Tuesday, March 30, 2021

STALKING A TICK - Jeepahs Creepahs!

STALKING A TICK

Copyright 2021 by Lori-Ann Willey

Unfortunately, at the house (on-grid) we have a lot of ticks, and they are nasty little things. If Velcro or a burdock bract could walk, that is what they feel like upon the skin ...just less subtle. This morning, I went out for a nice walk-about the area. My goal was the stay in the open and not walk through the dead stalks of plant life, tall dead grass, under trees, or into the woods. Well, I should've known better, 'cause I can't just walk outside and not investigate or observe something, can't just not touch something, and I just can't not step into the woods either. I did all the above just as I knew I would.

With my tall boots, I knew no tick would crawl up the leg. With a sweatshirt and a snug tank top underneath, I knew a tick wouldn't crawl under there. I pulled my sweatshirt sleeves up, so they were snug around the forearm, so all good there, too. What I didn't do was put on a hat .... I’m always wearing hats, but not this morning. So, as I walked around, I was mindful of that. Yes, ticks will walk on clothing, but I wasn't much worried about them there. Of course, when you are thinking about such awful insects, is when you are more mindful, and "feel" that single strand of hair catch the slightest air current, too. Right? You all know what I'm talking about -hypersensitivity- you notice EVERYTHING.

Once inside, I didn't bother to look for ticks though I should've. I did go into the woods, brushed against trees, limbs, bushes, grass, etc. Ticks are tiny this time of year, so I should've looked about my body, 'cause ideally, that is protocol, but I didn't. After about an hour inside, I felt that all-too-familiar feeling inside my shirt along my bra strap. I had already pulled up my shirt a couple of times as if the tick would somehow magically disappear before I could see it...nothing except for a piece of grass, bark, or a sprill. All false alarms.

So, when I felt that prickly movement at the edge of my bra strap, I stalked that area, too. Knew it had to be a tick that time, cause it felt like it was trying to get under the strap itself. Well, I am wearing a spandex-like bra. I have a few of those I'm all for comfort these days. The one I threw on this morning was at the bottom of the stack. Why that one stood out to me this morning, I don't know 'cause in dim lighting, that gray shouldn't've caught my attention, but it did. I grabbed it in passing and threw it on as I navigated to another room.

After returning from my walk, and after being clothed for several hours, when I felt that prickly walk, I knew it was a tick. Slowly, I pulled back my top so I could sneak upon and stalk the tick. Well, I saw no tick. Huh? Illusive little shit! Just to be sure it wasn’t playing Hide n’ Seek, I pulled back my strap. Not there either. I pulled at this and that, tucked and pushed things around. Nothing. Figured it was, as Paul calls it, "A Frigment of My Imagination".

Of course, after all were put back in place, shirt straightened, another cup of coffee poured, etc. I felt it again. No way was I going to miss it this time. Went through the same process all over again. I found the elusive little friggah!

How was I supposed to know I grabbed a bra I hadn't worn yet? Ever stalk one of those plastic fasteners before? You know, the same kind that they use to fasten socks together with? That was my “tick”. Today was the first time one of those plastic pokes was appreciated by me.

New meaning for "Jeepahs Creepahs"? 

Friday, March 26, 2021

WHEN THE GRASS IS GREEN - A promise to My Granddaughter Not Yet Three

 When the Grass IS Green

A Promise to My Granddaughter Not Yet Three

Copyright 2021 by Lori-Ann Willey

Now that Paul and I received our first Covid Vaccine, we can see the light at the end of the long, dark tunnel that started over a year ago.  We long for the day we can visit, give hugs & kisses again. 

This morning, I could only see our granddaughter, not yet three years old through a car window.  We talked, giggled, and I blew my breath onto the window and drew a heart for her.  Little Rozzy, started to get out of her car seat but was stopped.  We needed to keep our distance (for now), but I made her a promise.  At about the time the grass is green we’ll have had both Moderna shots.  After that shot takes effect, the grass should be green.  It was a good visual for our granddaughter to remember.

WHEN THE GRASS IS GREEN...AGAIN

When the grass is green, we can hold hands again.

When the grass is green, we can give hugs again.

When the grass is green, we can give kisses again.

When the grass is green, we can go for walks again.

