It was a fine day for monkeying around in trees, but small dogs were wise enough to stay well out of the way of falling limbs. Once the danger was over, Oscar emerged from the truck to join the rest of the crew, Tree Monkey Sr. and Tree Monkey Jr., who was testing out his climbing skills after having his skull caved in and being pronounced dead a year ago. He did not find it a walk in the forest.



If all goes as it is meant to today, this is a before picture of the north side of the Goose. Tree Monkey has said that he will come to trim the branches so that they do not fall on my (fairly new) rubber roof and perforate it. However, my experience in the Ozarks leads me to take this promise with a grain of salt. Still, the guy is from California, so maybe he does have a work ethic.



So Debby went to look up the hours of the Boat Basin Cafe on their website, and lo and behold, there were were, dining, in their slide show. But no, I am not in New York. You may wonder where I am, Barb sends this definition of the street use of Claud.
In other news: Here is a very interesting set of photographs of tears. And speaking of grief, this is great article in the NYT.
A friend, Karen Emmons reports a story on the hideous abuse of domestic workers in Asia that goes right along with the Times story on abuse of crew on fishing boats running now.
And speaking of boats, here is a WSJ article on Block Island. Such articles mean that people are trying to book for next summer. And, an article on Block Island's disputed wind farm.


i miss the pepsi machine!

At least the cafe is still open. For now.


road trip!

Getting my kicks on Route 66

I been beat by the rain, slayed by the heat
Went through lightening storms, but I’m still my feet
 And I’m still
 And I’ve been from Thomasville to Tucumcari
But the last part really got hairy.
There was lightning all around, and it really got weird.
Times when the truck just couldn't be steered.
But if you'll give me
Gas, lights and time
And you show me a sign
I'll be willing  To be movin'



Getting into the spirit of cleanup before leaving Hannah's on Block Island. . .
. . .and a gala time with the fam.


no more pepsi machine

Today: No Pepsi machine
I am desolated, the light of my nights—the Pepsi machine—is gone from across the street. Gone before I ever made the perfect picture of it. Also gone: The former gas station/general store. Soon to be gone, if I'm any judge of the traffic they're getting, is the cafe across the street. However, the Shady Lane church across the street has sold to someone who is making a house out of it again—looks like that's what it was in the first place. I guess this depressed town suits my mood.
In April: Pepsi machine.


on your mark, get set, float!

OK, we're ready. A freak storm yesterday that brought inches of rain and hell to paying if you were  haying—and a funnel cloud that never touched down—also kept the already full river floatready. Having acquired the correct pump (for a "Boston outlet"—who knew?), Treyton and I are ready for the plunge. As it's meant to be 90s and humid, I think this is the weekend.


from where i sit

Hunkered in my bunker. Rt. 66, not far away


angry birds

The hummingbirds were so annoyed with the state of their feeder that they swarmed me when I filled it, trying to sip from the bottle as I poured. Then they engaged in fights among themselves and with the bees and wasps who were also, apparently, starving.


visitors, wanted and unwanted

Bill and Carla came bearing gifts—organic hamburger, spaghetti squash, mint, cukes. And, as always, Art.
  Sadly "Spring Clean" is composed of the sticky traps I gave Bill (who has a morbid streak) a few months ago. He said he would donate it to me rather than the Met. Having just scored a whole new crop of this "art" in my absence (see earlier post), I can't really think of anything I'd less rather look at. The frame's nice, though. Maybe I'll give the Met a shot at it.


somebody loves baby river

. . .or "Ribba," as he calls her.



And what more approriate pic could there be than this one taken during Dianne's ATV roundup to move the cows from one field to another.
Anyway. . .
Paula is the lede—and a leader— in an article about the crusade to save the New York Public Library from mass destruction/renovation. Be sure to read her letter in the link.
On a much lighter note, there is a kickstarter campaign for a hammock that is also a hot tub. Don't miss the video narrated by a guy from Block Island who we used to call Lovey Ben.
An exhibition of Philip Jones Griffiths' life work opened at the National Library of Wales, attended by his daughters Fanny Ferrato and Katherine Holden, who founded the collection of their father's work.
In more local news, Denise Vaughn has a St. Louis Post-Dispatch article on the exploration of Devil's Well, an outrageous cave in Missouri.
A wonderful podcast, There are Worse Places to Die with the wonderful Maggie Steber, a photographer known for her work in Haiti, among other places, is available on line.
Another photographer, Lynn Johnson has been much interviewed about her hate crimes project in the wake of the shootings in the South Carolina church.
A nice article about Nancy Andrews, who recently left the Detroit Free Press for a post in academia—and to live together with her wife Annie O'Neill for the first time.
And finally, an article we should probably take to heart from the Harvard Business Review: How to Know if you Talk Too Much. Ouch!



Many people complain that they cannot see their screens as they take phone pix. One of my many photographer friends suggests to her students that they take pictures with their eyes closed. Point being, sometimes serendipity is better than anything you could frame up.
   Take this snap of Dianne's  Caspian mare in her barn. I saw the beautiful animal and the beautiful scene, but I could not see my screen. I blindly snapped away. What resulted is a blown out yet, in my view, beautifully composed picture I probably could not have taken had I got off the ATV, run around to get into position, focussed and framed the shot. Dumb luck. I'll take it.


summer bounty

Maybe a baby tarantula? And a blue-tailed skink. How did it get in? But mostly roly-polies (pill bugs), dirt daubbies (wasps), crickets and beetles. And not a single brown recluse! Either they've learned to avoid the sticky stuff or they are not living here. No dead squirrels behind my bed. 
These are the perils of absentee homeownership in the Ozarks. Different ones in Block Island.


can you hear me now?

Pardon the radio silence. I am at the Goose. Having some communications issues here. .  .
And actually, kind of in general.


meet julia child

Julia Child is the latest and youngest addition to the ragtag collection of strays that certain people (dog people) n the countryside seem to collect. The feed and seed store owner who found her, sad and starving, named her Julia Child because she had always wanted to meet Julia Child. And now—she has!