UFOs, TURTLE LOVE & PERCY SLEDGE

One of the many benefits of insomnia is that you get to witness things in the wee hours that you might otherwise miss.  While sitting at the picture window this morning as dawn was breaking, sipping my coffee and waiting for the first painkillers of the day to make their welcome presence felt, I noticed this strange pair gliding through my sphere of consciousness hovering somewhere between me and the shadowy wood:

Nahh, not really.  Although I’m sure it would be a delight to meet Alicia Richards, I have no desire to become the subject of a Channel 21 News exposé, so I’ll come clean.  I have too much time on my hands.   This is a doctored photo of the pair of lovesick snapping turtles I wrote about on Sunday.  I just thought it had a certain mysterious charm that was too cool not to share. 

But on a related note, here’s an actual photograph I took of our lovesick turtles, Brad and Angie.  All creatures that impact our little world here in Honey Grove get names, whether they want them or not.  Among them, there was little Paco, the baby opossum who nearly died of starvation until he happily discovered that he adored the crunchy flavor of cicadas; there was Pooh, the little fawn who got her neck stuck in the white picket fence out back; and there was Kitty, the two-pound toad who claimed undisputed ownership of the stone steps beside the house.  The list goes on.  But let’s get back to the photo, which I took just moments before these crazy kids’ foreplay evolved into the “next step:” 

Having witnessed the “next step” first-hand, trust me when I tell you that Honey Grove’s Brangelina is not considering adoption. 

Now I personally think it’s a little tacky to post embedded music on an otherwise perfectly good web page.  If nothing else, it puts the user at risk for some awkward moments in the workplace.  So I’ll leave the choice of a sound track to your imagination and/or your situation.  Although, if you’re looking for a suggestion, Percy Sledge’s “When a Man Loves a Woman” seems to work nicely.  I can’t imagine Brad would hesitate for a moment to “…give up his comfort, and sleep out in the rain…” for Angie, can you?

LOVE IS IN THE AIR

Considering that I’m most likely the hardest working blogger in Honey Grove, Pennsylvania (I’m claiming that title until someone challenges me), I thought that I would take the day off, you know, being retired, and it being the Sabbath and all.  But no, friends, it was not to be.  I knew that there would be no rest for the weary; it goes with the territory when you live out here in the wilderness.  But I definitely did not expect to see what I saw today. 

It’s late afternoon now, but let me go back in time to the early morning hours, when the morning light was just beginning to fall upon the pond, known affectionately as the Sea of Cortés.  (The reason the pond is known as the Sea of Cortés will go without further explanation, as long as the required package of unmarked bills continues to arrive regularly on the first of each month.  Are you reading this, Pedro?  Remember, I have photographs.)  Anyway, as the sun worked its way high enough into the sky that it created a reflection on the pond’s usually placid surface, it became clear that there was a good bit of aquatic activity occurring, presumably just below the surface, which was creating a substantial ripple effect.  This in and of itself is not terribly newsworthy, as the pond is ripe with fish, tadpoles, frogs, turtles, and God knows what else.  What was unusual, however, was the violent nature of the turbulence, and the fact that it would stop, the pond would go silent and still for a time, and then it would all stir up anew.  This went on (and off) for the better part of the day until finally, Judy, Koko and I mustered our collective courage, and cautiously worked our way through the meadow and down to the pond.  (There really should be a yellow brick road there.)  What we saw when we arrived was nothing short of amazing – at least we found it so.  When we reached the pond, we discovered not just one, but two, very large snapping turtles, turtles that couldn’t possibly have been more “in love.”  These were not teenage turtles, mind you.  These paramours were full grown and beyond – with circumferences roughly the size of toilet seats, and carrying substantial weight.  And trust me, this was not a first walk on the wild side for either of them.  Suffice it to say, the voyeur in each of us surfaced, so we watched until it began to feel a little awkward, at which point we slowly, quietly, and carefully backed away, leaving them to their much-deserved privacy, thrashing about to their lusty hearts' content.  And without going into any great detail, I know the question that each of you wants to ask, but is too shy, or reserved, to do so.  So I’ll answer it, anyway.  It’s huge.  Huge!  And as far as I could determine, not at all subject to shrinkage. 

And that’s life in the county on a Sunday afternoon in the spring.