When the grass is green, we can visit each other’s houses again.

When the grass is green, we can cook together again.

When the grass is green, we can color again.

When the grass is green, we can draw again.

When the grass is green, we can go swimming again.

When the grass is green, we can find pretty rocks again.

When the grass is green, we can play together again.

When the grass is green, we can do everything again.

When the grass is green, Grammy and Grampy’s shots will allow us to be with you again.

I can't wait until the grass is green so I can hold you again.

When the grass is green...


https://www.facebook.com/WilleysDamCamp


Saturday, March 20, 2021

The Maple Tree That Teleported Me Back in Time

The Maple Tree That Teleported Me Back in Time
Copyright 2021 by Lori-Ann Willey
Willey's Dam Camp

DAYS LIKE TODAY remind me of my childhood -traipsing through the deep, granulated snow sometimes up to my crotch, across fields, through the woods, and all with an open-topped metal pail to empty the maple sap into. I swear at least half of that pail sloshed out before I returned to our 4-room house that was situated on a dead-end discontinued road. By tappin' season, that road was filled with deep-deep ruts that we had to park our truck and walk partway through the woods to catch the bus, and then again returning from school.

How many sneakers and boots we lost in the mud over the years were countless. To retrieve them meant getting muddier. If we could see the boot or sneaker, we were lucky. If we couldn't, we had to dig through the pudding-like mud and hope to feel it with our hands. How deep was anyone's guess, but how high the mud clung to our pants was a good indicator... if your pants didn't come off while trying to get unstuck, that is.

Oh, the memories that came flashing back this afternoon as I stood next to a maple tree in the yard. It is a warm day, sunny day, and that tree dripped sap faster than a cat can lick water from a waterspout. On the ground, sap puddled two feet wide in some places. The dry, wintered-over, curled leaves upon the ground acted like bowls and held sap by the teaspoons. How could this 54-year-old Grammy I not kneel, bend over, and slurp that sap like a thirsty 4-legged animal with no water in sight? When I did, I felt as if I stood outside with a dark rain cloud overhead that leaked giving a fair warning of downpour about to begin.

Today is beautiful, bright, and sunny. Not a cloud is seen as far as the eyes could see. Every part of this day says it is Spring! I stood and watched as sap ran down the bark, glistening in the sun, taking detours around bumps in the bark, around scabbed over injuries from a winter storm or heavy snow build up over the long winter months. Sometimes, the sap pocketed here and there. However, within seconds, it overflowed its temporary barrier (or a hill for you and me). After breaching the top, those drips were quick to play catch up with the runners before it via an already well-lubricated sap trail.

Sap, being 95-97% water, also has nutrients such as Calcium, Manganese, Potassium, and Zinc, etc. The sweetness comes from a natural sugar …nutrients for the tree itself as it prepares itself for new growth. The sugar water is mildly sweet. If you’ve never tasted it, take a quart jar, fill it with water and add a teaspoon or two of sugar, stir to dissolve, and sip.

As I stood watching the sap run and drip at speeds, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen before, my mind drifted to my childhood years. Vividly, I recalled carrying gallon milk jugs through the snow as my father traipsed before me and my sisters. He carried the manual, hand-held tapping drill -an auger if you will. In his pockets, a few sap taps that danced around singing their own song with each step. My sisters and I, carried as many plastic gallon milk jugs as we could. Once at the largest maple tree on our property, we gathered around and waited for our jobs to begin.

My earliest memory of this had me watching my father with interest and intent. How deep he drilled into the tree, at what height, at what angle. I knew all too well, and so did he, that when that drill was no longer in use, I’d be finding myself a maple tree of my own. Four taps were inserted into that big old tree that day. The tree was a favorite for us girls, as we built a clubhouse atop the lowest branches that were about six feet from the ground. I spent so many hours there as a kid! It may as well have been my second home.

On a day like today, I’d climb into that tree, situate myself in such a way that I could hammer a nail into the limb above my head, remove it, and open my mouth waiting for the first drop of sap to splatter off my tongue. Sometimes, like today, I’d walk around and look for other maple trees with low-hanging limbs that may already be dripping …the darkened bark, the sap glistening in the sun as it worked its way down the tree as if sending a signal like a mirror dancing in the sun as gravity pulled it downward.

