Rural Revolution

Is this ... a mockingbird?

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Tue, 23 Jun 2026 18:46:51 +0000

In my younger days living in California, I loved hearing mockingbirds. We left the Golden State in 1992 and moved first to Oregon and then later to Idaho, and I haven't heard a mockingbird in those decades since. Once, briefly, I heard one sing when I was down visiting my parents a few years ago in Southern California, but that's it. They simply don't live in (or rarely visit) Idaho.

Or so I thought. But for the last couple of days, we've had an unknown bird singing its absolute heart out, right in a pine tree off our deck. It's lovely to hear, but I couldn't see it.

This morning I was able to spot it and photograph it from below.

Sure looks like a mockingbird. Here's a photo from the Wikipedia page:

According to this website, mocking birds have a "transient" presence in this part of Idaho, with no breeding evidence. They are definitely more southern birds, hence why I always heard them in California. However, this website points out they are definitely native to Idaho, though far, far more frequent in the southern part of the state and certainly not breeding this far north.

Whether or not I've mid-identified this bird, I must stay it's absolutely delightful to listen to. I hope it stays.

The bird who fell upstairs

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Mon, 22 Jun 2026 14:31:42 +0000

Doubtless many of you are wondering how Lihn, our Quaker parrot, is doing since her rehoming last week.

In a nutshell, this parrot fell upstairs.

Seriously, the family (Lara, her husband and children) who took her in are nothing short of bird whisperers. Lara has a lot of experience rehabilitating parrots, some of whom have been abused, and said often she starts by simply leaving the bird in its cage for the first few weeks to get it used to its new surroundings and to understand there is no threat.

So I fully expected Lihn to spend several weeks in her cage, huddled and terrified. Wrong.

The very first morning she arrived at Lara's, Lihn was sitting on top her cage, sassing people, before flying down to the kitchen table to try and snitch a bit of granola from Lara's son's breakfast plate. She sent a video, from which Younger Daughter took a screenshot.

Lihn was due for a beak trimming. Normally Lara would take care of this herself, but since it was Lihn's first day in her new home, Lara opted to bring Lihn to the vet to have it done (so any "anger" for this indignity would be on the vet, not Lara, so early in their acquaintance). Lihn actually takes beak trims without a problem, so that was fine. On the way back home, Lihn was loose in Lara's car, and her daughter was scratching Lihn's head. (All photos are cropped to edit out faces.)

Younger Daughter says this is one of her favorite photos so far, since a bird must really trust someone to allow its head to be scratched.

Lihn has also been hanging around Lara's shoulder a lot, getting affection. Again, this is remarkable. Anytime we allowed Lihn on our shoulder, she would try to chew our earlobes off. But with Lara? She's an angel.

And again:

Back on the kitchen table, looking interested in another kid's oatmeal.

So yes, Lihn fell upstairs and is now living with a remarkable family. Younger Daughter and I couldn't be happier about it.

Maggie has popped at last!

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Fri, 19 Jun 2026 16:23:54 +0000

Our Jersey cow Maggie was officially due last Friday. Each and every morning, armed with my camera, I carefully checked her before releasing the cows from the corral. And each and every morning ... zip, zilch, nada, nothing.

Yesterday morning, Don and I were getting ready to do a fencing project. I started walking across the yard and, as always, glanced up to gauge Maggie's posture (cows adopt a sort of hunched position when in labor). She looked like she was peacefully grazing ... except she had a long strand hanging from her backside.

I turned and walked back into the house. "Change of plan," I announced. "Let's go get Maggie's calf instead." The little sneak had managed to conceal her early labor when I released her and the other animals from the corral into the pasture, and then had the audacity to have her calf without my being able to watch.

Dragging the gorilla cart, Don, Younger Daughter, and I all trooped up into the pasture to fetch Maggie and her newborn back into the corral.

The calf had just been dropped and was still flat on its side, and very wet with the birth fluids.

Loading the calf was a three-person effort: One person to hold the cart steady in its "dump truck" position, and two people to shove and push the slippery-wet calf into the cart. (By the time we were finished, both Younger Daughter and I were soaked with placental fluids and would require a full-body change of clothes and a shower.)

After the calf was in the cart, I pulled while Don kept the calf from trying to climb to its feet, and Younger Daughter shooed the other animals from following us out the gate. It was a steep downhill drop from the pasture to the driveway, then level-flat as we pushed/pulled the cart around to the back of the barn into the corral. Maggie trotted on our heels, agitated but not aggressive. (Thank God for sweet Jersey cow dispositions!)

