SOMEONE NEEDS A TRIM!

KADEN VISITS THE FIRE STATION

My grandson, Kaden, is almost three years old. He was invited to visit the fire station where Ben, my son-in-law, works.

For days, all Kaden could talk about was the fire station. He had his pre-school classmates, his fellow playmates at McDonald's, and every child he encountered thrilled and excited about his upcoming trip.

Even Julianna, Kaden's 1-year-old sister, was interested - vocal, if not verbal - in her enthusiasm about going to the station

Then came the big day!

We all drove to Ben's fire station. Kaden continued his spirited conversation about the upcoming treat.

"Kaden drive the fire truck, Mommy," he told Nicole repeatedly.

"Here we are!" Nicole cried as she and Daddy, Misha, unstrapped the tots.

"There's Ben!" she yelled, as Kaden pulled her across the parking lot towards the fire house. "Yea!"

"THERE'S THE FIRE TRUCK!" she continued. "Yea!"





Kaden arrived at full roar, stopping short at Ben's feet and looking up at Ben and the HUGE fire truck.

"Wahhhh!" he screamed, hiding his face in Nicole's knees. Instantly, Julianna joined in the chorus, "Wahhh!" She clung to Misha, tears rolling down her cheeks.

All the adults stopped their breathless advance as the smiles faded into bewildered faces.

"Kaden! It's all right!," his parents said repeatedly.

Calm, soft-spoken Ben offered a friendly hello. PawPaw and Grandy tried directing Kaden's attention to the shiny red fire truck.

"Wahh!" screamed Kaden and Julianna.



We walked into the big garage housing the fire engine and ambulance. Ben offered Kaden a plastic fireman's hat.

"No! Wahhh!" Kaden yelled, hiding his face again. "No Mommy, I scared!"

After a little struggle, Misha sat in the fire truck and Kaden let himself be handed up. Julianna simmered down, now that Kaden was quiet. We all relaxed and breathed a sigh of relief as Misha held Kaden in his lap and Kaden looked around the big truck. Then, as they started to climb down, Misha (bless his little pointed head) pressed the button that activated the siren.

"WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooooooooo" bellowed from the truck.

"Wahhhh!" bellowed from Kaden. Julianna joined in.

Aren't kids fun?




The kids calmed down as I tried on Ben's equipment, which weighs TONS. Imagine wearing all that and carrying heavy hoses (or people!)


Eventually, Kaden and Julianna allowed themselves to be lifted into the truck, although Kaden admonished his dad, "Don't push the button. It's too loud. No do that."

FOOLISH FORSYTHIA

Most of us are ready, even eager for the first signs of spring after winter's barren landscape begin to pall.

It may be that this is especially true in the South, where we have very little snow to lend its eerie beauty to the colorless, seemingly lifeless land.

Because forsythia is one of the first plants to flower, I look hopefully each day for the tiny yellow bells, heralds of spring

Actually, these heralds tend to mislead us sometimes. Once it has endured a few cool days, foolish forsythia (as I call it) breaks forth at the slightest excuse.

It most commonly starts bursting onto the scene after near-balmy days in February here in Atlanta, but I have seen its bright sprays joyously blossoming as early as December.

This habit of optimistically springing into bloom endears the plant to me. Each warm day from December to March, forsythia tries again and again to proclaim "spring has come."

No matter how many times cold temperatures blight the flowering, forsythia never seems to suffer permanently, nor to become inhibited -- no matter how harsh the icy admonition.

When I see the forsythia bounding gracefully into the air like a fountain, or cascading over a wall like a golden waterfall, I am stricken, not only with it delicate, fairy-like beauty, but with its message.

Forsythia keeps offering its opinion that spring is near, that rebuffs don't really matter, and that it is worth the risk to put forth one's tender endeavors in an uncertain world.

WHAT I DID ON MY SPRING BREAK - THIRD POST

GROUNDS AT URQUHART

A DIFFERENT VIEW OF URQUHART CASTLE RUINS

URQUHART CASTLE RUIN ON LOCH NESS

A CRANNOG

HOLLY TRYING TO MAKE FIRE (AND NOT DOING TOO WELL)

HERMATIGE WATERFALL


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This is the last post of our Scotland trip. Please comment, if you like, and let me know what you thought.