If I could reach a limb from the ground, I pulled it to my mouth and sucked on the damaged area from where the sap came. Sometimes, though, after playing around for hours on end, wading through deep snow that Mother Nature softened throughout the day, so the crusted snow was no longer frozen enough to support my weight, I’d become thirsty from heavy breathing as I walked around the area. With a pocketknife, I’d make a small slice through the bark and wait for the first drip to form. On the cooler days, the sap was slow to run, so I bounced back and forth between a few different limbs to wet my mouth. Granulated snow did the trick, but if I could, I always found a maple tree to climb first. On the warmer days, those drips were instant. On the cooler days, not so much.

Then, there were times when I’d pack snow in the shape of cones or bowls where the trees dripped the most. I’d leave them alone while I played in the area and then came back to them for a mouthful of sweet snow to snack on. If left overnight, the next morning, if I were able, I’d break the frozen mass into chunks to toss into my mouth and sucked on those until they melted.

Like a wild animal, there were times when I’d reach up and break off a half-inch twig and gnaw on it like a nervous kid would a pencil before an ill-studied-for test in school. I know because I was such a student at times. The inner green maple bark layer was always bitter but the sweet water that came shortly after made up for it all…the effort of getting there, too.

This afternoon, I went for a walk to soak in the heat, the sun, and navigate to a nearby maple tree mentioned earlier. As I watched the sap shower to the ground, every inch of me felt like tapping into a tree. I had even brought a pocketknife and three straws with me…just in case. Memories of my childhood ran through my head faster than all those drips put together. Even the sun hitting my face brought me back to laying on that bumpy branch with my mouth open catching those drips as a child, but I didn’t. I have no interest in tapping maple trees nowadays. We still have maple syrup we boiled down like five years ago, so other than my heartstrings plucking away at the nostalgia part of it all, I saw no sense in drilling into a perfectly healthy tree just for the memories that I already have. My memories were enough. I can smile as I type that, too.

Today, as I slowly walked around a maple tree, scrutinizing every inch of it, I found a spot where the water had evaporated and the sap dull, colored, and concentrated. I recognized that look quickly. Touching it with my finger confirmed what I already knew, that after all these years, I hadn’t forgotten what to look for – maple taffy. As I pulled my finger away, I know my face wore the biggest grin imaginable. Maple sap had dried to a firm upside-down cone shape. It was so thick, I had to scrape my finger across my teeth and then work it with my tongue to fully remove it from my finger. Instinctively, I drew my head to the tree and scraped my teeth across the bark to collect more of nature’s candy at the size of a small garden pea.

Eventually, I came full circle around that tree when a drip from above hit the bridge of my nose, I looked up. Not three feet above my head was a small 5/8" twig that was literally dripping wet. It didn't take me long to pull that branch to my mouth, my tongue already cupped with anticipation for that first semi-sweet watery drip. Slurped I did. Everything about that said I was 10 years old again. How fun!








Friday, March 12, 2021

WHY ARE YOU RE-LAUNCHING YOUR ALREADY PUBLISHED BOOKS?


WHY ARE YOU RE-LAUNCHING YOUR ALREADY PUBLISHED BOOKS?

Copyright 2021 by Lori-Ann Willey

There are a few reasons behind the re-launching of my text-based books, and if you follow our Willey’s Dam Camp -Off the Grid in the Maine Wilderness Facebook page, you already know the answer.  For those who don’t, I’ll delve into the topic a little.

When I first started writing, I latched onto the first book writing program I found.  At the time (2007?), there were few options.  I wrote in Microsoft Word and then copy/pasted the document into a book program.  Instantly, problems were quick to show.  It was like throwing a plate onto the floor that shattered into a gazillion pieces.  My organized stories, paragraphs, and even sentences shattered as well, dispersed throughout the program pages and in no order at all. 

The constant brainstorming sessions with the program developers resulted in little or no help.  They seemed just as baffled.  Not only that, but they also admitted that their program had many flaws.  That did not help my frustration level!

After years of struggling and going from one book program to another, I learned that the program is being phased out.  Now, I still had a publisher, but no program.  After researching and contacting the publisher for a list of programs they support, I learned that the photobook format now supports text-based formats, too!  Not only that, but their prices are also cheaper, AND their formats accepted by the Global Retail Network!  Finally!  Cheaper for me, means cheaper for you!  That is until GRN gets ahold of them.