VALDÉZ, THE D-TRAIN, AND THE RED LIGHTS ON BEHIND

Unlike Phillies’ off-seasons in the recent past (remember Merry Cliffmas?), this one was characterized primarily with yawns and raised eyebrows.  Sure, every good team needs a lunatic to close out games, and the Phillies paid a lot of money to a Boston free agent named Jonathan Papelbon because of his outstanding qualifications in that area.  The only problem is that they could have paid the same or less to keep the lunatic they already had.  “Better the lunatic you know…” I always say.  From all reports, the Phillies’ long-time resident madman, Ryan Madson, wanted to stay in Philly, was loved by his teammates, and had the knack of keeping things light and upbeat in the clubhouse, no small task over the course of a long, hot summer with a 162 game schedule.  The problem – his agent is Scott Boras.  And so, the King is dead, long live King Papelbon.  Madson, meanwhile, moves on to greener pastures in Cincinnati.  (A side note:  this may require closer scrutiny as the season progresses, and as the playoffs approach.)

Then there were the journeymen acquisitions, guys with names like Nix and Wiggington, called upon to shore up an aging and injury-prone set of "every day" players.  And there was the obligatory touch of nostalgia – bringing back “Good Ol’ Boy” Jim Thome, a 41-year-old nice guy, to help out until Ryan Howard is once again able to stand upright.  Never mind that Jim hasn’t played first base since the Clinton era.  The bottom line is that he’s a blue-collar, salt-of-the-earth, lunch-pail kinda guy, just like us Philly Phans.  [By the way, whoever stole my baby blue Shmitty’s jersey ($109.99 on eBay, plus shipping), and my lead-lined Wanamaker’s lunch pail, capable of keeping a Pat’s steak piping hot for six hours, can return them anytime, no questions asked.] 

Sorry for the digression.  What happened next, for me at least, brought more than a yawn, more than a raised eyebrow.  For me, it brought the tear of the off-season.  “Someone” in the front office – I’m quite sure Ruben had to be out of the office at the time – decided that Wilson Valdéz had to go!  Yes, you heard me.  To paraphrase the immortal words of a crestfallen Chase Utley when he heard the news, “Wilson f#cking Valdéz?”  “Are you f#cking sh#tting me?”  I couldn’t have put it more succinctly myself, Chase.  Wilson was the guy whose facial hair was never the same color or style from one day to the next, the guy with the perennial crooked smile, the guy who could play anywhere on the diamond – and I do mean anywhere – and do it well.  This is the same guy who actually pitched the 19^th inning of that marathon game with the Reds last year, after playing 18 hard innings at second base.  He faced the heart of the Reds’ order (Votto, Rolen & Bruce), tossed ten pitches, and won the game.  Adding to the Legend of Valdéz, keep in mind that the game was then over six hours old, that nobody wanted to play it, or for that matter, watch it, anymore.)  And now he’s gone.  Just like that, Wilson is gone.  And for what?  A minor league lefthander name Jeremy Horst, with all of 15 big league innings to his credit.  And to add insult to injury, his destination...wait for it…Cincinnati.  I’m beginning to have a recurring nightmare in which the Phillies face the Reds in a final, deciding playoff game.  As extra innings commence, Ryan Madson eventually takes the mound and shuts down the Phillies, inning after inning, until the top of the 19^th, when he’s lifted for a pinch hitter who, of course, drives in the lead run.  You know what’s coming.  A grinning, red-haired, yellow-goateed Wilson Valdéz salsas his way to the mound, everyone in the ballpark, as well as those pinned to their HDTVs knowing exactly – EXACTLY – what they are about to see.  Wilson takes the mound, tees the rubber, and then proceeds to toss ten increasingly dazzling pitches to three befuddled Phillies’ hitters, and it’s done.  Once again, it’s time for the long cold winter.

It’s a reflection of my ADD that I actually started writing this piece to discuss the Phillies’ release of Dontrelle Willis yesterday - the old D-Train himself.  I remember seeing Dontrelle pitch for the Marlins down in Philly in his rookie season, and after watching  him pitch several innings of impressive baseball, exchanging words with the guy in the seat next to me, my then new best friend who I ‘ve never seen since.  Paulie (probably not his real name) leaned over to me and, in hushed tones, confided, “This guy’s got some nasty stuff!”  (Not his real words).  To which I nodded knowingly, and added, “Filthy!”  (Not my real word.)  “We could sure use a guy like that on our side.”  This profound exchange stuck with both Paulie and me for years.  At least I assume it did, as there’s no way to actually fact-check that as far as Paulie’s concerned.  So when the Phillies signed the “D-Train” this winter, I’m sure there was a disjoined but celebratory “YO!!!” exchanged between Paulie and me, although again, this is unverified.  So it was with profound disappointment that I learned yesterday that the "powers that be" in the Phillies camp have concluded that the once magnificent D-Train, still a mere 30 years old, is no longer capable of getting major league hitters out.  The Phillies have shown him the proverbial door.  I’m sorry, Dontrelle, I really am.  But I’m happy that we "knew ye when," me and Paulie.  Good luck to you!  And if you do happen to find your nasty, filthy stuff again, I hope you find it in the other league.