We parked at the base of Craigphadrig Wood and CLIMBED UP THE HILL. Holly, bless her, sprinted gaily ahead of me. (I was beginning to hate Holly). The earthen, vitrified walls still exist, though rounded by passing ages and covered with grass. Vitrified walls, made by imbedding wood into the earthen bank and burning it, strengthened the defenses. Historians today cannot duplicate this technique completely.

Craigphadrig Rock was probably the best "ruin" for Holly's research. She lingered and walked all around the top or "rock" of Craigphadrig envisioning the fort's location and how supplies and food were transported. I enjoyed the sun, bird song, and peacefulness of the area, inhaling the strong scent of the tall pines swaying in the wind.

As we ascended to the Rock, we came upon a tree with bits of cloth and rags and even a police officer's uniform tie bound to its bare branches. We discovered this is a clootie or rag well, one of the few still actively venerated by locals seeking cures. The "rags," tied onto a tree as part of a healing ritual, struck us as strange in our modern age, but somehow belonged to the misty and mystical Craigphadrig Rock.

In Pitlochry we stayed in a Victorian house, nicely decorated, with stained glass doors and windows. Our host there, Paul, who has two daughters near Holly's age, let her borrow 2 books overnight that helped with her research. He also gave us directions and suggestions for our trip. All of the people we met were friendly and tried to help us. Scots are most hospitable when not behind the wheel.

On Saturday, we went to see Dunfallandy Stone -- an example of Pictish artwork. The family cemetery containing this stone sits on top of a hill, and this was the only time our Weather Angel failed us. We scrambled up to see Dunfallandy Stone in a chilling, blowing rain -- no pleasant "Scottish Mist" this time!

Our last touring day was busy. We visited a crannog --an artificial island with wooden palisades and buildings built in the loch on stilts. A high, peaked roof crowned the round wooden house. Our guide, Amanda, took us inside and we sat on skin-covered benches as she told us what is known and speculated about crannogs and their builders. These crannogs date from the Iron Age but were still in use in Scotland's Dark Ages.

Amanda told us the houses were built in the loch for defense reasons. In the Iron Age, an iron axe was a "treasure to be protected from thieves." Adolescent daughters were apparently routinely "stolen", so they and the livestock were kept in the crannogs overnight and when danger threatened, as well.

On a sad note, I must report that the "NeverLost" lost its mind at the airport, where we had to return it and the rental car. We raced frantically all around the Edinburgh airport, needing to turn in the car by 7:00 p.m. I suppose the proximity of the airport electronics confused our "lady" who calculated our route again and again without ever guiding us to the Hertz parking lot. We arrived (only after telephoning the return point for directions) within seconds of the closing time. And without a scratch on the car, I'm proud to say. All that steely-eyed, white-knuckled determination paid off.

It was a wonderful Spring Break and I greatly enjoyed being with Holly. Who knows whether we will ever get a chance to be together like this again?

As to the trip home, that is another long, sad story. Delta and British Airways apparently do not communicate with each other and between this and a delayed take off from Edinburgh; we missed our connection in London.

"Where are our tickets?" we asked the British Airways agent in Edinburgh.

"Oh, we cannot issue a ticket for your Delta flight from London," she replied airily. "You will not need a paper ticket. It's all done electronically. No problem."

Oh, really? Tell that to the security person who would not let us go from the 5th to the 4th terminal of Heathrow once we got to London.

"You need documentation," she explained sternly. "Don't you have a ticket or some sort of paperwork? Of course, you MUST have some documentation to go through Security."

Alas.

Well, after all, it was April Fools' Day. Enough to say that we arrived home a day late and MANY dollars short. But we did arrive and so did our luggage -- albeit a few days later.

SPRING BREAK - SECOND POST

SCENERY ON THE WAY TO GLEN COE







HOLLY ON THE MARSH AT GLEN COE (NO WOLVES IN SIGHT)


GLEN COE



BEAUTIFUL SCENERY ENROUTE

This is the second post of the trip to Scotland that Holly and I took. In a couple of days, I will post the last post of this blog. Hope you enjoy it.

