Crow Removal

(Something seemingly harmless and unidentifiable if you were riding by on a horse.)

Yesterday I mentioned that I would post about the headless crow bird. My prayers were not answered when I awoke to find the corpse and it's head in the EXACT same place. But you get more story.

Thinking someone would pick it up..... Like a dog or cat. Don't cats do this sort of thing too; murder? And then bring it to their owner's as a gift? Cats are all over this neighborhood and not one has ventured over to that mess. And I told everyone else in the fam, ahem... the men... But nothing!

What I might have failed to mention to you, reader, was the fact that their  [The Crow Clan] main stake out is out my door. Remember in Tolkeins' books, and the movie series when poor Frodo does the weird eye warp zone look and has to look passed horrible terrain to the demonic place where an eye looks out all over the horrible terrain as well. It's eye going left than right searching for the ring, I guess.

Because this atrocious volcanic fire spewing rock is where an atrocious ring was made. And whoever owns is made into a terrible, ugly, anorexic owner. With a smoker's voice.



(Here is Mordor, or whatever the Hobbits call it, that is OUT my front Door. 

So pan your Frodo vision across hobbit towns and villages, forrests and talking trees

until you finally rest your eyes on this innocnet home for the crows.

For any new readers, this is not the kind of crows from Dumbo.

Sure they are all buddies but they don't add all the bad info to the Disney cartoon.

 

The boys were thrilled it still lay there and that's its superiors who had deemed his death worthy from the upper realms of their lair:

 

 

I had to take care of it.

 

Before the boys got into a mess.

Shovel in hand and some serious positive thinking, I walked over to the headless crow bird and looked into it's beady black eye. Tentatively I put the shovel close to the ground and tried to get the straw yellowish part of the beak to slip onto the shovel. Which it did quite quickly and gave me a rare and jolting look at the exposed white  BRAIN of a crow, and the dry white bone of his neck and some of his spine, before it slid into a plastic Albertsons bag.

 

His mates had scalped him!!!

 

Thinking of his mates made me look up into the branches of the tree

 

 

 

 

 

 searching and waiting for

them to come diving at me. But it was completely quite. Probably because they were using their black crows feet and amazing skills to scribble down my height, weight, hair and eye color.  Oh, and the sound of my voice letting out small pitched wimpers.

(they recognize voices too. neat, huh?)

 

By this time I was nauseaus. yuck.. ... the body

 

 

 

held more fear for me than the threat above my head or the crow head in my earth damaging plastic sack held ten feet out from me.

My arms don't stretch that far but it's amazing what you can do in a pinch.

 

With the crows out causing mayhem elsewhere I had the courage to peer at the body. They actually consist of more than black, glossy feathers. Hues like green and violets, that were actually quite pretty; But of course it was missing it's head!!!!

 

 

Despite this initial set of jitters, I successfully slid the shovel under the guy, we'll call him Ned, and almost had him in the opened bag when the wind blew, the two sides came together and Ned's slick mottled body slid down the side of the bag and back to the ground.



AAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

 

A REDO?????

 

Yup. And guess what, I did it.

I even double bagged it and slung it in the trash like a pro.



Pop Placebo and Crow Warning...

There is nothing more unnerving than finding trash in the window wells.

While the two culprits were jumping on the tramp on one of the winding down summer mornings and  I stumbled upon this scene.

Hose in hand and half aware that not one hydrangea blossomed all summer I implored:

 

what is this??

 

Soaked in their T-shirts and shorts, Soggy socks thrown off somewhere in the yard they came to a halt.

 

J. played quiet and shrugged as if he had x-ray vision of what I was pointing to.

But lucky for him,

 

His scout honest friend piped up confidently: "We were getting high on caffeine!"


 

 

hmmm.

 

You guys realize 7-up has no caffeine and two of your cokes are caff. free??

 

"Yeah, we realized that after awhile then we moved onto the real stuff," his buddy confessed.

You should have seen us- we were bouncing all over the place from all that pop! "

 

You guys are right now. What's the difference?

