This time, I hunt buds

I braved the clouds of mosquitoes this morning, just for you, my loyal reader. I wanted to be one of the first down the trail. Besides, who else would be this crazy? I had only seconds at each subject because even doused in bug juice; I was descended upon and mined for blood. But all the best photos can be found at the golden hour when the birds are still awake, active, and boisterous. Their melody welcomed me into their magic world, and I immediately felt at home. The bug bites will heal and I will return … again and again.

Of course, not all buds contain flowers. I have no idea what bug decorated this grapevine leaf.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

On this walk, I focused on the promise locked inside of buds, but I'll hesitate for someone who poses just so. Never mind that he was very upset with me. I didn't linger, and left him to his business.

A day at the Stoughton Fairgrounds

I was at the fair yesterday. I wasn’t interested in the rides or the games, but I took time for a quick action shot.

I went to see the animals. I was in 4-H, a great organization for rural children, and I wanted to support the work these kids do. As always, the camera was draped across my chest. I started in the poultry barn. Chickens came in wide variety. It must be a challenge to be a judge, but this little guy won my prize of Mr. Congeniality.

Next up—the cattle barn. There’s nothing quite as clean as a 4-H project dairy cow. They gleam bright white with perfectly trimmed tufts of hair. Don’t you love those big, brown liquid eyes?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

I pulled myself away from the slumbering beasts and wandered into the judging barn. A troll’s paradise awaited me inside. There they were—Stoughton’s finest goats. Funny, sweet, and yes, smelly, goats are a favorite of mine. Maybe I’m spending too much time with the trolls, but if you’ve read Blue on the Horizon, you will understand the truth about trolls and goats.

 

My goat fetish satisfied, I found a line snaking out of another barn. I took up position, and paid my 6 dollars to see one of the most exciting events I’ve ever witnessed: an old-fashioned horse pull. Two weight classes, middleweight and heavyweight. Nearly all Belgians with two darker Percheron, huge athletes with stoic, sturdy farmers handling them. If they worked together, they made the act of pulling a dynameter 27.5 feet look easy, but if they moved as individuals, the team would struggle to haul the load.

 

 

My favorite middleweight team was owned and driven by the man holding the reins below. We were told he has had two back surgeries in the past year, but as long as he can take up this position, he will continue to drive his team. The man to the side, his son, was one of the few who could walk a team around the arena without assistance. He was huge himself, but dwarfed by the team.

I was in awe when the heavyweights entered the arena. Their massive bodies so thick and muscled, they looked like bulldogs with tiny horse heads. Of course, that was an illusion. Those heads were massive too.

 

Strangely, the heavyweights seemed calmer, more certain of their role in the arena. This team waited with an old man and young boy, the only means of holding back 2 ton or more of horse capable of pulling a 48,000-pound wagon. Now that's trust.

 

 

To any animal lovers our there, none of this was abusive. Everyone one of these creatures is a prized possession of their proud owner. If a team started to tire, the driver would quickly have them unhitched and withdrawn from the competition. These men knew their horses very well. It was an honor to watch them work as the draft horses were breed to be. The announcer was very informative and told the crowd that several of the horses had been raised by Amish farmers and then sold, at a high price no doubt, to an "English" farmer. It's something I'll never forget.

Above is the winning heavyweight team preparing for the competition. Look at the size of those haunches. That was not a small man. He had to be over 6 foot and well over 200 pounds. This pair seemed the calmest of all 18 teams. They have lost only one pull thus far in 2013. If I remember correctly, that is 8 wins so far. Incredible.



 

I’m almost positive that Oton was there, I could smell his distinct, uh, odor on the breeze, but he stayed hidden. Too many humans around, but I still have to study the photos. I’ll let you know if I find evidence of his presence in the next few days.

 

 

New Website

I'm really excited to announce my new website.

GnarledRoots.com is up and running.

New content will be added in the coming days, but here is where you come in. Don't worry, I'll still be blogging right here, every few days. Notice the link that will take you over to the website with one click. After poking around over there, you can click right back over here, when you're ready. 

Setting up an website is intense. It's a lot easier than it used to be, but certainly not something most people do. I have decided to open Gnarled Roots to your creativity. With some moderation, but an open heart, I'll consider all submissions. So do you have a really cool photo, drawing, or a gut jiggling joke. Maybe, like me,  you would like to try your hand at writing.

Come on, stick your toe in this big, warm pond. 

A few heartbeats remain ...

I'm hearing really nice things, people love this story, and my characters practically walk off the page and into your heart.

 

The fun part for me? When I ask a reader, who is your favorite character? The answers are really revealing. There truly is something for everyone in this book, but why do I think that? Let me put it simply.