The next morning, we left our B & B in the pouring rain. Happily, the weather cleared as we drove, and we entered the Highlands which boasted beautiful vistas, including sparkling white snow-capped mountains.

When we arrived in Glen Coe, we stopped at the Visitor's Center, ate lunch and visited the tiny museum. We were directed to a hiking trail near a ski center, where we walked 4 - 5 miles across a bog. The trail was an immensely rocky path which forced us to watch each step.

The hilly land rolled around the base of the snow-capped mountains. Just below winter-browned peat moss, cold water pooled and puddled, as Holly discovered when she stepped from the path and sank into the wet ground. Beside the path, a stream flowed with icy water -- snow-melt -- on this sunny, warm afternoon. As we walked higher, icicles began to adorn the sides of the stream, and, as we hiked higher, snow began to appear in patches.

We were the last hikers to leave and Holly grew concerned about being caught on the marsh in the dark, and being attacked by wolves (which have not existed in Scotland for 300 years), so we hurried along the rugged trail. In my haste, I stepped wrong, tripped and fell. Once I realized I was going to fall, I aimed myself at a patch of moss, which cushioned my fall, though it left me with wet hands and knees.

Later, as we left the B & B to go to dinner in the village, a herd of deer spotted Holly and darted over a stream and into a pasture near her. We did not see so much as a hare on our hike "nearly guaranteed to see game" but had a group of deer come right to our door! We recognized a large male, a young male, a mom and fawn, and a couple of other does. The little group stood still, with the large stag nervously keeping watch, until they realized we had nothing to feed them, then they faded silently into the dusk.

The next morning the snow caps had increased overnight, but rain poured on the B & B. The birds trilled as happily as on a warm, sunny morning. On the entire trip, we enjoyed the spring celebration of the many birds in Scotland. Rain, snow, or sun, they sang their little hearts out.

Holly tasted haggis at the Glen Coe B & B. It smelled like sausage, and Holly liked it, but could not persuade me to try any. Usually I am the adventurous one, but having read about haggis being "sheep's stomach," I just did not want to try it. Maybe next time. (Probably not).

As we neared Urquhart Castle, the rain gradually stopped. The wind blew, but we were not too cold. I began to believe that we had a Weather Angel (as well as a Driving Angel) helping us throughout the trip.

We explored the castle ruins and its grounds. Once again, I was puffing at the top of each climb. (Note to self: really, truly begin workouts . . . no, seriously!)

The castle lies north of one of the Great Glen's alcoves, jutting into the deep waters of Loch Ness. I excitedly scanned the famous loch, but no Nessie. Although a stronghold for over 1000 years, the castle ruins dated from well after the Dark Ages. But the earlier fort slept undisturbed beneath the walls. Holly wished all the other tourists away so she could envision the area as it was in 600-700 A.D.

However, later we pulled on our boots and walked through the forest near our B & B. This forest is old (representative of the one that existed in the late Iron Age). We tried to walk to Loch Ness, but the bridge was out and the Coiltie River too deep to wade. However, we enjoyed the trees, shrubs, and wild flowers which were just beginning to bloom. Here, at last, Holly could look around and imagine her characters living in a Dark Ages world.

The forest was quiet, only the susurration of the river and symphony of the birdsong disturbed the silence. As we wound our quiet way through the woods, Holly flushed a female mallard, which suddenly whirred up, followed by her mate. Holly squeaked and stumbled back, startled out of her wits. Her loving mother guffawed loudly. Later, a quail frantically flapped its way into the sky as Holly approached, causing another shriek. Then, at dinner on our last night in the Highlands, our booth was decorated with pictures of mallards and quails. It seems Holly couldn't escape her tormentors.

Our trip to Inverness (inver means river mouth in Gaelic, therefore Inverness is mouth of the Ness River) to find Craigphadrig Rock was much more pleasant than preceding trips. We rode on nice, wide-laned "carriageways", some of them "dual carriageways," like our expressways and interstate highways. Finally, I could relax and enjoy the scenery as I drove. From the white-capped mountain down to the rolling hills, spring was creeping up on Scotland. Daffodils bloomed on the lower slopes, while the yellow flowers of broom and heath brightened the roadsides. The dark green of the evergreens mixed with the hardwoods whose tender green leaves appear incandescent on cloudy days - seeming to glow from within.