Once in the corral, we gently dumped the calf out of the cart to the ground, and let Maggie continue licking her baby dry.

Meanwhile the other animals had come around through the gate to see the new calf. This is Stormy, the calf's older sister, meeting the newcomer.

And the baby is a girl! Back when we had Maggie bred by AI (artificial insemination), the breeder was actually able to select for a heifer for a slight increase in price. She emphasized the gender was not guaranteed, but of all the times she's selected for one or the other gender, she's been successful. We'll have to let her know she succeeded again.

This is our first purebred Jersey calf, so we're pretty jazzed. In years past, all our calves were either purebred Dexter, Jersey/Dexter crosses, or Jersey/Angus crosses.

Maggie is an experienced mama now, so we had no concerns about her maternal care. However we wanted to make sure the calf was nursing as soon as possible to get colostrum.

Meanwhile, she had a long strand of mucous hanging from her backside that was dragging on the ground and tangling around her legs. I took a pair of scissors and snipped off a length.

It took the baby some time to get to her feet. She didn't seem in any hurry.

We left the animals to calm down a bit and let nature take its course. An hour or so later, we checked and saw the calf was standing, though very unsteadily, and blundering around trying to find a teat.

She tried the usual suspects: Maggie's armpit, her sister's leg, the steer's nose, that kind of thing. (It takes a calf a while to figure out where the udder is located ... and on what animal.) The calf didn't quite have her footing, either. At one point, trying to master the three-inch lip on the threshold of the barn door, she went splat.

"What just happened?"

Maggie wasn't much help during this process because she was swishing around in agitation as she labored to pass the placenta.

I went to fill up the feed bins with hay, since the animals were confined to the corral, and by the time I was finished, Maggie had passed the placenta.

Then, in true bovine fashion, she proceeded to (try to) eat it. This is normal behavior for cows, and doubtless is an instinctive technique meant to prevent drawing in predators. Maggie slurped and chewed and chewed and slurped, but wasn't making much progress.

After about fifteen minutes, I grabbed a wheelbarrow and a pitchfork, and scooped up the placenta. Maggie seemed vastly relieved to be excused from this duty.

I decided to run the placenta down to the county dumpsters (located a few miles away) rather than trying to bury it somewhere. I invited Younger Daughter to come with me, and she went to put on some shoes and use the bathroom before departing.

"I'm going to go load the placenta into the car," I called to her through the bathroom door.

"That is SUCH weird sentence to hear," she shouted back.

Toward evening, Younger Daughter and I went to check on the animals and saw both mother and baby were resting, doubtless exhausted from their ordeal.

I was mildly concerned because I had not yet seen the baby successfully nurse, and I rummaged around in our supplies for a rubber teat in case I needed to milk out some of the colostrum and bottle-feed the baby. The calf was still blundering around investigating armpits and legs without locating the correct spot.

So YD and I collaborated to get her to feed. At a point when she was kinda in the right neighborhood of the udder, YD pushed the calf gently from behind while I guided her mouth toward the teat. Aha! Success!

With a belly full of warm colostrum, within an hour she began doing the cute little skippy-hops of a healthy calf as she tried out her legs.

"Hi Mom! Whatcha doing?"

Later she settled in for the night among her new herd-mates.

So all is right in our little bovine world.

A new home for Lihn

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Wed, 17 Jun 2026 22:10:31 +0000

Most readers are familiar with Younger Daughter's Quaker parrot, Lihn. Today, Lihn went to a new home.

This was clearly a difficult decision for all of us, and requires some explanation.

YD got Lihn when she (Younger Daughter) was sixteen years old, an excellent argument why parents shouldn't let teenagers get a long-lived pet. I sorta inherited Lihn when YD left for the Navy, and for the next nine years I was her parrot mom. We got along fine.

However over the last year and a half, Lihn's behavior has been going south. This may or may not have been triggered by my two-week absence in March/April of 2025 when I traveled down to help my dad transition my mom into a nursing home. Whatever the reason, Lihn started feather-plucking.

Anyone who has owned a parrot understands the severity and complexity of feather-plucking behavior. It got increasingly worse. Our local vets (who are in all other respects excellent animal doctors) don't have much experience with parrots, so they urged me to make an appointment with the Washington State University Veterinary Teaching Hospital in Pullman, Washington. Unfortunately the earliest appointment I could get was in November of 2025, so poor Lihn had to endure several months of waiting. During this time I also took an additional trip to see my parents, which may or may not have compounded the issue.

The day of the vet appointment finally arrived, and what I didn't realize was that they planned to keep Lihn overnight for comprehensive testing. This meant a three-hour drive to the vet, a three-hour drive back home without Lihn, then another six-hour round trip the next day to pick her up, and then another six-hour round trip the next week for a follow-up appointment. The conclusion: Undetermined health issues, though they did say she had some arthritis in one foot. (They also determined SHE is actually a HE, but since we've been referring to Lihn as a "she" for the past twelve years, it's not an easy habit to break.)

Lihn was prescribed two types of medication, an anti-inflammatory and a pain reliever. Essentially she will need to be on this medication for the rest of her life. She did a lot better behavior-wise with the pain meds, but she never quite recovered her previously perky personality.

It was about this time (January of this year) that YD began her transition out of the Navy. She was able to land a job on the West Coast, but she is nowhere near in a position to take Lihn with her. For one thing, YD will be at work all day long, which would leave Lihn by herself for the majority of her waking hours. And two, YD's position will require her to be at sea twice a year; once for about a week, and a second time for anywhere from five to six weeks. So Lihn, it seemed, had a permanent home with us.

So YD proposed the idea of rehoming Lihn. At first I was opposed to this, feeling like a failure as a parrot mom and also concerned that wrenching Lihn from the only caregiver she's ever known could backfire, but gradually I saw the wisdom of her logic. Although the initial transition would be difficult, Lihn would conceivably thrive under the care of someone with a natural affinity for parrot psychology and behavior.

With this in mind, YD started her research. There are loads of people willing to take in rehomed parrots, but sadly the majority of them are bird flippers, bird hoarders, or other examples of abusive situations. The thought of putting Lihn in such a cruel placement almost gave me an anxiety attack.

Finally YD connected with two women as possible rehoming candidates. Both had sterling reputations and references. However one woman was having health issues and required some major surgery over the summer, so YD went with the other woman (whose name is Lara), who lives near Boise. Lara has comprehensive experience in rehabilitating birds both physically and psychologically, and felt confident she could nurse Lihn back to her previously healthy and perky self.

For the past week, we've known Lara was coming today (Wednesday), and YD and I have been in something of a funk at the thought of Lihn going away, even though we knew it was in her best interest.

Lara arrived this morning, and immediately YD knew she had made the right choice. Lara was a walking encyclopedia of parrot care. She has a stable home life and is also a stay-at-home mom with children who are respectful of pets. And my goodness, does she know her parrots.

And so, after an hour-and-half visit, we bundled Lihn into her travel cage, then transported her large cage with its stand into Lara's car, along with surplus food, toys, medicine, and other paraphernalia. (I also sent Lara home with about ten pounds of frozen blueberries from last year's crop as a thank-you.)

And then Lara drove away, and Lihn was gone.

Yeah yeah, we know it was the best thing for her, but I'll confess my eyes are stinging as I write this. Lihn's departure leaves both a physical and an emotional hole in our home.

Perhaps it's fitting that there was a single feather on the floor where her cage once stood.

Lara promises to keep us posted on Lihn's progress. If for some reason the rehoming placement doesn't work out, we will take Lihn back ... but Lara sounded extremely confident that wouldn't be necessary.

So yeah, YD did the absolutely right thing in finding someone like Lara to take over the job. But it was still a tough decision.

Younger Daughter is home!

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sun, 14 Jun 2026 15:06:53 +0000

Younger Daughter is home! She hasn't been here in over three years. While I've had the chance to see her more frequently (trip to see my parents, trip to Italy), Don hasn't had the chance, so as you can imagine it's been a happy reunion. Older Daughter is coming in tomorrow as well, so it will be the first time the whole family has been together in a long, long time.

YD is now officially (and honorably) separated from the Navy. She flew stateside on June 8 straight into Southern California to spend a few days with her grandparents, and then flew to Idaho today.

We've spent the last couple weeks turning Older Daughter's room into a guest bedroom. The couch is Older Daughter's, but she couldn't take it with her when she moved out, so we're using it for the moment.

YD will stay with us a few days, then drive to the west coast city where her new job is located. She needs to find an apartment, so that's her primary goal. She has a short list of possible places which she'll look over. Then she'll come back and spend a few more days with us.