 

They shrugged and continued to narrowly escape falling off the tramp, break an arm,

doing wild flips on the slick surface, tempting torn ligaments

and life long neck injuries and hootin' n hollerin' like crazy....

BOYS.

 

 

Changing gears, there has been a lot going on! I have some stories to whip together like

a home-made pie and share it with you.

Hopefullly, I can get to some of them and include the horrifying addition to

the Crow Story.

Which I thought was over.

 

 

I didn't know if I told you that three pine trees house a few of these murderers in our neighbor's yard. Which is right next to OUR yard. A sure sign the story would progress through our time here.

 

And do you Recall that post a few weeks back about the

scientific research I found on crows remembering your face and holding grudges?

 

Well, either these fellas were listening in to the information I'd been telling my fam, reading my blog, or

 plain out playing a prank on me because of what I did to them 5 summers ago!

(below is "Bird's Barbie" I am contemplating this for Halloween. It gives me the shivers to see those

dang birds on such a classy tailored outfit I'd love to go to work in. Instead of running from Crows while wearing heels. But who would know Tippie Hedren? And the only person that can get tailored  threads from high end fashion seamstress quenns are Kate Middleton and her mother-in-law ish.)

 

 

 

At first it was their feathers that were freaking me out as I'd walk over to water

my neighbor's flowers. Sticking up out of the grass like little black planted flowers.

If I watered at night, I'd book it over there and back in my bare feet like I was a kid turning off the light and needing to run at light speed to reach my bed before a hand reached for my ankles!

 

But the dozen feathers each day wasn't enough vengeance I suppose because one day I walked outside to water during the DAY and found

 an entire WING on the ground.

I can't go on.

 

The throw up mechanisms are starting in me.

 

Tomorrow I will bring myself to upload the pics I took of the horrendous outcome

from "The Parliament. "

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Crohn's, Prednisone, and Depression

"I hope I don't catch depression."

We were somewhere in the house, the same house where this same fear hauntd me when I was a teen, when J. randomly made this announcement.  He said it as if he DID NOT want to catch the mental illness as if it were germs picked up from the pencil sharpener at school. 

hmmm. I thought as I peered over at him

and saw the determined look
in his face.

I saw me.

Sooooo.... First off I thought:

'Does he even know what it is?'  Thus far into his short life, he's been around a lot of health field related stuff....



In order to find out what exactly he thought this Depression thing was I had to ask him some questions.

What do you think it is? What do you think will happen? Why does it scare you?

 He linked it to drinking alcohol,  being drunk and or on drugs; and being unhealthy- then people don't like you and you're bad.

  I confirmed to him it wasn't "catching".

(However there are all those surveys and tests that show, if a mom is depressed her kid is bound to be, too. More guilt to pour all over motherhood! Thank you surveys!)

I couldn't help but go back into my own youth and self righteously and pray, prove, that  I  Never, Ever, would "fall" victim to depression. --From my High Horse I was Convinced that I would never lay all day in bed or not be able to find the strength to lift all those muscles that I'd earned throughout my youth playing sports and go out throwing a football with my kid (s)

If I wasn't in a sport I would go out daily and put in the River Run/Walk with my Pea Pod friend around the corner. We'd work out. Once I even had the thought in my brain: "I could still find the energy and dogged determinedness to work out if I had an extra thirty pounds.- I could fight hard and lose them." And then I skipped off in my tight jean floral shorts.  (that hit my knees)

(Look, it's all coming back in style again! Just too short, unless you unleash your mamabilly.I should have kept those jean shorts from Jay Jacobs. Darn.)

Running in the harsh Rexburg winters around campus, around the track- wondering how many miles I'd run until my missionary got home; came swiftly to a halt when I got sick. Real sick with some kind of lung problem. It felt like a heart attack. The Torment (brother) and also occassional running partner to me to the ER where they told me I had pnuemacysstis. And infection in the lung lining that hurt like the dickens every time you moved, coughed, breathed or thought.

 I stopped running. Walking up to class was tough enough with the lung thing going on.