We observed few cattle, but thousands of sheep and, since it was almost April, several tiny white lambs (some with black faces) trying out their new legs at their mothers' sides.

WHAT I DID ON MY SPRING BREAK

DUNADD FORT AREA, The First Site We Explored







GARDEN GNOMES

This is the story of a trip to Scotland that I took with Holly (my daughter) a couple of years ago. Because of its length, I will post it in three parts. Hope you enjoy it.




Spring Break at 60 is a little different from Spring Break at18. No wild parties for me and my 23-year-old daughter, Holly. No sun burns (although Holly did manage a sprinkle of freckles across her nose). No bikinis or hot, sandy beaches. Instead we flew to cool, rainy Scotland to complete research for a novel Holly is writing.

Undaunted by the thought of the long trans-Atlantic flight in Steerage, I mean, Economy, I also felt pretty comfortable with spending every night in a different B & B (Bed and Breakfast). But I dreaded traveling from one historical site to another, once I learned that we could not travel by train, cab, or bus. I would have to drive. In Scotland, where they drive on the wrong side of the street. Where the roads are sometimes narrow as the eye of a needle. And then people park their cars there. On both sides. Then you meet traffic!

We rented a clean little VW Golf diesel with an automatic transmission. We also rented a "NeverLost" GPS system, which worked well most of the time. Like computer driving maps, sometimes the GPS gave incorrect directions and Holly, our navigator, looked at the electronic map and argued with the "lady" who voiced the directions.

"No! That's not right. We need to turn LEFT, NOT right at that intersection!" Holly shouted at the machine.

"Are you sure?" I cried frantically in a high-pitched voice. "Quick, we're at the intersection, which way, which way?"

A couple of people blew their horns when I abruptly turned left from the right-hand lane, but I think Edinburgh drivers are just naturally rude.

Holly sometimes screamed at the GPS and called the "lady" names, but the "lady," with a cool, refined British accent remained calm, even when we took the 2nd exit in the "roundabout" instead of the 3rd. After an error, a silence ensued and then the voice intoned, "Calculating your route" and tried to get us back on track. It did seem, however (and it might have been our imagination) that, as days passed and mistakes piled up, the silence became chillier and "Calculating your route" was preceded by a just-audible sigh.

But I digress.

After a hair-raising drive from Edinburgh to Dumbarton (I kept scrubbing the "tyres" against the "kerb," trying to avoid big trucks edging into my miniscule lane), we arrived safely at our B & B. From there we walked from our B & B to Dumbarton Castle, which is on Dumbarton Rock.

Dumbarton Rock, the core of an extinct volcano, stands where the River Leven joins the River Clyde. Its recorded history goes back about 1500 years, making it the oldest recorded stronghold in Scotland. We climbed both crests of the Rock: the White Tower Crag at 240 feet above sea level, and the slightly lower Beak.

I toiled up the 557 steps of the Tower, then staggered up the rest of the grassy path to the top of the hill. I admit that I had to stop and rest once or twice. I pretended to be enthralled with the magnificent view, not wanting Holly to hear my gasping or see my heart jump right out of my chest.

The view from the peaks proved worthy of the arduous climb. This ancient volcanic cone thrusts up in splendid isolation, soaring above the low-lying lands along the two rivers as they conjoin, forming the broad Firth of Clyde. What a perfect location for forts and, later, castles! On a peninsula, almost surrounded by water, with the only land approach blocked by precipitous basalt slopes, the peaks must have been nearly impervious to attacks

On top the wind gusted and whirled around Holly, blowing her long chestnut hair across her face and whipping it away again, while she gazed and dreamed, imagining the wooden fort and village which existed in the Dark Ages.

On Wednesday, the route to Argyle followed a winding, hilly highway -- very narrow, but with beautiful scenery. As we traveled, vistas changed with the quality of light. Mists and clouds thickening and thinning hid and exposed hills and changed our perception of the scene. Long peninsulas thrust far into the sea and fjords drove deeply into mountains while waterfalls gushed from the heights and rivers danced and sparkled.

