I took these pictures of the garden before I left for Colorado.

And these are the ones I took the day after I got back.

Just fifteen miles outside of Kingman, Arizona there is a state park called Hualapai Mountain Park.  We had a pleasant and uneventful journey to this park, traveling through uninhabited desert, on a relatively untraveled highway that more or less follows the old Route 66.

Route 66 has a history, glorified by a 1960s TV show, which folks like to drive as a form of time travel.  Today about a hundred and fifty intrepid motorcyclists were sharing the journey with us for the stretches where the old Route 66 has been swallowed up by the more modern Interstate 40. 

Where the old Route still exists there are motels (a form of lodging uniquely American, a word combining motor & hotel) built in the motor court fashion, a single story row of adjoined rooms, facing a parking lot to corral the ubiquitous automobile, with perhaps a sparkling pool prominently displayed to attract families with children. 

We took the 66 into Kingman and found it unchanged from the town we remembered from the sixties.  Still an unpretentious desert town built along the Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe railroad, it sustains a gas station with vintage pumps (without air quality concerns);  stores with shaded sidewalks and windows filled with curios, Stetson hats, and locally made Indian (feather not dot) jewelry and pottery; a boarded up railway station, a tire store, and a museum memorializing the heyday of Western settlement.  

The more modern Kingman emerged as we began the ascent up Hualapai Mountain.  State of the art mansions, built to resemble adobe ranchos, mingled with contemporary Spanish style palaces, lined the canyon.  Prodigal urban sprawl, so completely oblivious to the pristine desert ecology, took our breath away.

The campground was nestled in a sparsely forested, rock jumbled canyon.  The desk clerk had suggested that we proceed to the mini RV area if we wanted hook ups (that would be electric; not dates) so we asked the RAV to climb even more steeply up the ridge to where the utilities were available, passing many quaint cabins and isolated camp sites, all unoccupied.  So we were stunned to find a dozen RVs parked nearly bumper to bumper in terraced formation.  SO NOT our idea of camping!

We found our ideal spot just down the hill. 

Isolated from other campsites, it offered a view of the canyon below and the craggy peaks above.  We started making plans for a strenuous hike to the peak but thought it prudent to set up our camp first.  It was almost 4:00 and we had over three hours of daylight remaining.

Our improved campsite had a concrete picnic table, a fire pit and a trash can.  What it lacked was what we wanted most:  A level spot to park the trailer.  After struggling for over an hour to figure out how to  get the trailer level, we finally decided to hook it back up to the car and reposition it.  By this time we had dragged it by hand into a small depression which made it impossible to get the little wheel off the hitch. 

Here’s the scene:  Two blondes puzzling over how to lift the tongue of the trailer high enough, while it’s attached to the car, to allow the little wheel to slip off.  Says one, “Jack it up with the jack in the RAV4.”  We proceeded to try to get the jack out of the bracket, which the instructions said, “turn the handle manually” to remove.  It was impossible. 

So one of the blondes says (that would be me), “We could crank up the tongue, place a chock under it, lift the wheel and pull it off.”  And so we did.  The last step presented a problem.  How were we to remove the chock from under the trailer, once the wheel was off?  There was no choice but to figure out how to get the jack out of the car.  I don't know why we didn't just put a rock under the hand crank, but again, we're working with blondes here.  

Eventually, we got the jack out, repositioned the trailer to where it was level, and stowed all of our tools.  The next step was to light the propane refrigerator, which had been the sole reason for leveling the trailer. 

The fridge had burst open enroute, spewing its contents across the floor and everything was close to room temperature by the time we were ready to light it.  Mike had coached me at home on how to safely get it running and I was confident that I understood the procedure.  We carefully went through the steps.  Nothing happened.  After three attempts, we decided to walk down to the gate to pay our camp fee and try again when we returned to camp.  When we returned, we still could not get it to light.  Finally, I called Mike.  He said it sounded like we were doing everything right and that it had taken him as long as ten minutes to get it to light in the past. 