Our chick has (temporarily) returned to the nest!

Ready to pop

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sat, 13 Jun 2026 01:08:45 +0000

For the last few days, we've been keeping a sharp eye on Maggie. That's because she's ready to pop.

Seriously, she was bred on Sept. 8, so according to an online gestation calculator, that means her due date is tomorrow (Saturday, June 13). Now of course, as with humans, due dates for cows are merely suggestions, so we don't know precisely when she'll go into labor.

A few days ago, we pulled the animals off the big pasture and released them into the lower pasture, where we could keep closer tabs on them. Last night, when we gave them their evening grain and confined them to the corral (per our usual routine), I checked Maggie before bedtime and noticed, by flashlight, that she was swishing her tail in agitation. That is often a sign of early labor, and so I got up at 4 am this morning (barely light), fully expecting to find a calf on the ground.

No such luck. Today, we released the animals into the very small pasture just around the house where we could watch Maggie closely and scoot her into the corral if need be. Nothing doing. She grazed and chewed her cud all day with nary a care.

But she's huge, and I'm sure just as anxious to have her calf as I am. Stand by for news!

Older Daughter's new digs

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Tue, 09 Jun 2026 23:32:00 +0000

Older Daughter has been living in her new digs – a studio apartment in an older building – for over a month now.

A month is enough time to figure out whether you really like a place or not. And I must say, Older Daughter stinkin' loves this studio.

Except for the stairs.

(We actually gifted her with a three-wheeled grocery stair-climbing cart popular in places like New York City to make the trek up those stairs easier when carrying loads.)

But aside from that, she's happy as a clam. There is a lot to see from her massive ten-foot-wide window, and a lot of things to do in the immediate area.

As with any relocation, the first couple weeks were rough. Where to put everything? What to keep, what to donate? How does such-and-such fit into this new space? Arrgghh!

But then, gradually, order came from chaos. And then comfort came from order. Next thing you know, she has a cozy home.

Also, Frumpkin ("The cat who fell upstairs") is also settling in, and has claimed one of Older Daughter's thrifted chairs as his new throne.

I mean ... lord of his domain, am I right?

She says the kitchen is one of the nicest aspects of the studio. It's spacious and has loads of storage. Older Daughter has become something of a gourmet cook, so having adequate space to prepare nice meals is a bonus.

Here she made a lemon-blueberry loaf.

She has a desk for her computer. This will become especially needed when her coursework starts.

And that window simply dominates the space. It's stunning.

Here's what it looks like from the outside.

So yes, her new digs are wonderful. She's so pleased that she actually baked some cookies and brought them to the property management's office to express her satisfaction. If all goes well, she'll be living here for the duration of her schooling ... and maybe even beyond, if she ends up getting a local job after graduation.

So for now, she's settled in.

Golden-hour photography

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Mon, 08 Jun 2026 12:56:34 +0000

The golden hour, as most people know, is the time of evening when the sun is very flattering for photography. The same can be applied to early morning, too. Over the last few days, I've been engaging in a little golden-hour photography.

Here is some vegetation in the early morning after a previous evening of rain.

The rain caused early-morning fog to creep up the valley.

Grass in bloom. No wonder Don's allergies have been kicking up.

How many times do we ignore these minute, miniature wonders?

In the evening, I took some photos of blooms and grasses, but it was actually a bit too early for the classic golden hour.

Still, this is why I try to keep my camera on me whenever possible.

My latest book hit the Publisher's Weekly Bestseller List!

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Fri, 05 Jun 2026 16:48:53 +0000

My latest Amish Inspirational, "The Amish Nanny's Marriage Offer," hit #3 on the June 8 Publishers Weekly Bestseller List!

Here's the cover:

Here's the backcover blurb:

Searching for a safe new life, she never imagined she’d lose her heart
Fleeing Pennsylvania with her son, Amish widow Winifred Amman is desperate to escape the man her family is pushing her to marry. In the wilds of Montana, she finds a job caring for the daughter of widower Seth Martin. The brooding furniture maker has given up on love. But when Winifred asks for his help, he agrees to pose as her fiancé. Soon their pretend courtship starts to feel all too real. When her unwanted suitor comes to claim Winifred, her bond with Seth is tested. Will fear hold them back from a chance at a new beginning?

I've been watching the stats on Amazon. Yesterday they were decent:

Today they were better:

Please help push the stats higher! The book is available through Amazon and Harlequin.

UPDATE: It's working! Look at the numbers below as of Saturday. Thank you!

Yep, shedding

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Wed, 03 Jun 2026 15:04:33 +0000

We're suddenly seeing a lot of snakes around here. Yesterday I walked across our lawn, and a small and swift snake (no idea what kind, except clearly it wasn't a rattlesnake) slipped away ahead of me.

A day before that, we were walking Darcy on the road below our house and saw a snake lying in the sun.

We made sure to scoot it off the road so it wouldn't get run over.

After Don found those two snakes on a pile of lumber the other day, we noticed one of the snakes had "blue" eyes. He said it was a sign the snake was about to shed.

This blue-eyed snake ducked itself it a slot between some boards.

We joked that the next time Don needed a 2x6, he'd find a snakeskin. Sure enough, yesterday he came in holding a fragile and perfect snakeskin.

The level of detail on snakeskins never fails to amaze me.

Nature is amazing.

$28 lunches?

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Tue, 02 Jun 2026 15:53:53 +0000

Now that Older Daughter is no longer living with us, I'm rediscovering my cooking skills. (For the duration of the time she was staying with us, Older Daughter's "rent" was cooking, and man was she good at it!) Recently I found a nice recipe online called "Sweet Chili Rice Bowls" and decided to give it a go. It was delicious, so the other day I made a much larger batch so Don and I would have several days' worth of meals.

Here are the ingredients:

• 1 pound boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite-sized pieces
• 1 cup jasmine rice
• 2 tablespoons vegetable oil
• 1 cup broccoli florets
• 1 red bell pepper, sliced
• 1⁄4 cup sweet chili sauce
• 2 tablespoons soy sauce
• 1 tablespoon rice vinegar
• 2 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 teaspoon grated ginger
• 2 green onions, chopped
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Sesame seeds for garnish

I made a few changes to accommodate what ingredients we had on hand. I used canned chicken instead of uncooked chicken. I didn't have any red bell peppers, so I chopped up an onion. I used apple cider vinegar instead of rice vinegar.

However I would like to point out that every single ingredient (with the exception of the chopped garlic, which I canned last fall) is store-bought, not home-grown. I didn't make the vinegar, or the soy sauce, or the sweet chili sauce. I didn't grow the ground ginger or even the broccoli or onion (too early in the season). The chicken was also not home-grown. Yep, all store-bought. Keep that in mind for a bit.

Making the dish is easy. While the rice cooked, I drained the canned chicken...

...then added it to a pot with some olive oil (another store-bought ingredient). Then I chopped an onion and some broccoli...

...and added it to the chicken.

Since the chicken was already cooked, all I had to do was soften the broccoli and onions a bit. I covered the pot for a few minutes to let steam do its job, then uncovered and kinda stir-fried the mix.

Then I added all the spices and sauces.

This portion of the dish was ready before the rice was finished cooking, so when the rice was done, I dumped the stir-fry part into the rice and mixed everything up.

It's not fancy, but it's hearty, filling, and provides enough for at least six meals (three days for two people).

Now let's break down the costs a bit. Since I tend to buy some things in bulk (notably chicken breasts which I can up, as well as rice in 50-lb. bags), let's bring the prices up to reflect current grocery-store costs for the triple batch I made. For convenience's sake, I'll use the Walmart check-a-price website, even though I don't shop at Walmart since it's so far away:

• 2 pounds boneless, skinless chicken breasts, cut into bite-sized pieces (about $8)
• 4 cups jasmine rice (about $3.22)
• 6 tablespoons olive oil (about $2)
• 2 cup broccoli florets (about $1.25)
• 1 onion, chopped (about $0.75)
• 1 cup sweet chili sauce (about $1.81)
• 1/2 cup soy sauce (about $1)
• 2 tablespoon apple cider vinegar ($0.07)
• 2 tablespoons chopped garlic ($0.19)
• 1 teaspoon ground ginger ($0.05)
• Salt and pepper to taste ($0.05)
• Sesame seeds for garnish ($0.05)

These ingredients add up to $18.44. From this enormous batch I made, I estimate we'll get at least six meals (three meals apiece) for Don and I, which comes out to about $3.07 per meal. Understand, however, that since we buy so many things in bulk, the actual cost is a whole lot less.