So the stars aligned and that's when my career as an athlete took a dive, my health bordered on mono or just laziness. I tried to work out every day inside but I still had to walk back home in the cold.

All crashed into a heap when the Crohns Disease took its grip; I fell off the horse and have tried hardily to climb back on it and only gotten my foot stuck in the stir-ups.

Graduation came and all I could muster was enough energy to throw my stuff in a the back of the truck and move home, never mind walking for my diploma.  Which I justified as cheesy- I felt half way done!

I should've gone! Those moments need to be celebrated!

However, J.'s one question that day was at the center of my being through out my life. The big fear that had held my whole life in its grip: would I suffer with this bizarre mental thingy ma job?

I did.

I do.

And if you can believe, I had a question recently posed to me about which had the worst stygma:

Depression or suffering from an embarrasing auto-immune disease that left me gastrointestinally challenged" Crohns. Oh, and had a family of disorders and cousin diseases with it.

But which did I think was "worse".

I paused. I had to think hard.

The constant running to the bathroom. Becoming deathyly dehydrated after twenty to 30 times a day of losing everything inside of me. The painful fissures that bore through my skin through which feces ran past every time I ran to the john. A disease that was worse than child birth, without an epidural AND a default episiotomy clear through?

Would there be ANY question which partial genetic disease was worse?



Yes.

The social stygma of depression was more taboo and uncomfortable than having to discuss same sex marriage at a Presedential Debate. It seemed more acceptable to discuss politics, sexual orientation, and even bowel movements than depression.

Yes, I would much rather handle and have a disease that has white blood cells attack your body than be minutely associated to Depression. Sadly, they are linked. All of it. Together. ugh.

And once the D word is dropped, and I don't mean diarrhea,  people are wondering if you are bi-polar, Schizophrenic or.... whatever else that involves frenzied hair, being holed up in a house like a hermit or a brillaint Phantom that goes about operating an Opera House.  Geez. Heaven forbid!

With the Crohns, everyone associates Crohns with your stomach, what ya can and can't eat and going to the bathroom NONE stop. Which, right there, you'd think that being in the ladies rom that much, and it sounding like a Civil War being played out, would be enough to confine you to your home memorizing The Gettysburg Address- but after the decade long initiation to the disease, it's half my worries.

The trailing disorders of this disease attack the pancreas, liver, eyes, bones, joints-- you name it; they all come quietly packaged with this disease. But it's the one package of it attacking your brain and nerves that gets on your nerves.

Once I got the bathroom routine down- Carry wipes, Oust spray in the small bottle, and a few other goodies along with a good sense of humor; you are set. (Until the disease progresses and you're carrying a small first aid kit. Just let that go. And find some funny friends or something.)

When you have an illness you swap war stories, notes, and other bits of advice. Some that
I've talked with adamantly deny any depression with their Crohns. And say so proudly as if they were strong enough to cast off the evil spell. Which left me feeling weak.

 They could be completely telling the truth. But it was that way they said it- how they avoided depression; the effort in which they let you know that it isn't the case with them tells me there is something there that we all like to pride ourselves on:

Normal Brain Function.

 Sometimes I think my suffering with this fun package of illness is payback, or to be humbled for judging those I judged when I was younger. Or for those that I see that I think:

"Someone please sedate her."

And it's me.

What a revelation the day I found out about Prednisone Pshychosis!

(Prednisone model- so harmless and college-ish chem. class looking. Don't be deceived.)

Finally, a name to ascribe the hell that is prednisone! A real founded illnes brought on by that lovely, continously giving drug. Whether you struggled with pre-existing, predisposed, unprepared prednisone induction- you could develop this lovely mental illness. That is perhaps temporary. Comes when it wants. Leaves when it wants. Or leaves you alone. But it is a gift- that keeps giving- even when you are off of it! Yay!

When I read about a 3 year old patient who turned "pred punk" on her folks and had to talk to the oncologist about Pred Pyche.... I bawled. Yes, I was on prednisone. But can you imagine? One day you are you. And then you are you on prednisone and you are you on prednisone; isn't that fun.

