Somewhere …. pigs are flying. I know this because I went out to the big barn and saw something I never thought I’d see.
.
.
My husband sorting through and …. are you sitting down?… actually throwing things out!
It’s true. And I might have wept with joy. (After an orgasm. Or two. )
Not only did he throw things out….
.
.
He chopped some up and cut them into little pieces.
.
.
Okay he did it with a saw that was on the floor because the tables were covered in crap… but still!
The old rotten shelf with the 40 degree lean that was filled with useless stuff? Gone!
.
.
Whatever this was?
.
.
It and all it’s relatives… gone!
I couldn’t figure out why this was happening, but it’s like extended happy hour at your favorite bar…. you don’t ask why. You just drink till you pass out.
And then I noticed where all of these things were going.
.
.
In piles alongside the deck.
One minute there was a rusty folding camp bed and broken sewing machine table…. the next minute? They were gone.
I assumed the husband was loading up his truck for a dump run, but no.
It turns out the man who we hired to paint our barn wanted it.
All of it.
And was filling up the back of his truck.
.
.
Pardon the terrible through the screen photo but I was so happy to see the crap leave our property I had to.
So miracles do happen, and the best miracle of all?
We’d hired a fellow hoarder! And I realized the husband wasn’t throwing out his treasure…. he was gifting it.
But I hope he finds one. Pigless is a terrible thing to be.
This picture of our local sheriff’s truck was posted by a resident.
Because really, who needs blue lights when you have a chicken?
This post was met with the incredulity and the scathing derision it deserved . Reveal your fiddlehead location? To a stranger!!
Mainers have been killed for less.
Fiddleheads are a precious ($15-$20 per pound) and extremely fleeting commodity in the spring. Locals protect their secret gathering spots like they do their virgin daughters. Personally I can’t stand the slimy things…
But Mainers go berserk for them.
And speaking of barely edible food, some well meaning townie posted this:
Now really, if I’m not going to eat the delicate unfurled leaves of a fern?
You can damn sure bet I’m not baking helicopter seed pods that look like bugs.
Want to put your finger on the pulse of your town?
Check out the Facebook group pages.
No matter how large or small your particular hamlet is, chances are someone, somewhere is administrating a page for it.
I haven’t had so much fun in years!
You’ll learn very quickly who the town gossips are, where to find a free 40 year old slightly faded recliner, which families have been feuding since 1923, who stole the carrots off the honor system garden cart, the residents you should avoid at all costs, and where the best wild raspberries are found.
There are also important things like this:
That’s news you can use people!
Neighbors helping neighbors…
*Note to self- avoid the White Road*
Granted, if you live in the city you won’t have such interesting headlines.
We (read, the husband) took a wrong turn. How this is possible when I’m constantly pointing and screaming “LEFT!” or “RIGHT” at the top of my lungs I really don’t know, but it happens.
So where did he choose to turn around?
Here.
In a field full of pigs.
Why yes, yes I am.
And when I rolled down my window to say hello, all his brothers and sisters came running out of the woods.
**Note to self – Add Pig Whisperer to resume.**
Driving south through Burlington to eat at a restaurant the husband remembered, we passed this.
Yes, those are fire hydrants.
Though, as usual… the husband was driving too fast for me to get a good picture. But apparently this is a famous sculpture in those parts and a bit of a tourist attraction.
Ah, Vermont. Ya gotta love it.
Arriving at the Windjammer after lunch but before dinner (4:00) we weren’t allowed to sit in the dining room and had to go upstairs to the bar where I had the worst cranberry orange mule imaginable. Blech. Pink dishwater…
There was also a limited ‘in between’ menu which always ticks me off. If you’re open? Serve. If you don’t want to serve? Close. It’s a simple concept.
I was starving from missing lunch and ordered the rather interesting sounding meatloaf.
Naturally I wanted mashed potatoes with it… I mean, hello? It’s meatloaf!
But since it was 4:00? No dice. (Or potatoes.)
I settled for broccoli.
Sadly, no. I’m not.
Order placed, we clomped downstairs to the salad bar which was shaped like a ship.
Isn’t it just.
The salad bar was mediocre, nothing to write home about… but the meals? Lord love a duck, they were horrible. The husband didn’t eat his Shephards Pie, it was as dry as the Sahara and while I tried to struggle through the pasty, how can it be this tasteless meatloaf, I gave up rather quickly and ended up having a plate of broccoli.
No pictures…
Agreed.
You really weren’t. Management took it off our bill, but I really have nothing good to say about that place.
As we drove back to the resort to pick through left overs in the fridge, I made the husband slow down so I could take a few quick pics of the fabulous silo that greets you when you come into the town.
How fun is that?
Where there's only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous.