-04:00Another dead thing and a Down East sunriseWe took a roadtrip to Maine. First to the <a href="http://www.amckbc.org/kbc.htm">AMC Knubble Bay Cabin</a> with some friends and then way the eff Down East so I could fill my backpack with rocks and bring them back to Vermont. Like we don't have enough rocks here.<br />
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I saw a metallic glint in the sand. "Oo! A pretty shell!" I said to myself and </div>
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picked up the shiny thing. But it wasn't a shell. It was a very recently dead<br />
tropical-looking fish! After oogling it by myself for a minute, I showed it to Chip and then said,<br />
"I'm going to go share this cool dead thing with the new people."<br />
It's my litmus test for judging people I've just met. Doug and Sam passed the test. </div>
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Skinny fish. And I know you're all wondering if I did the same thing with this fish<br />
that I did with that cardinal head from last month. No. Gross.<br />
Dead fish in my pocket for 4 days until I get back to VT?<br />
Even I have limits. </div>
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Chip commanding over Morse Beach</div>
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I just can't seem to leave the wildlife alone. </div>
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<a href="http://maps.google.com/maps?saddr=Georgetown,+ME&daddr=Lubec,+ME&hl=en&ll=44.871443,-65.500488&spn=9.886621,18.852539&sll=43.608239,-68.724976&sspn=2.525578,4.713135&geocode=Ffx-nAIdG83X-ymraWekd56tTDHp4ViS_czqpw%3BFdp8rAIdWekB_CkXSThZL76oTDHKeE5lpgUmwQ&vpsrc=6&gl=us&mra=ls&t=m&z=6">And then we drove. A long way</a>, until we got to the end of the earth. Okay, really, just one particular, arbitrary end point on a map of the USA. Lubec, ME. Where there is a gift shop near the Quoddy Lighthouse that boasts: "The easternmost gift shop in the USA!"</div>
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West Quoddy Head lighthouse. A quick stop before heading</div>
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out on the Bold Coast Trail for an overnight. </div>
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I'm pointing to the bluff in the distance where we'll be setting up camp. </div>
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<a href="http://cozytoes.blogspot.com/2008/10/my-kind-of-freedom.html">I was here, by myself, three years ago</a>. But this time I get to share it with Chip!</div>
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Teeny, tiny Chip. Great big sea and rocks.</div>
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It's cold, dark and 7:30pm. What to do? Go to bed fully and even doubly clothed. </div>
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No. I'm not kidding. 7:30, sleeping. But that means I'm fully rested to see the sunrise!!!!</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Sunrise Series</span></div>
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I'm up and out of the tent at 6:05 a.m. </div>
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This is the first shot of sun coming up over the ocean.</div>
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Sunrise 2.</div>
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Sunrise 3</div>
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Sunrise 4</div>
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Sunrise 5</div>
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Sunrise 6</div>
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Sunrise 7 - really. This is for real. </div>
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Sunrise 8 - I wish I could taste this. </div>
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Does that make sense? I don't care. A-mazing!</div>
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Sunrise 9</div>
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Sunrise 10</div>
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Day two of the hike. We went about a mile until we got to Jennifer Cove (I took the liberty of renaming it). </div>