Somehow I thought that if I stayed "fit" enough, busy enough, or whatever ENOUGH- I could escape the dreaded Depression side-effects.  Everything points to the fact that if you eat healthy, work out, think positively, heck, you will stay mentally fit as a fiddle.

 Documentaries on cancer, or you name the topic- are much more uplifting and honorable than say the legacy poor Lincoln's wife has had to leave historians all these years. "yeah, Lincoln woud just have to go outside and take a walk when his wife got "sullen" or became a, this is my recent favorite cliche comment: "a hot mess".

I feel horrible for judging an individual who once stood at my church's testimony meeting and spoke for a good 30 minutes. This poor person, I thought. I shifted uneasily in my pew as intimate and odd info was poured out over the congregation.

 My eyes would lazily drift to the clock. Then to the person. Back to the clock. Eventually to family members with wide eyes if something crazy was said. Then we I would look to the Bishopric. Some of them sitting quite stoicly, others shifting in their chairs and me wondering if there really were these red lights on the podium that I'd heard rumor of in certain circles that were for the "emotionally and elderly unstable." A sort of kind way of saying, please sit down.

Now I see this person functioning in society- doing all sorts of volunteer work and am ashamed of my pre-mature judgement and subsequent pay back. And I'm spilling testimony on a blog.----

It was in HS that I first learned the names of some Depression medication



and they were said and talked about in such a way that it would be more acceptable if you did heroine at a party then ending up on one of those. And in a way it seemed it was connected to your marriagability. And you couldn't mess with that! Heck! You needed to be married, have several children, stay in shape, serve in various church callings and have perfect hair!

When I graduated from the two year church college unmarried; there was almost a stygma to that, too. I didn't find the ONE.

It wasn't until 26 that I realized,, hey I am young.  But by then I was married to my disease and that was easy to say.

I'd endured pioneering of drugs. I'd been put on prednisone without much guidance and no google to meet and discuss side effects. I didn't know I could ask my Dr. for a sleep med to help me go to sleep- and here I was a full grown adult at a major university. But I was so damn sick, I couldn't even answer the phone or call my Dr. to discuss these things. It was the late 90's.

Now, I am all set up with Dr.s who can help my lungs, gutt, arthritis, and Depression. I have found meds to help endure the prednisone moments. Not that it is any easier, or that you don't still say what you would have censored under normal circumstances because your brain is just on fast forward- but it helps.

When I read about people who try to do it themselves or say things to the effect that they want to- it makes me wonder: "Am I weak?"  And sometimes I think: "No, I have the gutts to address my problem. I'm sorry this person has to suffer alone."

Don't get me wrong- Tom Cruise is right on the money when he says some psychiatric drugs are poison. All drugs are poison, Tom. You have to find the right one for you.

I feel sorry for those out there that can't admit they see a shrink. It took me awhile to say I was seeing a pshychiatrist. But then I started to wear that sentence like a badge of honor. Heck, I was seeing a person who went to shrink school AND med school!!! Lucky me! But it takes time and I still like to see the reaction on people's faces when I mention it in conversation.

Or the time when I was in the ER for Crohns and the PA suggested I see one and I told him I was. He was confuddled. But I forgave him. Which is a lot of what you have to do with suffering and being sub par- forgive. Not others. Yourself. For not meeting the standards you set for yourself.

Oh, and don't forget courage. Heck, I'd run into the twin towers and try to save someone rather than have fam members or friends see me sitting on a heating pad on the couch or taking a bath in the middle of a nice day cause prednisone has me sweating so bad.

It took courage in HS to acknowledge zits, some hair in unwanted places. The peach fuzz on my upper lip. But now, with all these side effects, one of which is hair growth in odd places- like your tear ducts for example. But, no worries, these are soft compared to the nice boar bristle that starts coming in all over your face. Which is a good thing or else blinking would be harder than usual.
And, no, it doesn't make your eye lashes come in fuller. In fact you lose hair where you want it and grow it where you don't.