Now why, you may ask, did I go through all the trouble to break down this particular meal? Two reasons. One, it consists of store-bought (as opposed to farm-grown) ingredients). Not everyone has the benefit of a homestead to supplement their diet, so realistically most people get their food from the grocery store. And two, it illustrates how inexpensive it is to create meals at home, even for people (like me) who are less-than-enthusiastic cooks.

This whole exercise came about because of an opinion piece I read recently by someone named Ward Clark entitled "Young People Drowning in Food Costs? Try Boomer-Style Frugality."

Mr. Clark wrote, "It's a bit frustrating, and not just for us aging Boomers, to see young people whining about the cost of eating, and then to learn that they are getting much of their food from Uber Eats or DoorDash."

He then profiled a Twitter (X) post in which a young person complained, "Lunch just costs $28 now. Are they not supposed to eat?" To this, a Boomer named Joel Berry jumped in and broke down the cost of a healthy homemade lunch made with store-bought ingredients (wheat bread, deli turkey, cheddar, condiment of choice, apple, hard-boiled egg, carrot sticks, tap water) for a grand total of $2.05 and concluded by saying, "You can do this."

As of the publication of Mr. Clark's opinion piece, Joel Berry's X post had received 9.3 million views, most of which presumably applauded his Boomer frugality. Conclusion: Don't gripe about $28 lunches when there are far more inexpensive alternatives, none of which take much by way of kitchen skills.

Does it seems a lot of younger people are deliberately sabotaging their own finances beyond repair through spectacularly bad decisions and behaviors, like regularly having $28 lunches instead of $2 lunches? Maybe it's because, as journalist and technology columnist Taylor Lorenz pointed out, DoorDash has become a "necessity" because Zoomers lack the "capacity" to cook. But are Zoomers incapable of making a sandwich? For some people, that $28 is a week's worth of groceries.

It took me about fifteen minutes to throw together those rice bowls, which provided enough food to last both of us for three meals. And don't forget that turkey sandwich and veggies lunch recipe. If you're incapable of pulling together a lunch that simple, then you have more serious problems than you realize.

My "Boomer" advice to young people is this: Learn to cook. Or at least, learn to make a sandwich. Your future self will thank you.

Spring snakes

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sun, 31 May 2026 22:00:33 +0000

Don came trotting into the house the other day. "Grab your camera," he said. "And hurry."

Whenever he suggests something like this, I don't argue. I grabbed my camera and hurried.

He had been working on a project which required the use of a couple of 2x6s, a pile of which we have stacked and tarped in the driveway. He pulled back the tarp just enough to pull out a couple of boards, but what he saw made him come get me and the camera.

Two racer snakes – good sized ones – were curled up on the boards, looking annoyed at the disturbance.

I'm guessing they were both about two feet long.

The morning was kind of chilly, so the snakes were rather sluggish. This allowed us a few moments to admire them.

I was snapping photos fairly quickly so they're not in the best focus, but one snake looked like it was blind (blue eyes). Either the camera was playing tricks with the lighting, or (Don's suggestion) it might have been in the beginning stages of shedding.

Despite the presence of the snakes, Don needed his boards; so he carefully started pulling them out of the pile, far enough away from the snakes so as not to disturb them. Despite this, they began moving.

Zooming in on that one snake ... yep, blue eyes, not a trick of the light. Yep, shedding.

The blue-eyed snake tried to crawl into a space between the boards as Don pulled one out above it. No worries, that was the last board he needed. We re-tarped the wood and left the snakes alone to continue their task of keeping mice under control.

Although it wouldn't surprise me to find a snakeskin next time we need a 2x6.

The season of roses

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sun, 31 May 2026 00:16:17 +0000

The wild roses are in full bloom.

As with everything else this year after the freakishly mild winter we had, they're a couple of weeks early.

But that's okay.

Whatever time of year they bloom, they're beautiful.

Magic evaporating rain

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Thu, 28 May 2026 19:22:39 +0000

I checked our weather report at about 12:10 pm this afternoon and was startled to see this dramatic prediction:

Holy cow, half an inch of rain within the span of about an hour! Chaos! Batten down the hatches! Alert the media!

Fortunately we did none of that. Instead I checked the identical weather report about ten minutes later and saw this:

Yawn, ho hum. Another magic evaporating rain prediction.

(Of course, the joke is on me if the original prediction actually comes to pass....)

UPDATE: Whelp ... I stand corrected. A massive storm cell is, even as I write this, right overhead and dropping furious rain on us. Lightning is flashing and thunder is echoing.