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Since 12 hours of sleep wasn't quite enough, Chip took a nap.</div>
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while I worked hard harvesting the most beautiful rocks in the world. </div>
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I took this picture so that I wouldn't have to carry all these home with me. But, in the end,</div>
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four miles back to the car. Chip thought it was particularly amusing</div>
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that I packed them into my "Go-Lite" stuff sack! </div>
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Me experiencing beach combing bliss on Jennifer Cove.</div>
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Chip looking out over the ocean.</div>
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1.5 miles to go. Powered by green peppers!!!! </div>
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Where we stayed pre- and post backpacking. </div>
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Great burger. Great beer. Great views. Great local people.</div>
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Down town Lubec, ME. </div>
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A hot-bed of activity on Wednesday morning.</div>
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Dear Way the Heck Down East Maine, </div>
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You are pretty darn awesome. Especially because of signs like the one we saw on a small shed-like store that advertised: RED POTATOES, WOOD PELLETS, PIGLETS.</div>
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What more could you need? Thanks for another great visit. </div>
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Sincerely,<br />
Jen.</div>
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<br /></div>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-31642305072172670912011-09-17T16:55:00.004-04:002011-09-17T17:34:51.396-04:00Bird Brain<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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This past Wednesday was a long day working at the doctor's office and in the evening I wanted to do something to distract myself from feeling bombarded by personalities. So I took out the watercolor paints. Now, before you go thinking, "Hey, I didn't know Jen could paint!" I can't. I took a class up in Bangor, ME in 1998. I painted some lemons and limes artfully resting near a blue aluminum can and it looked like a 3rd grader did it. But I still have all the brushes, paper and paints and what's not to love about making colors appear on paper. I tried to paint a sunflower. Fail. I tried to paint some trees. Fail.<br />
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So, I decided I'd paint some letters because that seemed fail-safe. I did Chip's name. Then I felt like changing it to "CHIRP". That made me want to paint a little bird. Fail. Then I painted "CHOP" and the same orange bird (Fail) with it's head chopped off. The major success was flicking droplets of red paint from my brush to simulate blood. That's a satisfying watercolor "technique". So, anyway... I randomly painted a weird picture of a decapitated bird. </div>
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Apropos of nothing above: I follow a blog by a writer named<a href="http://vivianswiftblog.com/"> Vivian Swift</a>. She did a great art journal book called <a href="http://nancypearlbooks.wordpress.com/2009/12/12/when-wanderers-cease-to-roam/">When Wanderers Cease to Roam</a>. She likes to find blue jay feathers. Sometimes when she's down-in the-dumps she talks about asking the universe to help her pay attention to the small, beautiful things in unexpected places. Sometimes she asks the universe to put a blue jay feather in her path and then often she finds one. She likes to write about that. And I am a sucker for those kind of stories because I have a feather finding feature. Some might call it a flaw. I'm obsessed with them. I find them all the time when we hike. People are amazed at how I can spot them and how they seem to find me. I've had them literally float down from the sky into my waiting hand. There have been times when I'll think, "it's been a while since I've found a feather...I hope I see one today on this hike." and then 5 steps down the path...there will be a feather. I know it's just coincidence, but secretly I imagine it's my special "gift". Wow...what a rockin' super power. </div>
