Diggity Dog

What do you do when you’re still a pansy-assed weakling after battling lyme disease for more than a year, but your budget is zip after underworking all that time, so you can’t afford to hire a ditch digger? But that strength-necessary task absolutely must get done before the big freeze-up.

Just do it. Dig for a bit, get frustrated at your lack of muscle, and then stop and contemplate your life. Maybe it really would be easier to live in the car, driving south away from the frozen land, and just earn enough for gas.

But wait, gas prices are up again, so you may not be able to afford that lifestyle either.

While leaning on your shovel trying to find the zip to carry on, your dog jumps into the trench you’ve started, and digs digs digs. Within moments, she’s dug down four inches deeper than you managed in half an hour.

Being showed up by a dog pisses you off enough to say, well, if that little dog can do it, so can I. And off you go with your shovel, calling in the dog whenever you need a break. And in two days, the trench is dug, the new wire is in.

Where would we be without dogs?

Whereby my friends try to kill me

(Can you spot the mountain dog?)

I thought that the email that came through regarding Sunday’s group hike was simply a misspelling: “Tomorrow’s Wall”.

My friends claimed that they tried to convey that this was not an easy hike. However, the email that read: “lots of ups and downs on this one” did not accurately clarify that up and downs did not mean simply walking up and down hills, but clambering over boulders that had been sheared from rock walls formed during the last ice age.

As a recovering lymie, I’ve been working to rebuild my strength, by digging trenches, climbing ladders, and carting firewood. But still, it takes time, when, for the last year+, you’ve resembled a piece of linguine that’s been stuck to the wall far too long.

Four hours of climbing over rocks was just a bit over the top.

Life is a big pile...

So just jump in!

Things I’m thankful for:

That I don’t live in Siberia

That I don’t have to drive a hummer

That the roof over my head no longer leaks

That there are trees to hug

That the fleas have all abandoned my dog

That lyme disease is receding into the background

That I have friends who care whether or not I set myself on fire

That spring is almost here

That I don’t have to leave the house on Black Friday

That I’m not a turkey (most of the time)

Turkey?! We're on it!

What do you do when your happy glasses get all scratched and fogged up?

Old Woodies

Yesterday marked the second time in my life I've ever been in a sailboat race. And just like the last race, it was marked by ferocious winds and fierce competition, as you can see by the photos.

Well okay, so there really wasn't any wind this time either. And had we done what others did, which was to motor up to the start line, cutting their engines as the starting horn sounded, we would have done better. But no, silly us, we were trying to sail in no wind, which meant that the tide, which was stronger, pushed us down onto the committee boat. It took half an hour to jibe around and get through the start line, which gave our competitors a huge lead. As the day drew to a close and the dampness of the chill air began to penetrate our bones, we gave up, turned on the motor, and headed back in towards the party. That blew our chance at the last place prize, but by god, next year we'll go for it!

What do you do when you're headed back to the mooring and discover that someone had come along and 'borrowed' your boat hook?:*

*These remarkable boat hooks will soon be available for sale at Alitloff Center for $89.99 + s/h. Order yours now to beat the Christmas rush!

Ahhhhh

I feel as though I should run through the fields beating my chest, shouting, "I HAVE FIRE!!!" ala Tom Hanks in Castaway.

As long as I don't catch on fire, we're good. I now have the one thing that makes New England winter tolerable (other than buggering off somewhere tropical until spring), and that is a wood stove.

Now all I need is wood.*



* The sticks that are burning were 'borrowed' from a friend. I have to give them back when I'm done with them.

Still Ticked Off

Originally, I started this blog so friends and family could follow my travels as I sailed around the world. For those who read the drivel that I write, you know very well that this never happened.

Thinking that the adrift period would be brief, I tried to fill this space with funny stuff, until I found myself back at sea again, blogging about my travels to tropical paradises, turning my readers green with envy as they plodded through everyday life.