A problem that requires great mental agility and mechanical aptitude may leave us with debilitating headaches but a problem that is solved with perseverance is easily remedied.  Perseverance we got!  Soon we were cooling with gas feeling quite smug that our first endeavor, though frustrating, had ended with success on every front.

In celebration, I uncorked our best bottle of inexpensive wine (a 2005 Merlot).  We decided that the uncooked chicken should be eaten first, after having been unrefrigerated for most of the day, so Babs cut up potatoes, onions, celery, and red bell peppers and I threw them into a big skillet with some olive oil. 

While the aroma of our supper wafted through the canyon on the evening breeze, Babs jotted down the details of our day.  I tended the stove, took some photos of our idyllic setting and got bogged down with this narrative. 

When we had left our camp to pay the fee, we had spotted two deer browsing in the brush just off the road.  They were unconcerned with our passing and we were delighted to see them.  Returning to camp, we found a deer at the back of the trailer sniffing curiously at the ground.  We stopped and stood quietly watching her, thinking she would dart away if we moved.  As we stood watching her watching us, three of her friends came up the hill closer to where we stood.  To my astonishment the boldest of them walked right up to me and demanded I hand over my granola bar.  Though she had no antlers, I was sufficiently intimidated by their numbers and meekly offered it to her.

Well, this one had antlers but they weren't formidable.

Tomorrow:  Day 2.  Stay tuned for more exciting blonde adventures on the road.

The town I live in is in an unincorporated area of the largest county in the country.  I don't know how the state was divided into counties but it was done long before Southern California was the sprawling metropolis it is now.  The largest part of San Bernardino County was uninhabited desert back then and didn't generate much revenue for public services, nor did it need much.  Today, with the expanding population, the County is hard pressed to keep up with the demands for services despite the exponential increase in tax base. 

My house sits to the east of a vacant strip of land that was a railroad right of way when I moved in 36 years ago.  A train would come chugging slowly by about once a week to supply the local industries and sometimes drop off a car on the siding.  It was more bucolic than annoying because it wasn't noisy or frequent.   

Today that train track is gone and the land is graded smooth as a drag strip.  And therein lies the problem.  Every yayhoo in town thinks there's nothing more fun than racing up and down, spinning doughnuts, and generally making as much noise and stirring up as much dust as possible on this stretch of dirt.  The prevailing winds blow all that dirt over my house, car, patio furniture, and casts a pall on my normally sunny disposition.

I've called the County Sheriff to ask them for help and the Sheriff says to call the ORV (off road vehicle) Code Enforcement office because they only have jurisdiction if the vehicles are street legal.  The ORV Code Enforcement office tells me I need to provide them with names and addresses of the offenders.  I tried to chase a motorcycle down to ask the rider for his name and address on my mountain bike a few times but didn't manage to pin him down. 

So, I've been documenting the ORV activity with my camera, mainly because folks don't like to be photographed doing illegal things and they usually go away when they see me.  The other day I heard the worst offender firing up his engine (he lives three blocks away but his engine is so loud I can hear it when he starts it) so I grabbed my camera and made him the star of my latest video.   This guy gave me such incriminating footage that I figured there was no way the various law enforcement agencies could give me the run around.  He broke so many laws that he fell under the jurisdiction of the Highway Patrol, the Sheriffs Department and the ORV Code Enforcement.  I took video, I got still photos and I had the ice cream vendor as a witness. 

I put it all together in a Windows Movie Maker movie and called the Sheriff.  And he said..."There's nothing we can do."  According to him, unless they catch the perpetrator crimson fisted, they can't issue a citation.  So now I have to go down to this guy's house and kindly ask him to repeat his performance for the Sheriff (that would be after I ask him for his name and address). 

I am so stupid!  My Xanga subscriptions stopped being emailed to me (for some unknown reason) and I assumed that everyone had stopped blogging.  In my defense, a few things came through, like TripCrazed, but even those trickled down to nothing and I didn't figure it out.  Finally, I went to my site and happened to look at my inbox and voila! 