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Also seemingly apropos of nothing above: Today I really wanted to go for a big hike someplace exciting. Like in the Whites or the Greens, up a big mountain with big views and big wow factor. But for a bunch of reasons it didn't happen. (up too late, slept in, roads to all the places I love are closed, entire forests still closed). So I went to Springweather Nature Area. An elderly man and his dog were heading out for a walk at the same as I was and we talked for a few minutes. He suggested I turn left on the path down below and walk to the bench for a really stunning view of the reservoir. I was walking along enjoying the beautiful breeze and temperature, enjoying time alone. Thinking meandering thoughts. Thinking about Vivian Swift and her blue jay feathers. I jokingly, in my head, "asked the universe" if it might be able to put some feathers in my path today. In a few minutes I arrived at the bench the old man had told me about. I was going there to see the view of Irene's flood water line. The North Springfield dam saved my town from Irene's flooding destruction. Thank you, North Springfield dam and reservoir.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial;">I sat in the warmth of the sun and gawked in amazement until I decided it was time to head in the other direction. And that's when it happened. Walking back on the opposite edge of the woodsy road, something in the weeds and twigs to my left caught my eye. Instantly I knew - male cardinal feathers and lots of them! This was clearly the site of a bird murder.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span></div>
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So, I did what any feather-loving, crime scene investigator would do, I took pictures, collected samples and generally studied the scene in great detail. This kill was very fresh; some of the quills were still dark and wet inside. The piles of downy feathers, flight feathers, tail feathers hadn't yet blown apart from each other. I picked through them, examining their beauty and variation. I put a few into my coat pocket. I was pretty sure I could even identify feathers that would have been part of the bird's crest. I moved around to the other side of the scene for a different look and there it was....jackpot! </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA8Ybw6QTKAw5W9zWbLERI6M335z2JkBdKg9xT5stjCcPvsy3uUSgFdourCnZGJV72TkYnaiTPekRXobiMjZaG-eAV36yvknvuXDLLA0gPhaKVDbhG9A5lU1FKtdumcya8lELSWDw_p5w/s1600/CIMG0009.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA8Ybw6QTKAw5W9zWbLERI6M335z2JkBdKg9xT5stjCcPvsy3uUSgFdourCnZGJV72TkYnaiTPekRXobiMjZaG-eAV36yvknvuXDLLA0gPhaKVDbhG9A5lU1FKtdumcya8lELSWDw_p5w/s400/CIMG0009.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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Anyone who knows me knows my fascination with dead things. Anyone who knows me will easily guess what I did next. Yep, you got it! I picked it up by the beak. The eyes were closed, of course, but not yet sunken in. There was still weight of bird brains inside. The back of the head was clean of feathers, exposing a hemisphere of yellowish white skull-orb. When I woke up this day I never imagined that by noon I'd be holding the head of a recently dead male cardinal. I wanted to keep it<i>. </i>Yes, you read that right.<i> </i>I wanted to wait for the feathers and flesh to decay and then to have a bird skull. So I started walking with it down the path toward my car where I was going to leave it while I continued on my walk. But then I saw the elderly gentleman I'd met on my way in. Our trajectories would coincide shortly and he'd see me holding a bird head by the beak. Also, I was afraid his dog might want to eat it. Awkward, to say the least. So, I did what had to be done. I unzipped the upper chest pocket on my windbreaker and dropped the cardinal's head inside. </div>
