I always get homesick for a place I’ve been at for a month or ore about 10 days out from departure. Another aspect of moving locations, is that is when I lose writing pace. It usually takes a month for me to really star cranking out chapters and articles. So, that gives my two month stay really just a couple weeks of highly productive writing, with the first and last week lost in the movement and adjustment.
When February 26 hits, I will not have even a month to settle in, anywhere, until late August. I will be on the crazy train, bouncing around. So I am trying to pile up as much posts as possible before going on the road for six months of pinball life.
But there is an affair of honor to consider: The Colonel beat me in horse shoes last week! He sends a text: “Hey Sunshine—you still in the fart sack? Horseshoes at high noon!”
It urns out we are evenly matched and have not, in 15 21-point games, one or lost one by more than 3 points. We are hardly hillbilly heroes of the magnetronic cast. So it does worry us some that Izzy, the more loyal of the werewolf twins, crosses her paws and sits right behind the upper pit.
I have no consistency in lateral targeting and get most of the ringers.
The Colonel, with his 84-inch wingspan, already has the shoe halfway to the peg when he releases it and tends o overshoot.
As we are casting, the two younger roosters under Grandpa and Foghorn Leghorn, who own the old hens, are fighting for the affection of a white hen. The reprobates would be colored fellas!
They have kept out of the pen and are dancing like kung fu fighters, lowering their heads and then leaping up and lashing out with their foot spurs.
Grandpa, a large cock with spurs so long that The Colonel has had to free him from the wire fencing, referees the contest. We are enjoying the show, as Amos, the dog who throws chickens back over their fence, sits in the moss and waits for the crowd to get out of hand.
The living room window opens and The Colonel’s Wife demands, “I won’t stand for this fighting. You two animals might enjoy it. But one of those rooster must die—kill it!”
The Colonel drawls, “You kill one. I’m drinking beer.”
“You men make no sense!” and the window shuts.
We laughed and I suggest, “Could you imagine if we were beating the piss out of each other—she’d call in a SWAT team to line one of us against the wall.”
The Colonel: “Not only did we give them police—but phones too. That should have been foreseen as a problem.”
Looking at the combat, he says, “You have to admire the athleticism of these cocks. We got these two last year mixed in with some hens and the little rowdy shit there, he used to bring the other one food, give him some of his scratch. But now, since their balls have dropped, they are going at it. Nature is a wonderful thing.”
balls for bitches