Yeah well. That damn deer tick’s plans for his life overthrew mine in a complete coup.

And as sick as you are of hearing about my lyme disease, believe me, that comes not even a parsec close to how tired I am living with it, day in and out. Some days I just want to hurl myself into the compost heap, decompose, get spread all over the garden, and sprout again in some other form.

But instead, feeling like a freshly dug up turnip that the dog has carried around, I slog along slowly. Every now and then, I have a lucid moment, where I look around and notice that the world is still turning. Most of the time, I’m just not on it, but am circling in my own foggy orbit.

And finally, in those rare glimpses of the world outside my head, I’m beginning to be able to see the humor in my situation.

I’m not planning to turn this blog into the lyme journals (any more than I was planning to spend years on shore:), but maybe, if I can couch my confuddlement in comedy, I can give another lymie a laugh, which, as we all know, is the best medicine.

C’mon, folks, go ahead and laugh at me and with me. Then we’ll all feel better.

Home is where the ticks are

For the first time in my life, I’m not looking to move on. Yes, I often miss the sailing life, and yes, I miss traveling to new places. But as I wandered hither and thither throughout the years, I always kept returning to this one particular harbor. I never stayed for long, because of that freezing thing, but still I came back, almost every year.

Now, as an icy future stares me in the face, I have decided to stay. And even more insane than that, I’m not moving back into my house, instead leaving it to the overactive night squirrels who have completely ignored the eviction notices. Sleep has become so invaluable to me, that I have decided to attempt to spend the winter in my blissfully quiet tin can, which has very little insulation, and is nicely equipped with a furnace that only blows hot air when the outside temp is 70, otherwise, on dark cold nights, it works really well as an air conditioner. The single pane trailer windows with the large gaps was what I loved about living here all summer. It was just like living outdoors, except that the skeeters couldn’t get in through the screens, and I didn’t get wet when it rained.

Why would I consider major winterizing modifications to a twenty year old camper, when it would be infinitely cheaper to drag the entire rig to Mexico, where I could afford to live for next to nothing in the warm sun?

Scroll to the top of this blog and read the title: ALITLOFF. Okay so maybe I should change that to ALOTOFF.

In the spring I made a deal with myself: If I could eradicate my tick borne debt by the end of September, I would go south with the geese. Not only did I not come close to meeting my own expectations, but sometimes I still completely drop all my balls, and wander off to smell the pretty flowers. It only makes sense to stay here among friends, in an area where even many strangers understand the effect that lyme disease can have on a formerly competent person. Being here with the people I love will keep me warm in a way that I won’t find anywhere else. I know, because I’ve looked for nearly 20 years. That, and I still need a lot more sleep before I face the world again. The long dark days of winter are a perfect time to stock up on zzzzs, in the hopes that I’ll wake up a complete non-lymie in the spring.

So, if anyone has any spare insulation, firewood, etc, bring it on over. I wouldn’t say no to thermal socks either.

Here's Mud in Your Eye

Because we have an even number of people on the farm, we have two winning captions for the disaster that befell our lovely 'pond', which used to look like this:


But now looks like this:



The winning titles are:

Haiti
Meteor Crater

Luckily, Earl is coming to break the tie for us. I'm guessing that in the aftermath, "Haiti" will be declared the winner, because all that mud is going to slide down and fill in the crater.

Will humans ever learn to quit messing with mother nature?

Lightning DOES Strike Twice

History almost repeated itself, but thankfully, this time there was a happy ending. Conditions were almost the same, except that it was actually windier than when Safari took her final journey. The difference to Phoenix living to tell her tale was that she miraculously avoided all the rocks on her trip to the beach. Soft sand is no match for a tough boat.

The owner attests that it's much better to wear yourself out scrubbing the exposed hull at low tide, and then, on the evening's high tide, cranking on lines and anchors to haul the boat back into deeper water, than it is to chop up your beloved vessel with a chainsaw.