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With my treasure safely stowed, I decided to continue on my walk without stopping at my car. For another hour I walked, took pictures and had a lovely afternoon. I chuckled to myself once in a while but felt occasional bits of nervousness about the mental health of someone going for a walk with dead bird parts in her chest pocket. </div>
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So, the lessons for today are obvious. You don't need to go far away or to mountains to find fascinating things to spark your wonder. The routine nature walk place right down the street has wonder and beauty to spare if you're willing to look for it. Second lesson, be careful what you ask for from the universe. You just might get it tenfold. Third lesson, stuff that seems apropos of nothing can sometimes end up making a curiously serendipitous story.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></div>
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<b>Two photos to cleanse the mental palate from all that dead bird head talk:</b></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimzdsCMQ9TDtS4BI2NSD2Xqdv1-1-Hjy1hSDYwvhyIfikwyrAJgIKXW2ZVbwqUBEMEbW7DhyphenhyphenC7wdDJrpWPi9IMi4wBLWti0auZO3CI5PenMdmjuznZOYBSEuDljPOwIJ15aMr2nX4b9Rs/s1600/CIMG0028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimzdsCMQ9TDtS4BI2NSD2Xqdv1-1-Hjy1hSDYwvhyIfikwyrAJgIKXW2ZVbwqUBEMEbW7DhyphenhyphenC7wdDJrpWPi9IMi4wBLWti0auZO3CI5PenMdmjuznZOYBSEuDljPOwIJ15aMr2nX4b9Rs/s400/CIMG0028.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
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This is not a Oz. This is not a photoshop trick. It really looks like this. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9Bav6Xhyx1f4MlDxXNUycrvCLQH92v3aI-b4tEt-HeNC9klwKli1ngyyvqhhP0pIx6k_61me2j7FRI_XCXlXEuSa5WoLyqPQ-SWEMxZy_jfl4OoAEmVg631Nd3jwbyXtHsw0tc1cD3s/s1600/CIMG0029.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge9Bav6Xhyx1f4MlDxXNUycrvCLQH92v3aI-b4tEt-HeNC9klwKli1ngyyvqhhP0pIx6k_61me2j7FRI_XCXlXEuSa5WoLyqPQ-SWEMxZy_jfl4OoAEmVg631Nd3jwbyXtHsw0tc1cD3s/s320/CIMG0029.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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I peeled up a leaf to see its imprint. I love that it looks like a black and white photos except for the the rusty, pink hue of the real leaf in the upper left edge</div>
</span>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8575779461416863859.post-90797760296401720752011-07-13T23:54:00.001-04:002011-11-07T17:33:36.949-05:00Summer Ninja<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQtUzua1FSZb8rYLCvsmb6YissNnc6OxGc8UYHGxtBuJcCFt5caCEKfuet3uFOf713-_c9TZXu7sPZ1EbhyVlbPuqby9dhPdVXGjCZ8yzsl3gPyMxGRWT9ZLLm8tgNCi1j_ccwoA-kQag/s1600/CIMG0050.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQtUzua1FSZb8rYLCvsmb6YissNnc6OxGc8UYHGxtBuJcCFt5caCEKfuet3uFOf713-_c9TZXu7sPZ1EbhyVlbPuqby9dhPdVXGjCZ8yzsl3gPyMxGRWT9ZLLm8tgNCi1j_ccwoA-kQag/s400/CIMG0050.JPG" width="300" /></a></div>
I know what you're thinking: "It looks like Jen's lifting her leg to pee; like a dog. Hahaha." You're hysterical, you know that? Really you are.<br />
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But you're wrong. </div>
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No, this is Summer Ninja out stalking fodder for personal amazement and perpetually renewed wonder. Did you know that one of the easiest ways to make new discoveries on a daily basis is to have a love affair with nature? Honestly, I can go out every day into the woods, into my yard, along the road and with just a little bit of patience and observation I can see things I didn't see the day before, or ever before, for that matter. One of the best nature-y subjects for this kind of never-ending love affair....insects. </div>
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Now before you go getting all sissy on me, stop for a second.. It's terribly irrational, your fear of (most) insects in New England. You're missing out on so much potential for learning. The insect world holds unending examples of beautiful, functional adaptations for evolutionary success. Shapes, colors, textures, habits that amaze the eye and make for great photographic explorations.</div>