We scrambled to get the cows under cover before it hit. I'm grateful we have barn space enough for everyone.

By the time it passes, it could easily total out to half an inch. I would like to formally apologize to the weather people for doubting their prediction.

A happy family

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Wed, 27 May 2026 14:41:32 +0000

Our house phone went on the fritz last Thursday. Naturally such things always happen right ahead of holiday weekends, right? At least it meant for a very quiet and undisturbed weekend, since no one could call us.

We relied on our "dumb" flip phone (we don't have smart phones) to call the phone company and troubleshoot the issue. After going through the usual suggestions, the phone company representative concluded we needed a new modem, and she assured us it would arrive by the Tuesday after Memorial Day, which in fact it did.

We needed to talk with another phone company representative to walk us through the process of replacing the sim card, etc. Once she understood we couldn't receive texts (remember, no smart phones), she was able to confirm our account and all proceeded without a problem.

But an interesting thing happened. During the process, both Don and I were either on the phone with the representative, or trading the phone back and forth to read the tiny little numbers on the sim card, and then testing the phone by sending and receiving calls. While I was on the flip phone with the representative, Don called Older Daughter on the house phone to confirm calls could go through.

Don's phone call to Older Daughter was plainly audible to the phone rep I had on the other end of the flip phone. This rep spoke flawless English, but she was clearly foreign (my guess: Southeast Asian). Throughout our interaction, she was nothing but polite, kind, and professional, but then she broke character to say something personal. "It sounds like you have a very happy family," she observed. "I hope you understand how blessed you are."

This out-of-the-blue observation startled me for some reason. I have no idea what this lady hears or experiences on a daily basis, but she must talk to all kinds of customers. I just found it interesting that she would make such an observation seemingly from nowhere.

But neither am I arguing. We are a happy family, and we do understand how blessed we are. I hope this phone rep, whoever she is, is equally blessed.

Watch out for baby humans

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Tue, 26 May 2026 04:37:05 +0000

No photos, sorry, so you'll have to use your imagination.

Our pastor and his wife dropped in for a visit the other day. We're always happy to see them, and their two-year-old son "G" is a joy to be around.

But, being a toddler, G got restless with all the adult conversation, so after a while Mrs. Pastor and I took him outside to show him the cows. We figured he'd be fascinated by the bovines since he's never seen any such animals up close before.

I forgot to consider, however, that the cows had never seen a baby human up close before, either.

I mean seriously, none of them had ever seen a child, much less a toddler. They stared at G, enraptured.

I hitched G up on to my hip and carried him through the gate to where all three animals were staring at him intensely. G was quiet and very well-behaved, but it made no difference to the cows. If we tried walking up to one of them, they dodged away.

Even our steer, Romeo, backed up stiff-legged when I tried to get G close enough to pet him. Maggie scooted away when we got too close. These are animals, you understand, who are always up for a pat on the rump or a scratch on the chin. Not this time.

Watch out for those baby humans. They can be scary, apparently.

As it turned out, G was far more fascinated by the tractor rather than the cows. He climbed right up into the seat and spent the next twenty minutes vroom-vrooming over the steering wheel. He's all boy, that kid.

Memorial Day

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Mon, 25 May 2026 13:35:24 +0000

As I often do on Memorial Day, I like to draw your attention to a set of remarkable photos taken a few years ago by a reader (Katie) and her husband, who were formerly stationed in Germany. Katie learned that Don's uncle, Donald Sowers, who was killed in World War II, was buried in Ardennes American Cemetery in Liege, Belgium. She and her family visited the cemetery and sent these photos. (The entire collection can be seen here. Go look at them. They're remarkable.)

Later, a reader named Kathy left the following moving comment on that blog post I shared:

I searched for 2 years to find my mother's first husband Harold Norris, killed 4/4/44 @ 2:04 PM over Romania. I received a photo of his grave from Belgium and walked over to my mother's home and said, "Mom, where is Harold buried?" She said, "New Jersey". I said, "Mom, sit down, we need to talk."

Her mouth dropped open when she learned that her first husband was buried in Belgium! He has been there for (then) 65 years. All I started with was his purple heart, his name and service number. It has lead me down a path filled with new compassionate friends and a new understanding of the word sacrifice. Harold was an airman, navigator and top turret gunner. His plane the Miasis Dragon was shot down after delivering a fatal blow to an oil refinery in Bucharest Romania. The plane was hit at the waist by a land-to-air missile. The plane nose dipped, the pilot pulled it up, then it went nose-over-tail to the earth in a fireball. 4 crew were "carbonized" and were buried together in one grave by Romanian Monks. Later, in 1949, with dental records my mother provided, the US was able to locate his remains from the others and he was buried for the 9th and final time in Ardennes. The other 3 airmen are still together buried in the US.