Now I'm so far behind on reading that it will be a week before I can catch up with everyone.

Mike and I went to La Costa for lunch today and we were really hungry.  The waitress was a little slow so we ate the entire platter of chips before she even came back to take our order.  They have those really fresh and greasy ones that just keep begging you to have just one more. 

So, in spite of the fact that we'd already consumed our daily ration of fat, we ordered combination plates.  I ordered a chili relleno and Mike went for the whole enchilada (two enchiladas, actually) with beans and rice.  It was so good, we both cleaned our plates.  All that was left on my plate were the seeds and stems. 

We waddled out feeling nappish but decided to go to Home Depot and digest on the hoof, instead of giving in to the temptation of the couch.  We spent copious amounts of money on stuff we didn't know we needed until we saw it, doing our part to stimulate the economy.  Then we went home to take a nap.

Mike had bought a new band saw which he was eager to assemble so (after his nap) I made coffee, and he got to work.  He was halfway finished with the assembly when he got a stricken look on his face and disappeared into the house. 

A few minutes later he came out ashen faced and obviously not well.  Within minutes he didn't know which end to aim at the toilet bowl. 

After the second dash to the bathroom he came out and announced that he thought he had contracted the swine flu...from having made such a pig of himself at lunch.  You kinda have to know what a hypochondriac he is to appreciate the joke.

Southern California is heaven on earth this time of year.  Every tree, shrub, bulb and weed tries to out do its neighbor with colorful  blossoms. 

There's Jasmine, so fragrant it perfumes the entire house when the windows are open.

 Lantanas blossom year round but in the spring they go crazy. 

Lilies grow like weeds and you can never be truly rid of them

Camellias come in a variety of colors and styles but I love these simple ones.

Freeway Daisies threaten to take over the entire yard.  My pink flamingos pale by comparison to my geraniums and amaryllis.  I guess I'm not feeding them enough plastic shrimp.

My mom tore all of these daisies out last year (against my wishes) but I replanted.  Ha ha!

   I don't know what this is, it was here when I moved in.  I nearly killed it when I transplanted it.

 I've assisted nature by seeding and planting, watering and weeding, carefully placing plants in a random fashion so my yard looks more or less accidental. 

It was cool out this morning, lovely weather for puttering in the garden.  I looked out back towards Mom's and saw she was already dragging her weed wagon across the lawn. 

I had suggested that she might dead head the geraniums if she was looking for something to do and I was pleased to see her heading in that direction. 

I made breakfast for Mike and helped him pack for his out of town job before getting dressed and heading out to the garden.  The first thing I noticed was a bucket of trimmings that Mom had left for me to dump into the compost barrel.  I was shocked to see, not the faded pink blooms of the geranium, but the sassy faces of my ephemeral California poppies. 

Swallowing my instant flash of anger, I continued with my original agenda which included mowing the front lawn. 

As I mowed, I fumed and ruminated about the exhumed poppies.  When I had finally regained my composure sufficiently to be sure I could trust myself not to say anything unkind, I went back to Mom's and asked her why on earth she felt the need to pull up the poppies when they were in bloom?!?!?! 

Her childlike petulance knocked the anger out of me like a punch in the stomach.  She offered no excuse.  I reminded her that we had talked about this before and that we had agreed that she would not pull out things that I planted, only things that she had planted.  She was unrepentant and pretty much made it clear that she would do as she pleased.

The progression of senility is an inexorable and frightening thing.  I desperately want to believe that my Mom is just a little forgetful but the fact is, she's changing.  She is aware of her failing mind and body and it frustrates her.  She grows weary of not being able to figure out simple things and she isn't thrilled about losing her position as boss of the family so she just bosses me around . 

The loss of the poppies is less than nothing to me but the loss of my dearest friend scares the chit out of me.  I selfishly wonder, what will happen to me thirty years from now?  Who will care for me?  Whose flowers will I pull out?  I don't have a daughter to torment. 

