StoneHorse: April 2012

Despite the seven day spat of near eighty degree weather the temperatures are near normal for this time of year again. Cold. There is something about being out of shape that makes the body want to camp out near the fireplace and simply wait for the warm weather to return. Despite the temperatures I braved the cold to venture out and hopefully see the maiden ~~crash~~ flight of the kids plane.

I was told to head out the rural route and look for the 'dirt birm' with a dirt road on my left. Yup. Those were the directions. I asked about a sign. "Oh, well, the sign is about a hundred and fifty yards in, its a little yellow sign, can't really see it from the road." No, you certainly can't. After traveling down several dirt roads on my left that shouldn't be traveled with anything less than four wheel drive, I finally found the correct one. I drove down the dirt road staying in the ruts. It would have been impossible to get out of the ruts unless I wanted to leave half my car behind.

I came out of the woods and headed to the clearing where I encountered this...

Good Grief. Things were begining to look menacing.

The kid had his plane together and judging from the trailer you see in the background this is some serious hobby. That trailer is to carry this...

Enormous Plane.

With a fake man inside, which prompted me to ask my son why he did not have a fake man as well.

Which prompted one of the 'experts' to remark, "Yah don't want to put that much into the aesthetics until you know if it will actually fly." Here they are configuring one of the frequencies on the transmitter to the planes receivers. Yuh, it gets more complicated. Apparently one of the club administrators has to fly the plane first, then watch the kid fly it to certify him to fly at the airfield.

Like this guy.

But today would not be the day for the big plane. Something wrong with the rear flaps. So out came the ready-made power assist glider... It has a little prop that flips up from the body of the back of the plane when needed with a flick of the switch on the radio transmitter, and with another flick of the switch, it plops back into the plane. He uses the same transmitter on a different frequency. Pretty nifty.

And with that I took off down the ruts and headed to the feed and grain store to search for an extremely large kennel. Its time the cats get to come and go as they please, and feel the breezes in their fur as my father liked to say. Right after he let my mothers cat out the back door....

My mother's cats never got out the door unless Dad was home on leave. As a result they were chronically attempting escapes the second they heard an outside door begin to squeak. Whether they escaped or were intentionally allowed out to feel the breeze in their fur by Dad, my mother would not go to bed until they were in. No matter what time she had to go to work in the morning. Which more often than not would result in her being in the yard way past the neighbor's bedtime screaming, "MORRIS!" because it was always Morris who wanted to spend the hours of darkness prowling around. Usually under the barn. It never ceased to amaze and amuse my sister and I when we would look out the bedroom windows only to see our mother's butt pointed straight up in the air, her head under the opening in the barn sill and hearing a muffled "Morris come out here now." Occasionally the phone would ring during the ordeal. One of us would go answer it, only to hear one of my mother's friends give a current location of the escapee in a curt tone, "He's under our porch." We'd relay the information and off mother would trot. The coup de grace was always when she was able to reach under and grab him by the scruff of the neck. Poor Morris always like to play hard to get and remained ever so slightly out of reach, but occasionally he would miscalculate. That was when my mother would grab his neck with lightening swiftness, while Morris dug into anything his feet could grasp, and tried to hang on for dear life. Neither one would ever come out of those battles unscathed, it was either Morris covered in dirt with grass and weeds poking out from between his toes, or my mothers pants covered in dirt at the knees, her hair always standing on end. Once he was safely inside Morris would stand in the kitchen and glare at my mother until she was so guilt ridden she would give him Bumble Bee tuna as a treat, all the while grumbling to the cat about how his father should stop feeding him the line about the breeze in his fur.

Never the less, I'd like to be able to see the cats outside within a safe enclosure where the coyotes and fisher cats cannot view them as lunch.

I became distracted by the scenery immediately upon my arrival. After I moved to Connecticut my sister used to say, "There is no country in Connecticut." She was correct to a certain extent, but there are little areas that necessitate this type of stuff...

A farm owners Dream Machine..

I had a Match Box one just like this.

I'm thinkin' ancient cement mixer?

Prettiest little tractor I think I've ever seen.

Aside from arm machinery, old and new - all for sale - there were plenty of artistic touches to make the place more interesting.

This one is made entirely of used horseshoes.

And just because I can never remember who wrote this poem. I am not, as a general rule, into poetry which is why I remain curious as to exactly why I have never forgotten this one...

Changing The Wheel

I sit by the roadside.

The driver changes the wheel.

I do not like the place

I have come from.

I do not like the place I am going to.

Why, with impatience, do I

Watch him changing the wheel?