 

At some point in everyone's life, maybe even right now, we all experienced a hurtful word, an ugly snubbing, or an irrational bully. Everyone: from the coolest jock to the nerdiest young scientist; Blue on the Horizon speaks to that hurt, and in the end proves that to be weird, can be a wonderful thing.

Did you sleep through the weekend?
You can still be one of the growing village of troll fans.

• Amazon UK
• Amazon Germany
• Amazon US
• Amazon Canada
• Amazon France
• Amazon Spain
• Amazon Japan
• Amazon Italy
• Amazon India
• Amazon.com.br

It really is a worldwide phenomenon







 

I was invited ...

True to my bargain, I alternate the route
The evenings trail, partially hidden by brush,
Grapevine, and wild rose strangle off my passage,
But what are a few thorns ripping at my flesh; I was invited …

Under the willows, the dying sun gives way to the shade,
Gnats encircle my hot body, shrouding me in screaming roars
Turn back, there is nothing here for you, human
But what are the tiny shouts of angry bits of bug; I was invited …

Out into the dusk, the trail melts away           
Lost along the river, a shiver of panic attacks
Over here, Rebecca, we're just getting started
Never in danger, the trolls lead me to safety; I was invited …

Seated quietly on the muddy bank, the light, golden and fresh
First, a swoop then a buzz, the extraordinary show has begun
Blurry wings dart along the banks, scooping up mosquito and gnat
A nymph stands no chance against the dragonfly ballet; I was invited.

Green, it's everywhere

Several years ago, I was lucky enough to visit Ireland in May. Anyone interested in the emerald isle has heard the boast about the 40 shades of green. I remember thinking that twaddle, but I also remember clearly seeing all 40 shades for myself. It was stunning, and I'll never forget it.

This is not my photo, but it is very much like I remember Ireland.

South Central Wisconsin had a horrible winter. It was long, bitterly cold, and refused to let us go. Even today, on the second of June, I was wearing a sweatshirt as I walked along the river. That is NOT normal, but I didn't care, I had my camera.

Having been so cold, many wildflowers are waiting to pop, but some have magically appeared from the cold wet soil.

 

 

 

 

But flowers are fleeting. The explode on the scene and steal all the attention, but the leaves endure.

 

 

 

 

So stop to smell the roses, but spare a heartbeat for the trees, bushes, and grasses. They will remain all season long.
 
Get the point?

 

Toadstools

It has been raining in southern Wisconsin—a lot. Two days ago, Oton appeared in my backyard, and invited me to the first toadstool festival of the season. It sounded harmless enough so I grabbed a light jacket, tied the laces on my hiking boots, and followed him to Elvsmyr. Toadstool, mushroom, and fungus of all shapes and colors were indeed blooming from every surface.

Elvsmyr was vibrating with excitement as I strolled to the cooking fire where everyone was gathered. There was much laughing and singing of silly songs while the cooks put the final touches on the feast. I was doing fine until Venn started telling me about his favorite dish, mashed maggots.

“You see, it’s the first maggots of the season that whip up into the best lump free mash,” he explained.

I nearly lost the contents of my stomach at that point. Just then, Smekk walked past with a sloshing pitcher of grog. I have avoided the grog up to this point. Now, I’m not afraid to try any human drink, but one can never really tell what might be involved in troll liquor. “Smekk, I’d like to try some tonight.”

“Sure,” she said, stumbling over a stone, the grog vacating the pitcher in waves while she regained her balance. She handed me a metal mug and poured a generous portion of brown liquid.

I sniffed the cup, and to my surprise, it wasn’t bad at all. Venn had moved on to a description of the main course. Something about possum … I stopped listening and took a big slug of grog. To my surprise, it was good, really good. “Is this honey based?”

“You could say that,” Smekk said. “But that’s not the secret ingredient.”

Uh-oh. “What the secret ingredient?”

“Well, if I tell you, it won’t be a secret.” With that, she flicked her skirts around and strutted away. Other cups eagerly awaited her arrival.

It gets fuzzy after that. I remember trying the sizzled worms, and likely the possum, but it was the grog that sticks to my memory cells. I swear it was a bottomless cup. I never say Smekk refill it, but thinking back, I didn’t see much of Oton either. I’m pretty sure he was cloaked in invisibility and topping it off. When I woke up, I was lying in a puddle, the trollkin were staring down at me, and it was still dark. “Will the sun be rising soon?”

“Not really, Mor just won the battle for the sky a little while ago.”

This didn’t make any sense. I didn’t even arrive until well after sunset. “How long was I asleep?”

“Two moon passes.”

“What is in that grog?” I asked holding my spinning head.

“It was a toadstool festival. What do you think was in it?”

Feeling glad to be alive, I shoved myself to my feet, and staggered out of Elvsmyr.

“We don’t always add the toadstool, but I did warn you it was a toadstool festival,” Oton yelled as I retreated to my own bed.