I feel sorry for those who suffer mental illness and feel they won the Gold Medal for Not seeing a shrink and feeling their way through life on their "own".  But there are side effects to some drugs that aren't fun- and that is their perogative to choose. But what I am referring to is the feeling of superiority. Of self accomplishment at NOT succumbed to getting help.

Those kind of people who have such strength that they can have amputations without anesthia.

One day I was talking to a person who had broken off an engagement to someone and finally, with reluctance just said: "Insert gender here, was bi-polar." As if that was a sufficient explanation why THAT relationship was a NO GO.

I nodded, with agreement- fully acknowledging that was akin to marrying an AX Murderer. "yeh, you don't want to go THAT route." But in the back of my mind I am thinking: "Whatever happened to in sickness and in health? Well physical health.... yeah... but the other. Boy, look out.

More and more we  vets come home with PTSD. Well, now it has a name. But every person that probably went to war walked away with some mental change. I mean, look at Padre. That poor soul was conditioned to have everything in his vicinity clean and he had to raise 7 kids that hadn't been to boot camp- well, technically.

All this rationalization in the middle of the night on a blog, nonetheless, has been something I have wanted to write about for a magazine at some point in my earlier writing aspiring days. But I needed to do some research. Not just haphazardly start discussing a topic like right now.

Too late.

The memories of being a kid and not wanting to enter into what my mom did resurrected when J. made his comment. I feared The tired look on my mom's face and vacancy that came over me as a young woman when I distanced myself from my mother and latched on to things at school and severed the emotional connection to her suffering.

J. would call it payback- but I think it is better termed understanding of sorts- when you yourself get to see ALL that you feared of happening to you, happen. At first you think God is punishing you for having such horrible thoughts of another person and being so judgemental.

OR, you are coming to realize that you were one naive, uneducated soul as you have had your heart thrown out there on the public chopping block.



I feel a deep regret for being embarrased about my mother coming to pick me up in the suburban after a Jr. High practice. For being embarrassed that she wore MY hand me downs- so we could buy that pair of basketball shoes and pay that fee. I feel like such a punk for feeling like a victim at points when I looked at my teammates parents in the stands and asking myself: where was my mom and Dad? But have you seen the cost of getting into a game? Good night, nurse!

He worked odd hours and can you imagine taking three young kids to a game and having to chase them under those old school bleachers. But really it made me nervous when they were there because I wanted to play GOOD when they were. I wanted them to see that all THEIR hard work to allow me to get out of doing the paper route and depending on them to provide shoes for each new season, was paying off.  (For the record they were there at times. And they were there at state. And I can still hear my mom's shrieking, nervous cheering coming frm the bleachers and those are the best memories.)

Some women, and men, are able to successfully hide or deny their deficiencies. I proud myself when go out and about and see someone homeless, or an individual who can't match their clothes and gives long testimonies. But then I recall those moments when I made an absolute fool of myself at the pulpit and the days that I didnt' care if I matched either. I still am pretty proud. And I deny my mental status on a daily basis at times, if it suits me and can help me get through the day.

I still can't decide if I could choose which is worse and where the lines even cross:

Crohns /suffering from Depression.

But I don't get the choice as to which to deal with as they come bundled. Some days I'm glad I have the perspective of it and others, I just hate it and I wonder what it would be like to be that young woman who had the strength to get it all done, the sports, the cleaning, the homework, the degree, the job.

As J. is getting older I am realizing what is embarrassing to him... and it is pretty funny. One slip of the tongue about a simple thing and boy howdy. This is going to be one long haul for him- and me. I will try to stay in the background- but I blog.

I write. And, like my mother, I get really excited at sporting events  if I have the strength. So he'll just have to suffer.  Sorry in advance, Son.

A Trellis Success and The Mamabilly

 THE ABUNDANCE WE ENVISIONED IN THE SPRING:

Remember what we had to look forward to with the A Trellis??

All the success from such a confined space and yet we'd have a bounty of

produce creeping up the well made piece of smartness.

