On The Fly

The BabyBoy and I were headed to Chucktown for a day trip, and while waiting for a red light, I saw this restaurant in a parking lot.

I seem to have lost my appetite.

BioBags, O Yeah

I really dislike having an indoor cat.  Not because I dislike an indoor cat, but because I DISLIKE a litter box.  And I dislike how almost every evening when I’m talking on the phone to Sugar, Alice uses the litter box.  (Not sure what she’s commenting about.)  Her litter box is located in the fold-down bed compartment over the driver and passenger seats.  I took out the mattress years ago (Could that be – was it really years ago when I started living in this box?), and that’s where Gladys the guinea pig and Jopty the gerbil live in their cages.  So that makes Alice’s litter box about two feet above my head when I sit in my chair at the computer and on the telephone. 

I’ve used the plastic doggy litter bags to dispose of the contents when I scoop out her box.  Last week I ran out of plastic.  In search of a better bag, I found *COMPOSTABLE!* poop bags.  I was so excited, I could just poop share the good news with you.

Regular polyethylene-based plastic bags can take over 100 years to degrade and are not compostable.  Less than 2% of all plastic bags ever get recycled.  Plastic bags litter our streets, backwoods, and waterways.  Studies indicate that 100,000 marine animals and 2 million birds die every year from ingesting or being caught up in plastic debris.

Some manufacturers are blending additives to polyethylene to produce “degradable” bags.  Unfortunately, this process fragments the bags into pieces of plastic debris that do not meet the ASTM D6400 standard for compostable plastic.

Nature Knows The Difference.

BioBag products are made from GMO Free starch, vegetable oil and the world’s first patented polymer.  No polyethylene is used in the production process.  We are fully certified by the Biodegradable Products Institute (BPI) and meet the requirements of California and Minnesota law regarding ASTM Compliance.

A Chilling Experience

I’ve been hanging out a lot with my friend, the hot Canadian. The weather here has been pretty cold, and the past week has been nippy at night. 

Last Tuesday, on December 14, 2010, to be exact, a chilling thing happened.  I was lying on the couch, gazing at the Canadian’s face, and he.stopped.putting.out.  Just like that.  It was about 9:30 PM, and the weather forecast was a low of 18 degrees.  I waited for him to come back on, and waited some more.  Then I realized that my Canadian was not coming back, with the same certainty that when your husband says, “I’m leaving now.  Good-bye.”, he is really leaving and you’d best move forward.  I headed for the bed, buried myself under an electric blanket, and waited it out until morning.  I convinced myself that I come from hardy pioneer stock, and a little cold wouldn’t hurt me.

I woke up around 6 AM.  I knew this was the time because I heard that big truck going by, the one that always goes by at 6 AM, and I knew the time not because I got out from under the covers and looked at the clock in the kitchen in the frozen tundra that was now my RV.   When I stuck my hand out from under the covers, the cold bit my hand and made me withdraw.  I made a plan to reach out from under the covers, really fast, and grab the hair dryer hanging in the bathroom, plug it in, dive back under the covers, and wave the dryer around, both under and out of the covers.  That helped, enough so that I could get dressed and head to the Family Dollar to buy a heater. 

The Family Dollar had no heaters, so I headed to the nearest Wal-Mart, about 20 miles away.  They had heaters out the wazoo, and I bought two tower types with oscillation.  As soon as I got back to the RV, I plugged one of the heaters in, and the temperature display started to register, and I watched with horror as the temperature inside the RV showed 60, slid its way down to 50, then 40!

Later that evening, I was talking on the phone to Sugar, and he asked if I was staying warm, and was the Canadian working okay?  I told him what happened to my guy the Canadian, and Sugar told me that he had a Christmas present for me, direct from Canada, in the form of one hot Canadian, bought as a back-up for Canadian #1. 

If anyone needs to borrow a heater, just call me.

Uno, Dos, Tres Raccoons

There has been some question as to how many raccoons are dining at the feral cat feeding station.  I can conclusively state that there are at least three. 

Sylvia’s Pine Tree

What's the deal?

Here’s Sylvia’s pine tree.  When we go to the cat station, she always stops at this one tree and sits next to it.

Somebody explain the attraction to me

She has worn a bare spot on the forest floor.  The pine straw is thick underfoot, but this particular spot against the tree has no pine needles.  She stops here.  Every.  Single.  Time.  Someone needs to explain this to me.  Sometimes she even leans against the tree.

Apparently she knows what she’s doing, and she’s not going to let the rest of us in on it.

Enjoying the afternoon

Knittin’ and sittin’ on Resurrection

Sylvia pauses during her workday

Sometimes I’m knittin’.  And sometimes I’m sittin’.  But anytime I’m home, I’m on Resurrection Road.  I’ve never seen a roadway of any kind named Resurrection, and it’s a little bit unnerving to live on such an unusual road name.  What could have possessed the powers that be to name a road Resurrection?

I’ve lived here about a year.  It’s quiet, most of the time, and it’s remote.  There are lots of trees here, and some wildlife.    I own a small plot of land, rectangular in shape, about an acre and a half that is fronted with roads on three sides.  If you were to draw the lot on paper, the rectangle is lying on its side, with the west and south sides bordered by Resurrection.  The east side is bordered by another road, which is the main road.  My entire lot is wooded with pines, sweet gums, maples, and wax myrtles, and the ground is thick with the leaf debris of many years.  My sandy driveway slips between two towering pines, and ends in a clearing in the woods where I live.  My life is very simple.  I live in a twenty-five-year-old RV.  It’s the driveable kind, called a Class A, and it’s actually driveable.  But I don’t drive it anywhere.  It sits, along with me, here on Resurrection.

Need Resurrection?

I chose to come here to live in July 2008.  I’ve owned the land since July 2007, and have been gradually developing it with the intent to build someday.    But for now, I basically have everything I need.  Electricity and water?  Check.  Bed?  Check.  Table and chair?  Check.  Refrigerator and microwave?  Check.  I gave away most of my belongings.  An RV comes with most everything you need.  I have peace and quiet, simplicity, and room to breathe. 

The eastern third of the lot is fenced in.  Outside the fenced area, I established a feral cat colony in the woods.  Sylvia, the formal feral cat, decided not to live in the woods, but chose to slip inside the fenced area by sliding between the gate and the gatepost.  She’s a funny little cat, petite and slim but a relentless watcher of wildlife, like butterflies and falling leaves. 

The last year has been an interesting journey.  The next year promises to be just as interesting.