And also, that boat is getting chained to her mooring. No more beach parties.

Farewell Old Friends

I had the most delicious dream last night. I was aboard my anchored boat, and through an open porthole, could see my love’s gray steel boat anchored right next to mine. In the dream, each morning I awoke, day after day, and there he was, still beside me. Plus, my boat had a brand new engine in it!

When I started to awaken into the real world this morning, I fought to stay asleep to keep the dream alive. But alas, daylight reality entered, and I had to admit that dream was blown long ago.

But dreams do have meaning.

I purchased my last pair of sandals in 2007 at a Key West dive shop, while my love browsed the spear gun selection. Could that have been a hint of foreshadowing, a sign of what was to come not long after, when our relationship took a dive and I fled?

I wish he had harpooned me and reeled me back in.

Regardless, those aged, well worn sandals should never have been in this summer’s wardrobe. But there they were, in all their holey bottomed, strap failing glory, because I had been unable to locate any suitable replacements. Until today, when simply passing a storefront window, there were exactly the sandals I’d been waiting for all summer.

I just hope that pitching the old sandals into the rubbish bin and getting new ones has no meaning whatsoever.

How Safe Is Your Car?

That depends on how you drive it. If you believe that you have one of those magic cars that will glide smoothly across ice all by itself at 70 mph, here’s a tip: your car is not safe.

If you’re driving on a jam packed three lane highway where everyone else is going 40, odds are, that if you believe you can continue to travel at 90 by zipping in and out of traffic, your car is not safe.

If your mechanic told you a year ago, when you last got your oil changed, that you needed new brakes, your car is probably not safe. Especially if you have to start slowing down a quarter mile away from a stop sign in order not to skid through it.

If you stole your car, it’s probably not safe.

If your car doors lock automatically when you accelerate over 25, and then you drive into a lake causing all the electronics fail, your car is probably not safe.

If you’ve aged past the ability to merge into traffic from an on ramp, your car is probably not safe.

If you leave the keys in the ignition and the doors unlocked while parked in front of a Bronx mini mart, your car is probably not safe.

If you pass a cop who’s going the speed limit, your car is probably not safe.

If one of your wheels just flew past you on the highway, your car is not safe.

If you own a Yugo…well nevermind, if you own a Yugo you don’t really own a car.

If you bought the biggest, honkenest, most expensive gas guzzling SUV that you could never afford, and then got laid off, your car is probably not safe. (BTW: driving a hummer is the same as wearing a sticker that says ‘look at me I am a giant weenie’-which we all know means that it’s actually very tiny.)

And because I just said that to all the hummer owners out there, my car is not safe.

Seaworks

This is for my friend who said, "So many of these fireworks remind me of sea life-urchins, jellyfish, sea anemones, even a sea bird flying over looking for a meal."

Whaddya know, she was right!

School's Out

Let the education begin!

After a difficult year of loss and change, barely squeaking through the seventh grade, the kid needed a celebration:



We even let her play with matches. What teenager doesn't like to light stuff on fire?



Get a grip will ya, we were simply having dessert. No need to call DCF just because we let the kid finish making the peach flambe.*


*No minors were served alcohol in the process,
which was a real bummer to the minor.

Home Oil Refinery

Has your waterfront property just become coated in oil? Do you have a fishing boat that's not allowed to catch fish, despite the demand for pre-oiled fish in upscale restaurants and markets?

Don't worry, because now you can turn that disaster into profits with one of our home oil refining units:



Simply collect the tarballs on your land, or skim the oil surrounding your boat, and fire away. You'll now have your own gasoline, diesel, heating oil, motor oil, and heck, with our number one best selling unit, you can even make jet fuel. And anything you make over and above what you can use, big oil must buy back from you, just as the electric company must purchase excess electricity generated from your solar panels or wind generators. Big oil will no longer corner the market with their billion dollar refineries.