I'm afraid to even post a pic. of how well it's doing

for fear of

farmer's markets calling me and

BEGGING

to start bringing in my produce.

But I promised to document the "experiment".

Here ya go:

\

(No Trellis' were harmed in the shooting of this picture.... ahem,  Padre.) 

And what is far funnier is the state I am in- If I were to turn the cam on me it would

show the mamabilly.

What is a mamabilly? She is wearing socks that she wore to mop the floors

that, still somewhat soggy, were stuck proudly

into her gardening shoes.

You know- the ones that are for keeping your feet DRY.

The clothing isn't what makes the Mamabilly, necessarily.

It's the hair madness with a bandana square-knotted at the top, so as to soak up all that

predni-zonal withdrawel sweat.

Gone with the Wind

frazzled brained, bandanad head because of that Georgian mugginess makin' its way all the way up

to Idaho. 

And don't forget to add the

the attitude (see Scarlett above)  while doing all these things, while hot and, well, a lot to do.

Oh, and you can't forget the

old radio in the bathroom playing country music; letting it waft through the rooms

like a kid wanders in the summertime from friend to friends. 

That's Mamabilly.

See- even J. was trying to get away from me.

My sunflowers were even ignoring me.

Oh, wait. That mama has to take her kid to practice and the kid has to hope no one makes

the connection.

But there is not doubt when ya holler his name from your lawn chair and debate going out there and showinghim how to tackle.

Sigh.

However I repeated: "I will NOT be rude after Rodeos. I will not be rude after Rodeos."

Several times to myself to ensure that I don't stoop too low and

start getting Rodeo Rage.

When I took J. to practice,

I did flip the knot to the underside of my head and replace the gardening shoes for flip flops.

 I don't know if this had much affect on J.

If it made me look more Euro-American/Beckham thing. He had his helmet on and I was in

his blindside so I'm sure he didn't notice.

Do you turn into a Mamabilly on mopping day?

Or is it turning into everyday?

Rodeo Rage and other things I've never seen

Hmmm.... I've never seen that before.

I found myself uttering this a few times this week -when Padre related what he saw during his weekly grocery store shopping.  He saw a woman going over the grapes in an unusual fashion.
(Jaden actually getting his boots dirty, recently at the Rodeo is a first, too.)

Padre's account goes like this:

"I was in Sam's Club, and whether there or other food chains," he rattled off some back ground history for me to get the whole picture of his ordeal,  " and I realized that, occassionally, I get some bad grapes in a bag. If one bag looks worse than another; I buy the best looking

one, with the overall best quality." Padre explained. 

Made sense.
I do that.

"But this lady was going through ALL the grapes to put all the good grapes in one bag. "
I've never seen that before. Grape lady may be on to something. But I still think it's
not proper. But whatever.

The second scene takes place as Padre exits Sam's Club with his cart of toilet paper, milk,
grapefruit and other oversized items.

"Walking out to my car there was a couple walking and the guy just throws hucks his Super-sized

pop in the air in frustration and then gets in his car."

hnhh.

Fight maybe? Tension is getting tighter with the economy- I can see if you had kids hanging off all your appendages, hit bankruptcy, and then to top it off,
were having a nervous collapse there at Sam's. Then, yeh,
hurl your pop in the air; ice and Coke
flings everywhere and someone else picks it up.

Again, I've never seen this before.
But I like imagining the styrofoam cup flying through the air and Padre possibly ducking
to avoid getting hit by it. Just random stuff that come out of nowhere.

I might do this in a moment of severe anger over being sick or something.
It could be really a stress reliever. 

The LAST NEVER BEFORE is this:
and, yeh, it has some Padre back history to set up my story.

In Utah the Road Rage is over the top- as an Idahoan, I try to keep my tongue in check and forgive

them as they try to forgive us and others that turn on their blinkers and move into the road

in front of them. 

(Had to check our boots at the door afterward.)

But Road Rage went to a whole new level when J. and I  went to the War Bonnet Rodeo.