I was awakened around 4:30 AM by a stabbing pain in my tooth.  I downed an ibuprophen and went back to bed to monitor the effect, wondering if it was wise to travel so far away from my dentist at such a time.  Twelve minutes later, the throbbing subsided and I decided to get up to finish packing. 

Traveling with just the three of us, Mike, Guy and me, coupled with a preceding week occupied with visiting cousins, I felt less motivated to plan three course, gourmet meals for the four day camping trip, than I had on the last trip.  Keeping it simple, I reduced the provisioning and packing from three days to one and managed to fit everything into one ice chest and the fridge in the Aliner.

We picked Guy up a little after 9:00 and started off with high spirits.  Ascending Cajon Pass my tooth suddenly exploded with pain.  I assumed the change in altitude had something to do with it so I popped another ibuprophen and waited for the miracle drug to work its magic.  By the time we reached the top it had receded to a dull ache.

Wind surfers on the dry lake bed at Baker, CA

Long before we reached The Mad Greek in Baker, we were all eager for breakfast.  Mike began anticipating what he would order if they were still serving breakfast while visions of pita with olives, feta cheese and tabbouleh salad danced in my head.  When we finally pulled into the parking lot we were dismayed to see that there wasn’t a single space left and customers were lined up outside the entrance.

Luckily, I had packed three sandwiches for an afternoon snack so we ate those as we drove, instead of waiting in line.  When they wore off we switched to trail mix, cookies, dried mango with chili and Starbucks Frappuccinos.

The mesa was a beehive of activity when we pulled in at 6:30 local time.  The intersection at the restroom was backed up with cars and cyclists were pedaling happily up the road.  I grew apprehensive, fearing that our favorite campsite would be occupied since almost every site we had passed (none of which were as nice as ours) was filled.  We turned onto the path to the campsite and I jumped out of the truck to run down the quarter of a mile of rough track to see if there was anyone camped at the end.  I was elated to find it was as clean and deserted as we had left it six months ago. 

We had camp set up, snacks set out and a bottle of merlot opened within minutes.  The thermometer read 70˚ but as the sun sank, so did the mercury.  We dug out the polar fleece and warm hats knowing that this desert goes from toasty to frosty in a very short time.

Mike played guitar, Guy organized his camp and I started dinner preparations.  Garden burgers with slices of fresh yellow bell pepper, tomato, lettuce, arugula, and sharp cheddar cheese on toasted whole wheat buns made up the main course, followed by Triple Chocolate mini Bunt cake topped with crème fraische and hot tea.

MONDAY

We slept in until long after dawn waiting for the sun to take the chill off the air.  I made coffee, then a hearty breakfast of French toast and hash browned potatoes, while the guys put the finishing touches on the bike maintenance.

Eventually, we hit the trail with me leading the way.  My plan was to take the most direct route to Bowls and Ledges, which is my favorite section.  It is almost entirely on slick rock and the trail challenges your nerve as it twists and dives and then climbs up seemingly impossible sandstone walls, only to plunge back down into narrow, slot canyons, scoured by eons of intermittent flowing water.

None of us were riding our best.  A section of trail that Mike and Guy had both cleared in October proved beyond their ability despite several attempts (Actually, Mike cleared it on his first attempt but was unable to repeat the performance for the camera).  Mike decided we had spent enough time on Bowls & Ledges and turned off onto the North Rim Trail, heading for the highest end of the mesa.  I grumbled because the North Rim Trail is a technical, thrill ride in the downhill direction but in the uphill direction it’s just plain hard work.

From North Rim we picked up a yellow connector trail to the South Rim Trail.  The sign at the trail head has a symbol “_///_” in a circle and it says “EXTREMELY DIFFICULT”.  I’ve ridden this trail in the opposite (downhill) direction in years past and it scares the peediddlin’ squat out of me because of its proximity to the edge of the mesa.  Thankfully, taking it in this direction merely put years of wear on my expensive bike shoes.  The nice part of pushing your bike instead of riding it is you can enjoy the scenery, which otherwise just flashes by in your peripheral vision, unnoticed. 