Your property values will soar, and your boat will no longer be a rust bucket derelict that no one wants. All the brokers will be on your doorstep with enormous offers.

Contact us today to view our demo and pricing. Hurry, these units are slipping away fast!

On the Rocks

It's not that I don't love you. It's not that I want to give up on us. I don't want to leave you, I want to stay here forever.

But you've been so cold to me for so long, and then sometimes you smother me until I can't breathe. Between your dark moods, and those biting jabs that knock me to the ground, oooof. It's nearly impossible to get up again.

I know that in order for this to work, I have to accept that you are what you are. I'm the one who has to change, adapt, because you won't compromise one inch.

I don't know if I'm up to it. I've tried to make this work for two years now, but am longing for some warmth in my life.

Oh, Rhode Island, I don't know if I can continue to live with so much winter. Which is followed by spring, oh, lovely spring, when everything blooms so beautifully and clogs my lungs with pollen. For an entire week, there's been no sun, no temp above 70. Is this a rerun of last year's wet, cold, soggy non-summer, filled with life-sucking ticks?

I don't think I can take it. It may be better if I pack up and go. But go where???

Ever hear the term 'armchair sailor?' It's a somewhat derogatory term for someone with little or no boating experience, who can expound in great detail about how some nautical catastrophe like sinking, running up on a reef, or getting dismasted in a storm wouldn't have happened to them, because they've read all the manuals.

We have them here too:

Economic recovery

This year there seems to be a drought in the normally abundant money season. Lots of boats didn't go into the water. Many summer home owners are doing cleanup and repairs themselves, rather than hiring someone.

Last summer, even though I was barely able to function thanks to lyme disease, I earned more than I have so far this year. Apparently, I have recovered much better than the economy. On Memorial Day weekend, the official start of the season, there was no parade of boats in the harbor, despite the picture perfect weather. The beach town next door was bereft of the usual traffic jams.

When I returned here two years ago after several years of wandering, I had the best summer ever. Why? Because I mostly diddled, enjoying sailing the bay and playing on the beach, working just enough to get by.

Trying to live here year round is a completely different shell game. Freezing all winter, garnering debt that needs to be eradicated by hustling to earn a buck in the short summer season, all while trying in vain to breathe the constantly yellow air, has made me realize that I'm doing it backwards. I should be living and working somewhere else ten months a year, and then taking an extended vacation here in July and August, working a little bit just to break even.

But where to go? What to do? I want to stay in canvas work, near boats and the water, and I don't ever want to see snow. That pretty much narrows my choices down to Florida and coastal California. Florida is a hurricane prone, soon-to-be oil coated swamp; California tends to have earthquakes and be on fire. What a selection.

I'm thinking that I'd like to participate in an exchange program starting in the fall: Anyone who has a boat canvas business in Mexico, Central or South America (not cape horn or anything stupid like that-palm trees only!), let's swap for a year to see if the grass really is greener on the other side. Before we trade places, we can apply for a government grant to study, document and publish the results of our experiment, possibly encompassing a best selling book and movie, so we'll be covered if it doesn't work out. Any takers?

It Don't Bug Me None

Haven't blogged for a while, have I? That's because currently, I'm not speaking to the human race. I've found something much more entertaining, and which requires more intelligence, to do: observing the great variety of insects that inhabits my camper.

That's right, I said camper:

Last month I moved out of the house, nothing against my housemates or the squirrels that run wild in the eaves. I just needed my own space. Peaceful. Quiet. No wild parties till dawn (that'd be those pesky squirrels).

I may now be headed down the redneck road to becoming trailer trash, but so what? I like living here in my tin can, more so than in the the tin shack. It's not a boat, but still, I'm cozy and comfortable, going to sleep each night and staying that way until dawn.

The only bummer is the much longer commute to my canvas shop. Now I have to truck all the way across the yard in order to get to work:


But this will do for now, until I re-evaluate my life in the fall. By then I should just about be all done with my bug study.