The news gets better!  The “new” program allows conversion from the old, frowned upon program, and they do that for me!  Unfortunately, that other program still had lots of issues and the conversion was not an easy task.  They simply scrunched up the file “as is” and send it via email.  Though each book is the same size, its formatting is different.  Their margin allowances and their fonts were different, too.  The other program had automatic headers & footers.  Thus, the margin differences.  Despite all that, I’ve painstakingly converted all my text-based books into acceptable Global Retail Network files.  Now, one by one, I will submit them to GRN.  Which ones they will accept, I don’t know, but I’ll try them all. 

I will send the following books shown in the collage as time permits.  Each has forms and money stuff to figure out at the time of submission.  It takes several weeks or more before I know if they accepted the book, or not.  Once it is, the title, my name, and the ISBN go into a database and can be “picked up” by any bookstore/shop in the world.  Unfortunately, that comes with an added price!  Everyone wants their fair share of the profit!

The books in this collage were already self-published and most without an ISBN number.  Now, each will have an ISBN.  The stories within the books DID NOT CHANGE except the font style, the page margins, and a spelling correction here and there.  Due to the difference in margins from one program to the other, the new program left room for photos.  Those are the only changes, though.  So, if someone previously bought any of the books shown in the collage, the stories have NOT changed, though the format did in a few. 

They already removed the original books from my online bookstore and the “new” books will be added one at a time as I send them to GRN.  Each book will be “FEATURED” on Facebook for at least 7 days before I send them to GRN.  Once sent, despite the “cheapness” of the new program, GRN jumps the price by $5-$10 by no control of mine, so I am thankful for the cheaper program as it helps off-set the GRN cost.  Until that submission, I have full control and can offer each at a lower price, thus “FEATURED”. 

NOTE - If you are unable to access the bookstore within the next couple of weeks, it is in the process of having a URL change.  I'll post the new URL on Facebook and on my website.

Thursday, March 4, 2021

From A One Word Reader to A Writer of Books

From A One Word Reader to A Writer of Books

Copyright 2021 by Lori-Ann Willey

Growing up, both of my parents were avid readers.  Each always had a book going.  I remember when I was like eight years old, at bedtime I’d go into my parents’ room to see my mother and father reading the same book at the same time.  My mother always held the book while my father looked onward, which seemed odd, but one day, Mom made a comment that my father read faster than she did, so she was in control of flipping the pages. 

I never quite understood the lure of books.  I mean, I’d look at the pictures but could’ve cared less if there were words or not.  Visually, I created a story of my own anyway.  Despite always having books, I had to be bored to read the words.  I wanted to be up running around, outside playing or doing something …anything except take the time to read predetermined words (story) in any book.

As a result, my reading skills were slow to develop.  I remember becoming frustrated as I grew older …when I HAD to read books for school.  I was fine reading textbooks because I was learning something.  However, even then if I didn’t care for the topic, I’d skim.  I knew teachers tested on names, dates, location, etc. So, I learned those, but otherwise, picked out keywords so I’d pass a test. I skimmed a lot in my younger years, and you could say that I was a “marginal note reader” when I could be.  I loved to learn, but my brain was picky about how I learned.

Throughout my Jr. High years, reading a certain number of books during the school year became mandatory.  Not only that, but I also had to draft a report, too?  To me, that meant certain doom!  Both my brain and eyes read one word at a time still and boy was THAT slow and tedious for someone that would rather be doing other things. As I read, my mind wanted to write its own story as I flipped the pages …sometimes several at a time.  I became frustrated.  To me, my story was much more entertaining, adventuresome, and fun to see play out in my mind.  That was until I realized I had “read” for 15-30 minutes and hadn’t flipped a single page!

I don’t know how many books that I actually read throughout my school years, but I bet I could count them on all ten fingers, or less.  I fudged my reports.  To me, I had read a million pages …and I probably had, because I had to read every paragraph many times and each time, I’d become lost in my own thoughts, stories told by family, or recalling my own experiences.  Throughout my grade school years, I was always in the lowest reading group, and quite honestly, I was way A-OK with that. 