I GET BY WITH A LITTLE HELP FROM MY FRIENDS...

So now that I’m a card-carrying member of the blogosphere, at least until the background check is completed, and since I have hit the inevitable writer’s block (I like to get the requisite pitfalls out of the way early), I am taking this opportunity to give a “shout out” to some fellow bloggers whose writing I have found to be enjoyable and entertaining. 

First, there are my friends and neighbors, Eric and Nancy.  Both contribute to a blog entitled “Eric Olson Gallery” (http://ericolsongallery.blogspot.com/), which relates to all things pertaining to Eric’s art and photography.  (If you haven’t seen any of Eric’s work, your life has less meaning than it could.)  Eric also writes a blog called “Windmill Creek Diary” (http://windmillcreek.blogspot.com/), which provides a highly entertaining perspective on life up here in the Pennsylvania wilderness (i.e. Juniata County).  At least it does when Eric has the opportunity to write.  But I make no judgment one way or the other on the time between posts.  To paraphrase John Lennon, “…life is what happens when you’re in between them,” or something like that.

And then there is Ronn, long-time friend of mine, longer-time friend of Judy’s.  Ronn and his shop, The Bare Wall, have been fixtures of the Harrisburg community since the 60s/70s, and there is no better source for what’s happening there than his blog, “TBW Daily Diary” (http://tbwdailydiary.blogspot.com/).   As Ronn writes in his welcome note, “Nothing here is going to make the papers, which might be a good reason to read it.”

 On an unrelated note, the high-point of my day so far was a very personal greeting from Mama Phoebe, who apparently just arrived for the season following the long trip north.  As dawn was breaking, she sat on my windowsill for a good thirty seconds, while the two of us became reacquainted.  I wished her well with the battle she will soon be raging with Judy as to whom has nesting rights, and where.  But that’s a story for another time.

NO HARM, NO FOUL

I am recovering from back surgery, the pleasure of which is now three full weeks behind me.   In the process, and for whatever reason, the accompanying changes (many of which, frankly, are drug-induced), have affected my waking hours considerably.  Every night as dawn approaches, say around three or four a.m., rather than remaining pleasantly curled up next to my sweetheart and BedHogDog (known during daylight hours as Koko Mae Barrelhouser), I find myself compelled to cheerily start my soon-to-prove meaningless day.   Today’s outset proved not to be as cheery as usual.  It began by my patiently and painfully working my way from a prone to an upright position, then awkwardly slipping on a magazine placed strategically on the floor, or perhaps it was some other near-fatal booby trap, lying in wait for me, in the pitch blackness.  The attack was initially successful, sending me lurching awkwardly (can one lurch gracefully?) across the bedroom, where I was able to avert a total meltdown by shakily grabbing ahold of the bureau.  First my feeble scream cut the quiet Juniata night, more a gasp, really, followed by Judy’s more formidable one.  When the gasping/screaming subsided, we conducted an anxious, silent inventory, holding our breath as we gently probed here and there for newly-discovered structural flaws.  (For example, a metal rod protruding from my back would have been a bad sign.)  All of this was watched with bemused annoyance by BedHogDog, who managed a yawn and a stretch, nothing more than a thinly veiled maneuver to effectively consolidating territory.  Back to the medical crisis, and conclusion - no harm, no foul.  So you may be thinking, “…what’s the big deal, anyway?’  I’ll tell you what the big deal is!  When you’ve got a multi-thousand dollar (I haven’t seen the HOSPITAL BILL yet, so let’s just “say” it’s multi-thousand dollar, for the sake of the narrative) titanium erector set supporting half the length of your spine, now charged with the responsibility of keeping you upright, and forming the last barrier between you and the dreaded Scooter Store, one doesn’t leap to conclusions.   So it’s a damned fine morning – NO HARM, NO FOUL.