Out There

The owner of this blog is currently very busy with a team of selachians, uh, lawyers, fighting an egregious charge of Blog Abandonment and Neglect for no Good Evident Reason (BANGER).

No I'm Not

I haven’t been able to keep up with the blogging recently. Have you ever tried typing by holding a crayon in your teeth? It’s so tiring.

Recently, I got a very personal tour of the mental institution down the road from here. Those new fangled straightjackets are much more difficult to get out of than were the older models…

No, I’m not crazy, at least not by my own standards. Just alitloff…

And oh yeah, I moved again, without leaving the property. Details to follow, when I can safely avoid those people in white coats driving that white van with the bars on all the windows…Oops, gotta run!

Rising Waters

Next time I hear that school got canceled just because it was raining, for cripes sake, I won’t think ‘pansies’. And I’ll stay home too.

This week’s floods created the need for some new road signs. We already have these, for the really stupid people:

Now we need a few of these, to keep safe those geese who have given up flying for interstate travel:


And for those lucky people with duck ponds in their driveways:


In other words, not all god's creatures were distressed by the floods. I wasn’t bothered until it took me an hour and a half to get home from three miles away. During that epic journey, I had plenty of time to figure out ways to redesign my Ford Escort into a more flood-friendly vehicle.

The first improvement would be an exhaust stack that would jam onto the tail pipe and run up the back of the car, above the waterline. With such an addition, that first puddle would have been a snap. As it was, we barely made it through, floating past three dead cars. Then the road got closed behind me. Two miles further on, I found the road closed in front of me, where three feet of water raged across, making me wish I still had a kayak.


At first, it looked likely that I was destined to spend the remainder of the rainstorm sitting in my car on the side of the road. But a small lane that looked a driveway was the way out, and my car forded the next water hole without all that sputtering. From there, the pavement rose on higher ground, leading me to think I was home free.

As I sat in my dead car in the next giant road lake, I came up with a design for some pontoons down the sides of the car, and a rudder/tiller that I could attach to the stern. Oarlocks could easily be attached to the roof, where the oars could remain stored until needed.

After some pushing and a bit of dripping, the car was game for the paddle home.

Ironically, my driveway in the swamp was the driest road I had traveled on that day.

Stupid buggers

I should be overjoyed and energetic. The days are getting longer, with little green bits and flowers popping up here and there. Despite seven inches of rain in less than a week, we had an absolutely splendid spell of spring-like weather, without a white flake in sight.

Not long ago, when a summer day was about to hit us full force, I decided that enough was enough, and stopped taking that stupid antibiotic, the one for lymes where you can’t go out in the sun without coming back in within minutes resembling an overcooked lobster. And oh, what a delectable day it was, sitting on the beach in tank top, shorts and happy bare feet, watching my dog romp, gazing at sailboats gliding up the bay, feeling the heat of the sun on what’s left of my body.

That was the last nice day I had, before beginning a dark descent back into an unsteady world of exhaustion. The person I used to be could stay energized for days, sticking to the wet, sideways-slanting deck of a sailboat in a gale with one toe. Despite eight months of treatment, this person I've become still sometimes can't remain upright on level ground, and wouldn't pass a sobriety test despite consuming no alcohol in nearly a year (because booze exacerbates the sick wobbly feeling I live with, that's why-and save the unbalanced jokes, okay?)

I hadn't expected to start falling apart for at least another decade, thinking it would happen gradually enough that there would be plenty of time to get used to the idea of becoming a decrepit doddering dame, instead of the physically strong, able-to-rebuild-a-sailboat-in-a-single-bound-bundle-of-energy that I had been.

I'm still struggling with having been bouncy and active one minute, and flattened the next. Now, it's hard to remove a lid from a jar that's already been opened. What a wimp.

Place your bets-will I get any of my strength back, or will I always be this weak pansy girl who annoys me no end by wanting to sleep all the time?