And I thought the Bulls were tough.

Trying to get out of there, and keep from getting offended, and or killed

was a miracle.

Are things really getting that bad?

I will post on the parking lot WAR more tomorrow. Too tired to go into any sort of detail that still

leaves me wanting to hand out medals or name some of the people involved  like the  owner's of

the livestock used at the Rodeos.

None of the people acted like the Bull: Strawberry Dream. I'll say that.

(I am loving this chair with the turquoise. Put it on my dream.)

That's a good idea. Give me some time- I'll come up with some good ones. Or re-assign some

of those names to the drivers and myself.

You tell me what ya think.

Even if you're from Utah.

  

Crows KNOW!





I hate crows. But I so would wear these platforms from, Irregular Choice, if I were ten years younger despite my feelings. Because they are called Black Bird.

I even didn't care for this post. But it is the only one ready to be given the gate.

Once an injured one was stuck in our garage, caught in an old basketball net. Thinking it was a cat or something, I just left it til Padre got home.

So I sat up a lawn chair out back and started reading a book.

A black object caught my periphereal vision and I looked up to see a crow hopping about 4 feet from me.

Yes, I screamed.

Which sent him away a bit but he didn't seem to fear me. So I grabbed a broom to shoo him away.

The events that happened next were along the Alfred Hitchcock variety.

Crows from all over started to appear and scold me- or it. They lined up on two separate power lines outling our yard.

Some started to dive bomb at me. I swatted with the broom then beat it inside. The crows stayed and were just bawling out this poor cousin of their's.

Well, I found out they are scavengers and will eat their own if it's hurt. Which I thought was cruel. 

But yesterday I learned a new term and some NEW info on these evil black devils!

1. When there is a bunch of them gathered like that day with me in the yard- it's called a murder of Crows.

2. When my madre informed me of this and that she learned that they memorize faces and NEVER forget.

nu-uh! I told her in disbelief.

Then I googled it. Some scientists did a test and would you believe it's true. They bring in their pals and then talk to them about how dirty you were being to them. AND they can somehow tell OTHER crows the news about you.

These scientists used masks, marked crows they'd harrassed, and even drove a mile out of town and were "attacked" by unmarked crows. Not just the scolding. But the dive bombing.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Whew.

They watch us interact with each other, make tools for getting their food. And other disturbing hobbies.

I learned they can be called The Parliament in conjunction to their "Murder of Crows" because when they all group together, they discuss which guy to kill. And usually 3 main Crows are in charge of the decision making!!!!! (This was first documented in the 15th century apparently. When they had time to observe these guys in big vast fields over in England or something.

Don't even LOOK at these guys wrong!

And P.S. that little bird ended up hiding in my rhubarb and scared me one day while weeding. I quickly got him out of our yard and into some trees out front. The screams ensued and I went in the house.

I dunno if they have my number but I thought I better warn you before they get YOURS!

Thank you, Alfred. You tried to give us a heads up.

AMBUSH-ed by a sweet Lady!

To get the story out of her, I've had to pepper my mom with questions from this guided journal; written and drawn by the talented artist, author, blogger- Susan Branch!

Whom I adore!

So I've asked Mom about her memories as she's sewn minky baby blankets, made calls to her siblings to get different perspectives. Serious investigation from the long paged, hand typed genealogy books that past family members have  put together to find the story.

HER STORY.  

Jaden has observed some of the interoggation sessions and surmised this impression:

"It sounds like Susan Branch is trying to ambush us. Why is she asking all these questions??" Jaden stated.

Why would you think that? We aren't sending the book back to her!

Susan Branch is not an international spy. The delightful journals are just a taste of what she brings to her blog. (susanbranch.com) She just finished her trip to England where she gathered plenty of inspiration that keeps me coming back to her site just to day dream.

No, this is not H2O

K- I struggled in Chemistry.

Any guesses?

Prednisone and I'm almost done with you, little concoction of Hydrogen and oxygen and...  (quickly google CH, ah! Carbon Hydride... and whatever else is in you!