The view from this trail is beautiful beyond description.  Imagine looking down over a valley of volcanic creation, carved by inexorable seasonal floods over a period of time, beyond human comprehension.  The trail drifts perilously close to the edge of the mesa where one can’t help but ponder what it would feel like to soar off, visualize the few fleeting seconds of freefall before impact, wonder what circumstances would impel one to take such a final leap.  The cliff is maybe 500 feet, possibly 1,000 feet high; cars on the road below look smaller than a child’s matchbox collection though a scant half mile away.

My legs were feeling the effects of hundreds of short, all-out efforts and my shoulders ached from an equal number of landings after rolling off ledges, so I opted to take the first jeep trail that intersected the trail, back towards camp.  The guys continued down the South Rim Trail towards God’s Skateboard Park.

The jeep trail is the easiest way to traverse the mesa as it takes the most direct route, but it still has plenty of thrills where it drops in and out of rocky drainages.  I met a family with several young children, all appropriately helmeted and having a great time as they meandered all over the road, creating a human slalom course for me.  At the parking lot I encountered another family with little ones.  It’s surprising how many novice riders are on these trails considering the level of difficulty.  Apparently, they have no aversion to walking or bruised shins.

Back at camp I took a quick sponge bath.  A solar shower wasn’t an option as the wind was gusting, cold and dry.  By the time Mike and Guy rolled in I had a pot of tomato and roasted red pepper soup on the stove.  I grilled some provolone cheese on cracked wheat sourdough bread which they washed down with a micro brewed beer.

Mike napped while Guy read and I played on the laptop.  Guy tried to play guitar for a while but he had injured a finger in one of his crashes in God’s Skateboard Park (a section of other worldly slick rock on the South Rim Trail) and found it wasn’t worth the pain. 

Mike and Guy braved the frigid wind and took a hasty shower while I brewed a pot of French roast coffee.  Rejuvenated by the caffeine, Guy and I went for a sunset stroll while Mike played his guitar in the shelter of the camper. 

The gusty wind, so common in the desert, can make camping very unpleasant but with our new trailer we can escape the needling breeze and cook, eat and relax in relative comfort.

Dinner was a simple orgy of black beans, rice and cheese burritos with fresh pico de gallo (chopped tomatoes, onions, cilantro and seasonings), avocado slices, and corn salsa.  Dessert, chocolate dilemma cheesecake, put everyone into a stupor and soon we waddled to our respective beds.

Mike made his bed in the back of the truck, in the camper, because he had been uncomfortable sleeping in the Aliner the previous night.  He’s over six feet tall and the trailer is just an inch wider than he is tall.  So, I had the trailer all to myself which means I could stay up as late as I liked without concerning myself about bothering Mike with clattering keyboard keys and reading lights.

TUESDAY

This is the life!  Awake at dawn, I took a short walk away from camp to pee then snuggled back into my still warm, down comforter to wait for the sun to come over the mountains and warm the mesa.  Soon Mike poked his head into the trailer looking for coffee, forcing me from my cocoon. 

The kitchen bore the evidence of last night’s debauchery, empty wine bottle, chocolate smeared plates, and a pan with crusted beans and rice languishing in the sink.  As soon as the coffee pot was settled on the burner I set about tidying things up for breakfast preparations.  I estimate that for every hour I spend on the trail I spend three in the kitchen. 

It’s not an onerous task as Guy is enthusiastic in his praise for my cooking.  He’s a bachelor and so appreciates a fresh, home-cooked meal.  His pleasure is contagious and we all eat with new found gusto.

We headed out of camp mid morning and found that, though the parking area was nearly filled with cars, there were no other riders in sight. 