The $1,000 Stomach Ache

It began with me washing the poo off my dog’s butt at 5 am. I dunno, maybe it’s just me, but I can think of a few better ways to start a day. At 9, she tossed her cookies. At 11:00, she looked at me with glazed eyes, obviously unwell. By 1, she couldn’t even stand up.

I learned something that day. Vets are like people doctors. They’re all off playing golf on Wednesdays. That left me with only the most expensive place to take her, the doggy ER.

Had I not taken her, odds were high that she would have died. The cause is still not certain. Let’s, shall we, list the known toxins on our 23 acres of property, of which she has free reign: There’s the ‘graveyard’, which is the area in the vicinity of the cat door. It’s always littered with corpses of all types: Birds, mice, moles, voles, chipmunks, formerly cute little bunnies, the occasional bat, and other creatures that are no longer identifiable. Normally there are at least three dead things available for immediate consumption at any given time. That cat is a career killer.

All over can be found an assortment of cat poopsicles, deer scat, rabbit raisins…Ok, let’s face it, there’s a lot of yummy crap out there. But apparently that’s not only harmless, it can even be beneficial to a dog. Lovely. And I suppose rolling in doodoo is good for her coat? Maybe, but it’s not good for my nose, which is why she gets chucked in the tub on the occasions when she comes in reeking.

Then there’s the compost heap full of used dirt and micro green bits. My dog loves the greens that grow in the greenhouse (which is why she’s not allowed in there-dogs in the trays are not up to code), but I’m guessing that, like the carcasses, after those tasty treats have been decomposing for a while, they probably aren’t the healthiest choice of snacks.

Then there’s the infinite supply of sticks to chew into bits.

Whatever it was that nearly did her in, she certainly seems all better now, ready to romp and chomp once again. Thank goodness it’s a crappy weekend, not suitable for playing outside. When it stops raining, if it ever does, I intend to surreptitiously monitor her movements, in what will most likely be a vain attempt to discover what it was that she munched. In about a week, she gets her liver functions rechecked. If everything is fine, it was simply something she ate.

That was a heck of an expensive meal.

A Season of Reruns:

We interrupt this broadcast to bring you the following
special report:



We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming:

Raise your hand if you're ready to change the channel to spring after seeing that special report.*




*although the air temp on Tuesday was 52, with plentiful sunshine and not a hint of wind, bay water temp was 38. Yes, my dog is insane. It's hereditary.

Which would you prefer?

Hell:


Or Heaven:


It's that time of year again, where I ask myself daily, "What was I thinking?!"

Hell has always been portrayed as a hot, burning place. That version is wrong. Hell is frozen over, where you can't go outside without spending half an hour layering up, and then have to cart that extra 50 lbs with you. Hell is your butt touching that toilet seat at 3:00 a.m. while at the same moment one bare foot misses the rug and lands on the cold tile floor. Hell is never being able to make your fingers function because they're always frozen numb. Hell is weeks and weeks of starting each day by scraping and shoveling frozen stuff off your walk and car and driveway.

As we enter March, I count the number of boat canvas jobs that came into my shop during the month of February: 0. Which matches my bank account, unless you count the credit card, then it's less than nothing. Zip also matches my enthusiasm for gray, damp, dank, chill New England days.

Without gas money to flee south for a break in a car that needs brakes, there's nothing to be done except suffer through, awaiting the season of plenty. The arrival of spring will hopefully see hell thaw out. The mud stage should usher in sunshine, sailing weather, and income.

And when the leaves turn dead and drop off as the season of replenishment winds down, if anyone should hear me even think about staying here another winter, please whap me with a big hunk of fish carcass until I come to my senses.

I'm going back to sleep. Don't wake me till it's green and sunny out, or unless your boat is in the tropics needing canvas work, and you're willing to fly me, my sewing machine and all the materials in to do the work.

At this moment, I will work for sunshine.