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Look what I found in just a few meadow-y acres at Springweather Nature Area over the past two days:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSblMquWVLZqHZuEP5TbZxs_KarLP0VmcYq140u5aU8QOoyTo_r7y9cNumUibDBvyL-7uxYwoAG-HPkLJxE9wdOh2WjotFaJ8mWEgxMU0DtiCnKXLlEjKJCMW8jtJsFQ9LEKhige1K1SI/s1600/CIMG0006.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSblMquWVLZqHZuEP5TbZxs_KarLP0VmcYq140u5aU8QOoyTo_r7y9cNumUibDBvyL-7uxYwoAG-HPkLJxE9wdOh2WjotFaJ8mWEgxMU0DtiCnKXLlEjKJCMW8jtJsFQ9LEKhige1K1SI/s640/CIMG0006.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Red Milkweed Beetles (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: Georgia; font-size: 16px;"><i>Tetraopes tetraophthalmus)</i></span> getting all sexy.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirouJO5oHcwKWE7p8wRJXah1uBN8rTnQKTNubGXwcMVXylV5_80b85ahB1odhiCyo-Z27kp-4A3S26shgVOxy6d6UBxV8QUv-AwugTqO0UWb8rJfEzdTksAtZXl_mIm3_-xhXIg2yc1TY/s1600/CIMG0030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirouJO5oHcwKWE7p8wRJXah1uBN8rTnQKTNubGXwcMVXylV5_80b85ahB1odhiCyo-Z27kp-4A3S26shgVOxy6d6UBxV8QUv-AwugTqO0UWb8rJfEzdTksAtZXl_mIm3_-xhXIg2yc1TY/s640/CIMG0030.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Summer Ninja stalking grounds.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqoZEFCd-SiCz6-yuIyGHdT7XfMZPWAWje5FtQfBytGdQPpnAzZWJvyt4lBVh-85aecuXS05Pkuf5N0o4QIUAEm2qmQvlKZXTdmwvdLtBm6wZhpIiLhAaXDes7CSzHn5popJ3nAXetsc/s1600/CIMG0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAqoZEFCd-SiCz6-yuIyGHdT7XfMZPWAWje5FtQfBytGdQPpnAzZWJvyt4lBVh-85aecuXS05Pkuf5N0o4QIUAEm2qmQvlKZXTdmwvdLtBm6wZhpIiLhAaXDes7CSzHn5popJ3nAXetsc/s320/CIMG0014.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>
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Okay, if you really hate insects...fine...here are some pretty Black Eyed Susan. Do you feel safe now?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijBC8gq0qlBfhUVIy6N9cl3aHEzG7WIL_IPrqFBejwpQ6uoRfwAArX_phH2piEa665P07ln2B3l0Lwgul9fJIDJMAZNIQ0qD17sAE7-MMA1vkMyv3L6K80iXSxGzQiEHNKiYVRFrw6JGM/s1600/CIMG0037.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijBC8gq0qlBfhUVIy6N9cl3aHEzG7WIL_IPrqFBejwpQ6uoRfwAArX_phH2piEa665P07ln2B3l0Lwgul9fJIDJMAZNIQ0qD17sAE7-MMA1vkMyv3L6K80iXSxGzQiEHNKiYVRFrw6JGM/s640/CIMG0037.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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My new favorite insect creature. Viceroy Butterfly Larva (<i>Limenitis archippus). </i>I mean, look how COOL that is! It's like a caterpillar, horse, sea horse thing with antlers!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Rxn7wJfZ-6l8YK6_49QUbnuLLLUoftJYPoHCmL3VMam2zN2eUsDx9pKeCKR2QODmJsgaY5DfkqQ49OHiYSeM_N0sGlHJm1rilIlI8YYI0qTgLzzx3qgjPx1AL-CEpQ-cS1VKO_Gkv8U/s1600/CIMG0022.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Rxn7wJfZ-6l8YK6_49QUbnuLLLUoftJYPoHCmL3VMam2zN2eUsDx9pKeCKR2QODmJsgaY5DfkqQ49OHiYSeM_N0sGlHJm1rilIlI8YYI0qTgLzzx3qgjPx1AL-CEpQ-cS1VKO_Gkv8U/s640/CIMG0022.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Viceroy butterfly larva at an earlier <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Instar">instar</a> (stage of larval development before sexual maturity). And if you look carefully, you'll see the tiny blue leafhopper also on the stem. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjuw8yaCpPMBFTqpHh8fK-9getICujdTMk9UGMUA73iinIK9SQkz5u7ZBC9AZg9EKfUI0Pq4LtrVvhdCwVkjDznSf9z6R7wFCbQXEBG8qXPE4hZFHH4tt-8SmoFqvf7NiiEuHnJVXgYvs/s1600/CIMG0062.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjuw8yaCpPMBFTqpHh8fK-9getICujdTMk9UGMUA73iinIK9SQkz5u7ZBC9AZg9EKfUI0Pq4LtrVvhdCwVkjDznSf9z6R7wFCbQXEBG8qXPE4hZFHH4tt-8SmoFqvf7NiiEuHnJVXgYvs/s640/CIMG0062.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Limenitis archippus </i>Viceroy Butterfly larva. <a href="http://www.nhptv.org/natureworks/viceroy.htm">Viceroy's have some fantastic adaptations</a>. During early instars the caterpillar looks like a bird dropping.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxe6cGjVuAi1IHUB6ANeFJCT8a7cYKTB7Usq-kNOAJQlxNo05wGecAqU3I2Dmf5tUuVjRcRYX8OSgsA865E61x90KJZzoNiCowApdRaht5aordcBroI7YVUiQxdRH7_EzXitshS15wQY/s1600/CIMG0028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAxe6cGjVuAi1IHUB6ANeFJCT8a7cYKTB7Usq-kNOAJQlxNo05wGecAqU3I2Dmf5tUuVjRcRYX8OSgsA865E61x90KJZzoNiCowApdRaht5aordcBroI7YVUiQxdRH7_EzXitshS15wQY/s640/CIMG0028.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Dragonfly wings never cease to wow me with their delicate beauty. It takes serious Ninja skills to stalk members of the order Odonata.</div>