As we started down the South Rim Trail in our customary direction, Guy and I found the rhythm that had eluded us the previous day.  Gone was the trepidation and indecision that had made us clumsy and kept us from riding the tricky technical sections that can only be ridden with confidence.  Each success generated more assurance.  Mike is such a talented rider that he can ride nearly every trail out here without ever stepping off his pedals but the rest of us mortals revel in every section that we navigate successfully.

We stopped frequently to film our attempts to clean especially difficult sections which Mike always made look easy, Guy generally rode successfully and I managed to make it look just about impossible.  I'd show you those film clips but for some unknow reason, I'm no longer able to upload video on Xanga.

From the South rim we turned onto Hidden Canyon Trail, another one marked “extremely difficult”.  Hidden Canyon has an intimate feel to it.  The path winds through old growth piñon pines and beneath undercut sandstone cliffs.  The difficulty lies in its lovely, technical, sandstone transitions that take you from one drainage to another.  Sometimes the white dots that mark the path wind around the steeply sloped sides of a sandstone butte, so off camber that it if you make the foolish mistake of touching your brakes, you risk breaking traction and sliding sideways into the creek bottom.  For the faithful, those who trust their tires to hook up with the fly paper-like surface, those who keep their eyes roving ahead to the next phrase of trail, there is no greater sense of accomplishment than to ride this exquisitely crafted trail.

We took the North Rim Trail back towards camp (the downhill direction) and this time my heart sang each time my nimble Intense sailed off a rock ledge, navigated a twisty gully and sprang up a sheer abutment.  Though our backs ached and our legs complained at every incline, our spirits were high as we sprinted for home.

Back at camp the solar showers we had purchased at Walmart in Hurricane, had done their job.  The water was warm and almost inviting.  The dry wind had diminished to intermittent gusts so we took turns frantically scrubbing down and rinsing off, after quickly downing a  beer for courage.

After lunch, we each retired to our respective abodes, Mike to his bed in the truck, guy to his tent, and I to my Aliner.  I had good intentions of writing notes of the ride but my tummy was full and my body was tired.  The beer didn’t make a nap any less inviting either.

When everyone had recovered from lunch I made a pot of coffee to revive our legs for a hike to the North Rim.  There’s a good cell connection there and Mike wanted me to call home to make sure the cats were being well tended.  (My sister, Babs, had graciously agreed to feed them and check in on Mom in our absence.)

After much deliberation, we decided that it was too far to walk so we jumped on our bikes instead, without taking time to put on our padded bike shorts.  Our abused asses registered their discomfort in no uncertain terms.

It was nearly sunset when we got to the rim and the canyon below was bathed in a warm Tuscan glow.  On the way back to camp Guy helped me collect some petrified wood and colorful rocks from a stream bed.  He gallantly carried them back to camp in his backpack, all twenty pounds of them.  Mike had uncorked the wine by the time we rolled into camp for the evening.

My beautiful rock collection.

Dinner was another spectacle of overindulgence.  Spaghetti with sautéed red and yellow peppers and salad, followed by cheesecake with crème fraiche and Bailey’s Irish Cream left us miserable and repentant for our gluttony. 

WEDNESDAY

Dawn came with a biting wind and a sky dotted with decorative clouds that filtered the heat from the sun’s slanting rays.  As is typical of the last day of vacation, conversation was subdued and we ate cold cereal and fruit in near silence. 

We suited up for one last ride before packing up and heading for home.  A quick spin up to the South Rim warmed up our stiff legs but failed to dispel a deep sense of fatigue for me.  After only a mile or so, in which I failed to clear a couple of steep but rideable ledges, I decided that nothing good was going to come from riding when my body was already tired.  I turned back towards camp while the boys continued. 

Packing up camp took considerably longer than it had to set it up, but we were on the road by noon and settled in for the eight hour drive home. 

As usual, traffic through Las Vegas was snarled by road construction and too many cars and trucks on the inadequate highway.

The stop and go pace did allow me to snap pictures through the window of the many new buildings, some still under construction.  The recession/depression is not visible from the freeway as construction cranes (ubiquitous ciguenas, as we called them in Spain) could be seen in every direction.