Snow+Out of Shape Lymie Body+Snow Shovel=Call an EMT(emergency massage therapist)

"Is this all of it?"

Apparently, New England weather reporters are so bored out of their minds with our mild winter, highly jealous of their mid-Atlantic counterparts who have mega snow to play with, that they’re making up weather. I should have know that the report was all hype, because I simply could not match the dire predictions for our area with what my eyeballs saw on radar.

Being the good cruising sailor that I am, always prepared for a thrashing from Mother Nature, I readied the house where I’m pet sitting for friends. I filled containers with water, set out candles and flashlights, cranked up a nice fire in the wood stove, and covered the holes in the roof with a tarp. I got the cat dressed in his little boots, sending him out to the top of the driveway with a bucket of salt. I made sure there was plenty of licorice tea and yogurt raisins on hand. Just as the snow began to fall, I took the dogs for a long romp in our favorite hiking spot. After all, who needs wild animals loose in the house in the middle of storm?

I left my own home in the hands of my housemates.
They have people who shovel for them.
I have lymes.

Yesterday afternoon, gearing up mentally and physically, I ventured out armed with a snow removal device, implementing my plan to shovel each time the snow reached four inches, or until I keeled over, whichever came first. Reaching the summit of the driveway, I found myself still standing, utterly stoked. I did it! For the first time in seven months, my mind overturned the conviction that the battle would never be won against the legions of nasty little lymie creatures munching away at me, believing that there would always be a handful of rebels hiding out, making sneak attacks when no one was looking, but now, there's hope that I can soon say “I had lymes.” Past tense.

Soaking wet, I staggered back inside to wait for the next four inches of snow to fall, so I could go out to shovel again. When it got dark, and meteorologists were still threatening us with heavy, heavy snow, I made sure the car was angled correctly to shine headlights up the drive so I could see to shovel. Finally, I let the dogs out into the two inches of fresh snow that had fallen in the last eight hours, and then went to bed.

All you poor souls buried alive just south of here, don’t hate us because we’re not inundated. After all, we spent last winter encrusted in ice while you all romped through unscathed. This year, it’s just your turn to get our snow. Besides, winter ain’t over yet. Mother Nature is still in charge, and could give us a stupendous spanking at any moment she chooses.

How to Bedevil Your Beaver

Now that I have your attention by making you think that you're going to read something sexual relating to the female nether regions, please let me disappoint your notion.

To beleaguer a beaver, begin by driving out the in the morning and finding that a tree by the pond has fallen more than halfway across the driveway:

At first, in your sleepy state, wonder what made that tree fall, because there was no snow, ice, hurricanes or tornadoes. In fact there wasn't even a zephyr of a breeze the previous night. You know that because of the number of times you were awakened last night by those pesky squirrels partying in the rafters. Stop thinking about squirrel annihilation, and call your friend who owns the property to report said tree to her, because although cars can squeeze by, no tractor trailer that may be coming down the drive that day will be able to reach the greenhouses to pick up their load of lovely fresh herbs growing there.

No not that kind of herb. Get over it.

Get out of the car and take a look to see that the fallen tree was the overnight shift work of beavers:

Unfortunately, times are hard everywhere, and Bosley Beaver wasn’t allowed to work overtime. That meant that although he managed to get the tree down by the end of his shift, he was unable to stay on the job long enough to strip it and haul it away to the new addition being built on the dam. “Oh well”, thought Mr. Beaver, “I’ll just have to leave it until I come back to work again.”

Imagine Bosley’s bewilderment when he arrived back at work the next evening, only to discover that after spending an entire shift gnawing down a tree, it was no longer where he had left it. He now had to start all over, after reporting the incident so an investigation could be begun into the disappearance of the tree.

The rest of us are now concerned about the fate of the wood guy, who came along and cut up the beaver’s tree for firewood, if the beavers figure out whodunit.

I wonder what type of punishments beavers mete out to tree thieves?