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Look at this black and iridescent beauty!</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFYnTG9bIMZQQ4sTZMs6Di2H2wCUMI2zjCh9u40QWr2OPfkC26D-PghNRs6UFpg_PlRvgOagKEK3aVJ6WNzPgBLHOJboSkYQKaCTBSrKdsUD0eGeqpjK0md-h0CM04-Gb8tAUYQUeJMiM/s1600/CIMG0040.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFYnTG9bIMZQQ4sTZMs6Di2H2wCUMI2zjCh9u40QWr2OPfkC26D-PghNRs6UFpg_PlRvgOagKEK3aVJ6WNzPgBLHOJboSkYQKaCTBSrKdsUD0eGeqpjK0md-h0CM04-Gb8tAUYQUeJMiM/s640/CIMG0040.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Oh, Nature! Your miners leaf marks upon my heart! </div>
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So, tonight, after the rain, in the gloaming, I had to go back to my field and see what everyone was up to.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3N0gYEaGWvQGAiOQiEdOjt0Xduzry03FrvBegZthu5MDS0sW9bPb5nX-kRpfwl46_Dhhmye_jm-VfRBDAGIe0fCyd7OuqsfLGldsPcx5q9HrTb2q7gO_OJI2cu2qhA5d9DR1rl5eIeDM/s1600/CIMG0088.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3N0gYEaGWvQGAiOQiEdOjt0Xduzry03FrvBegZthu5MDS0sW9bPb5nX-kRpfwl46_Dhhmye_jm-VfRBDAGIe0fCyd7OuqsfLGldsPcx5q9HrTb2q7gO_OJI2cu2qhA5d9DR1rl5eIeDM/s640/CIMG0088.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="640" /></a></div>
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During early instars, the viceroy larvae have evolved to look like bird droppings as a camouflage technique. "Wow, Roy, you really look like shit today." "Thanks!"</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFBdobaTUaqoecWPL56xaR6VVF_yp7Fw6cF9hCxCTLDwoNZNWmfO6Ma9op47HxUmE4XZVLWytunWfrfDVZQ-ZwqR22FvgUacNg4AFPCVXE5I82m41WzaiWvcNl0f3LRQwmolBb-OGkvo/s1600/CIMG0091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixFBdobaTUaqoecWPL56xaR6VVF_yp7Fw6cF9hCxCTLDwoNZNWmfO6Ma9op47HxUmE4XZVLWytunWfrfDVZQ-ZwqR22FvgUacNg4AFPCVXE5I82m41WzaiWvcNl0f3LRQwmolBb-OGkvo/s640/CIMG0091.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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This is a more advanced instar of the Viceroy larva where it's not only much bigger, but also turns greenish.</div>
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Summer Ninja tools and disguises:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihCaxtYSTBWEBCNdRS3Jrfhyphenhyphenr4829W3sDdAd5oKTuP7aY3W3D0vCmH5u9C2zEeJq4WIhpWKa9YgIjILYZ_nj1wCt08K_0wsQh8ZaZwAjVuq_lBMqxeWPnn5Qh-Ps0zacvxGOIw9W64xDM/s1600/CIMG0066.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihCaxtYSTBWEBCNdRS3Jrfhyphenhyphenr4829W3sDdAd5oKTuP7aY3W3D0vCmH5u9C2zEeJq4WIhpWKa9YgIjILYZ_nj1wCt08K_0wsQh8ZaZwAjVuq_lBMqxeWPnn5Qh-Ps0zacvxGOIw9W64xDM/s640/CIMG0066.JPG" style="cursor: move;" width="480" /></a></div>
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Lepidoptera boots and trippy 60's umbrella. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK966podZxo-owfS5FOIHbcHcBRJq5Ezz8rttpDlzRrLqx9TaZuPUIpZwbPPG6kAjEOEdBvH4EctDBNFnOSPl_dFS40RrhMsjz_E6ZSuqCQKENxnXn_w_rOKtgxJvM0VTzSx56NM5sYNM/s1600/CIMG0069.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK966podZxo-owfS5FOIHbcHcBRJq5Ezz8rttpDlzRrLqx9TaZuPUIpZwbPPG6kAjEOEdBvH4EctDBNFnOSPl_dFS40RrhMsjz_E6ZSuqCQKENxnXn_w_rOKtgxJvM0VTzSx56NM5sYNM/s640/CIMG0069.JPG" width="480" /></a></div>
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Thank you, Springweather Nature Area for being my clandestine Nature love-affair meeting place.</div>
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<br /></div>Jennifer Audettehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10952942841312752241noreply@blogger.com2