During my younger grade school years, I remember sitting with other students around a table with a recorder sitting in the middle.  All I had to do was slide a big heavy earphone set over my ears and plug the cord into the recorder, and I was read to.  I didn’t have to read at all.  I loved that!  Though I was supposed to follow along in a book,  I didn’t.  With the book open in front of me, I simply waited until the machine said, “Now it’s time to turn the page”.  Even now, when I read books to kids, I still hear that male voice saying, “Now it’s time to turn the page”.  I smirk as I look at the child I’m reading to before I continue reading. 

However, embarrassment came when I was in the 7th grade and the teacher called upon me to read a few paragraphs in a book read by the class as a class.  I had sunk in my chair.  I hoped like hell the teacher would somehow just skip over me.  I was such an inexperienced reader still that my eyes hadn’t been trained to fluently see each word ahead of time.  They fastened to one word at a time and that was how I read aloud.  I hated it.  I wasn’t stupid, but I felt as if I was.  Then, one day, I found a book on how to read faster. It wasn’t a speedreading book, though as an adult, I did learn how to do that quite proficiently, acing the tests to boot!  The very first lesson told me to scan my eyes ahead 3 words at a time.  Well, hell.  That made a whole lot of sense!  Why wasn’t I taught THAT little trick in school?  Why was I still stuck only seeing one word at a time?

Once in high school, I was thankful that I did not have to read aloud in front of the class anymore, or so I thought.  Because of my poor reading skills, my 8th-grade teacher recommended that I start out with 9-C English. C being the level of my English skills.  Well, I wasn’t so keen on that because my skills were fine!  It was my reading that needed help, not my knowledge of the language!  Language came easy!  The following year, I asked to be moved to English 10-B.  Come to find out that teacher made us read more books!  UGH!  Come my junior year, I asked to advance into an English prep class. The same for my Senior year.  Why?  I knew I could do the work, but I also knew those level classes went more in-depth with poetry. More specifically, Shakespeare!  I was in love!  During the Shakespeare units, I didn’t mind being called upon to read orally at all.  Yes, my reading was still quite choppy, but know what?  So wasn’t reading the works of Shakespeare!

When called upon to read in class, I did so with ease.  Shakespeare was my style, my comfort zone.  Until then, I thought I was a poor reader, but it turns out that I wasn’t.  Not really. One day, as I left the classroom, the teacher took me aside and applauded my oral reading skills.  I cringed inside and thought he was just being nice and that he sensed my fear of oral reading in front of my classmates.  It turns out that he was serious.  He appreciated my style as I read passages as they were meant to be read.  Not only that, but I also understood what I was reading and could explain to the class what I had read!  Say whhhaaat?  The teacher called upon me to read more often because of it.  Who’d’ve thunk that Shakespeare would help my psyche? 

As an adult, I became an avid reader, sometimes I have six books going at once and I had/have no problem picking each up and knowing exactly where I left off months ago without confusing the stories, etc.  These days, though, I read mostly for knowledge and can easily say that I research curiosities at least an hour a day …some days two or three hours.  Since we bought camp, though I had written stories for my kids, I spend much of my “reading” time writing my own books of my experiences, children's books, etc. 

So, what brought me to write about this?  Today, I came upon a “review” for one of my books that said,

“When I first received your book, I have to admit I was quite disappointed there were no pictures.  As I come to find out, pictures would have only been a distraction.  You are a very descriptive writer.  I did not miss the pictures at all. I saw them all in your words. Your style is fluent.”  -PDT

Back five to six years ago, that review brought a quick, appreciative smile, but reading it again today, it brought more.  I’m stuck on one word in particular, “fluent”.  To me, even today, there is nothing fluent about my writing style, but others disagree.  I think I will forever consider my writing style choppy.  It was the sole reason I named my blog so aptly, “The Inept Blog” (now, The Inept Blogger).  

To this day, I cringe as I recall my early reading struggles, my struggles to be attentive and understand a boring story, and my struggles to see and read more than one word at a time, too.  I had zero patience for reading as a child which resulted in me turning 10-20 pages at a time just to finish the book and get it over with.  All that didn’t pan out so well for me in my younger years, but I am very thankful that I was introduced to Shakespeare in the 9th grade, and that teacher too!