A strong headwind buffeted the truck all the way home but the dramatic storm clouds that collected against the mountains and the full moon rising compensated for the inconvenience. 

One roadside pit stop in the middle of nowhere provided this photo op.

We were not tempted to open the bottle to ascertain its contents.

We're headed for Gooseberry Mesa again though we're off to an inauspicious start what with my pending root canal, or orthodontic therapy, as I prefer to call it.  I was awakened this morning by stabbing pains in the tooth, that failed to improve with my positive thoughts and outright denial of the pain.  I finally resorted to ibuprophen which took the edge off.  I hope I can keep things tolerable for the next four days because I'm the camp cook.

My friend and dentist kindly provided me with some more serious pain medication but I'm hesitant to use it unless things get really ugly.  The terrain on the mesa is challenging enough for my cycling skill level without the added impediment of mind altering drugs.  I'll let you know how it goes.   If it gets to be more than I can bear, there are plenty of places where the cliff height would assure a painless end if one rode decisively over the edge.  Not to worry, I couldn't stand to damage my beautiful baby blue Intense Spider!

I found a recipe for chocolate banana bread today in Sunset Magazine that sounded interesting.  It wasn't until I had combined all the ingredients that I realized it contained no sugar and no butter.  I couldn't imagine how banana bread could possibly be palatable lacking those key ingredients, but since I was already in too deep to retreat, I folded in the walnuts and chocolate pieces and slid it into the oven. 

I mean, how bad could it be with chocolate pieces in it?

Surprisingly, it tasted pretty good considering I went out to the garden to pinch sow bugs and forgot about it.  When I came back into the house, the aroma of nearly burned chocolate/prune banana bread grabbed me by the nose.

Oh, did I forget to mention it had PRUNES in it?  Here's a link to the recipe if you are so inclined.  Those of you who suffer some bowel irregularities might find it quite useful.

http://find.myrecipes.com/recipes/recipefinder.dyn?action=displayRecipe&recipe_id=1873434

Not much going on around the here worth writing about.  In fact, I was so desperate for something fun to do that today I did my income taxes and went to the dentist.  I had such a good time, that I've scheduled a root canal for tomorrow. 

I've been working on the garden.  Babs helped me design an automatic sprinkler system that will allow me to take vacations without worry that my plants are drying out and I'm hoping will also conserve water.  The strawberries are producing as fast as the sow bugs can eat them, the arugula has gone to seed (in the back), the beans, tomatoes, eggplant, peas, cucumbers and onions are planted.  I'm going to wait until I get back from Utah in April to plant the squash and peppers. 

We will be without home grown tomatoes (for the first time since last summer) for a few weeks while the new plants get established.  The new Lemon Boy already has a small tomato on it!

The peach tree is just starting to blossom while the nectarine and apricot trees are already in full leaf.  It would be nice if all the fruit didn't come ripe at the same time.

Princess Butchie reigns supreme inside while her minions hold down the fort outside.

And that's all the news from the ranch where all the males are neutered, all the females are spayed and all their staff are above average.

Thanks to the Federal Government the wolves are being kept from the door for 13 more weeks.  One good thing about losing your job in a depression is that you can collect unemployment for longer than the standard 6 months.  The bad thing is, it's harder to find work in a depression.

When the unemployment runs out I guess I'll say I'm retired because it sounds better than, "I've been unemployed for over a year."  That makes you sound like a big fat loser.  Retired just makes you sound old. 

Maybe I'll label myself self-employed.  That sounds respectable enough.  I'm an organic farmer.  Yeah, that's it.  Oh, maybe I could qualify for agricultural subsidies.  Do you think they would pay me not to grow pot? 

I tried that once when I was young and really stupid.  Actually, it was my young and stupid husband's brilliant idea.  The gophers got a kick out of his endeavors but he never got to enjoy the fruits of his labor. 

I guess it's legal to grow a small number of plants for personal medicinal use here in California but I don't have any health problems so I guess I'll stick to squash for now.