When we arrived, we put on our rain boots and wore our raincoats over padded vests. Holly also had a jacket under her raincoat to ward off the cold. Rain drizzled, but let up as we set out into the courntryside.

We found Dunadd Fort - a hill with a little rock-work left from 1000 years or so ago. Dunadd was the royal center of Dal Riata, the kingdom of the Scots. We slogged up the hill which was steep and slippery - almost continual rain keeps the area green, but muddy. Both of us were buffeted by the wind and my umbrella blew inside-out, so I closed it and faced the "Scottish Mist" (drizzle and fog) unprotected.

What a wild, Scottish view, with lowering gray skies, rain, wind, and fog. Once again, it is clear why the forts were always a hard climb - we could see for miles. On clear days, early warning of approaching enemies was assured. Tree-lined streams cut through acres of pastures. Sheep grazed peacefully against a backdrop of hills and ridges. The rugged tor towered over the plain. Huge stones alternated with tough grass on the sides of the hill.

Holly photographed the "Foot," a footprint cut into the rock where in olden days the new king placed his foot during his coronation vows. To the kings of Dal Riata, this footprint was a symbol of the king's marriage to the land, his dominion and dependence on the land for the support and nurture of his people. We also found the "Cup" a basin carved into the rock, possibly used for libations (drink offerings to gods).

Surprised when I saw the pictures that Holly had taken at this site, I wondered, "Who is the TROLL in the long raincoat, red gloves, and pink boots? Could that be me? I look like I should be under a bridge, demanding "Who is tripping across my bridge?" of Billy Goat Gruff! Or, really, I look more like a garden gnome, with a tiny head atop a gradually widening body covered by an ankle-length raincoat supported by the little pink boots.

GATOR WRANGLER

I may have mentioned that I work part-time at a nature center. I refer to myself as "The Saturday Person" at work. I answer phones, attend visitors, clean the bat cage, top off water for thirsty varmints, clean up after birthday parties, etc. I also get to help feed and care for orphaned wildlife, such as bunnies, birds, ducks, possums, whatever small animals that the staff is caring for. I enjoy working with the creatures most of all.

Recently I was allowed to remove our alligator "Flounder" from his habitat and put him into a tub to dry off before a party. The children are allowed to touch Flounder during the party as he is held behind his head and at the base of his tail. They feel the hard bones of his back (osteoderms), his smooth white tummy, and his clawed feet.

The only thing that Flounder seems to dislike is the capturing. Once he is being handled, he doesn't resist or struggle. But he does try to avoid that initial grab. I have only removed Flounder twice in my career. The first time, he just ran forward a little, then wriggled when I lifted him out. At 3 feet long he's pretty strong and getting stronger as he grows. Still, he gave me no trouble that first time.

So, I was pleased to be asked to get him out in time to dry off for the upcoming birthday party. I removed the glass end of his enclosure and he promptly darted to the back of his enclosure. When I stepped up into the habitat, Flounder dove into the water, swam under a log, settled to the bottom and closed his eyes. I could almost hear him sigh as he apparently drifted off to sleep.

I gave him a few minutes to grow bored under water (and besides don't gators have to breathe sometime?), but he remained steadfast in his hidey-hole, daring me to plunge my tender, delicate, possibly trembling hands into a couple of feet of his watery domain.

Well, I couldn't do it. So I knelt at the back of the pool and just tweaked his tail. Just as I expected, he sprang from the pool onto the side of the habitat. What I did not expect was when he discovered no glass partition there, he sprang out and against the window. I hurriedly clambered from the habitat, my sneaker catching on the Astroturf, stumbled to the window and nabbed the Houdini-esque reptile.

He didn't even put up a fight. Probably he had seen the window as a route to escape those dratted birthday parties. I thought I heard him mutter, "I can't take one more party, with sticky little fingers touching me!"

Embarrassed by the near-escape, I gingerly put the little gator into his tub and closed the lid.

I visited Flounder after the party. He looked calm, sunning himself under the heat lamps. But his green basilisk-like eyes seemed a little colder as he regarded me. And that smile of his looked pretty smug.