One of the beautiful things I noticed was that each man's life is symbolized with a marble cross. They all worked and sacrificed as a group and from above, all of their individual crosses make up a larger cross. This collective larger cross can only be seen by people in airplanes and God. 3/5ths of the graves hold the remains from airmen who lost their lives....it is to those who fly that the larger cross is visible...a beautiful way to honor them.

The other thing I learned in 2010: the people of Belgium, France and other countries meet and honor our heroes. At Ardennes in 2010, there was approximately 100,000 people present, not many were from the USA. It seems that in life, we considered these men to belong to us, but in their death, the European people consider that these men belong to them, whom they thank and honor every year. Most graves have been adopted. Harold's grave was adopted many years ago and now the lady who adopted his grave is teaching her young grand daughter to care for it. She obviously does not want her grand daughter to forget the gratitude she has for the men who lost their lives saving hers.

I wrote to a man who was age 7 when the bombs were falling on to his town. He was scared and saw more than a 7-year-old should see. He remembers the American forces and he remembers liberation. For those who know what happened, who saw the cruelty and oppression, who had no hope, our US Military saved them, their children and their grand children. The maximum gift was given, freedom was restored at a great price, those receiving the gift are grateful....and other airmen and God can see their collective cross, a memorial for their sacrifice, from the air. This has put many things in perspective for me...I hope it will for you too. --Kathy

_______________________________

This is an essay Don wrote many years ago in tribute to his fallen uncle:

Forever Young

I don't know how he died, really. No one does, since everyone who was with him died at more or less the same time.

I'll bet he was afraid. I would have been.

It must have been hell on earth – above earth to be exact. A booming, banging, grinding, shaking, shattering horror. Especially it must have been tough on him, hanging as he was below the belly of a crippled plane, a bubble of glass exposed to the flak and the fire from enemy aircraft. A tasty and too-visible target.

His B-24 Liberator was powerful, true. But it was also lightly armored and easily damaged in combat. When damaged, the B-24 often lost the electrical power needed to rotate its gun turrets, and the gunners would have to hand-crank their turrets around, trying to follow the enemy planes.

Too slow. Too slow.

He was probably the youngest man on board. He was certainly the lowest-ranking member of the ten men who made up the crew. That first day of August in 1943, he'd only been in the Army Air Corp for a year and a half. He'd only been overseas for six months. He was 19 years old. He came from a farming family that lived in a very small town in Kansas. He had one sister, two brothers, and two very worried parents.

He was assigned to 98BG, a bomber group stationed out of Benghazi, Libya. His mission that day? In coordination with 178 bombers and 1,700 crew members, the 98BG was to attack and destroy the oil refineries at Ploesti, Romania. These facilities provided the Third Reich with one-third of its fuel … and the Nazis were very hungry for fuel in the waning days of 1943.

The oil refineries at Ploesti were protected with massive anti-aircraft batteries and hundreds of German and Romanian fighter planes. The distance traveled by the Allied bombers meant that no fighter protection could attend them. They were alone.

"Fire over Ploesti" by Roy Grinnell

It was a tremendous undertaking, a gamble of men and machines desperately needed for the war effort. A 2,400 mile, eighteen hour trip there and back again, with only a half-hour of available time over the target.

And in the end, for over 500 airmen and 52 bombers, there was no going home.

They say he's buried at a cemetery near Liege, Belgium. Maybe he is, maybe he isn't. The records show that his B-24 was shot down over the refinery, but that it happened before the crew could disgorge the plane's 8000-pound payload of high explosives. And the B-24 Liberator was well known for burning merrily when it crashed.

But his name is on one of the white crosses standing in formation at the lovingly well-tended cemetery.

His parents back in Kansas received the medals that he was awarded posthumously at a ceremony, probably one of many such ceremonies on that same day. The medals were: a Distinguished Flying Cross, a Purple Heart, and the Air Medal with three oak leaf clusters.

Both his brothers eventually went to war as well. One went as another tail gunner, the other as a pilot. His younger sister stayed home, grieving for the older brother she would never see again on this side.

Eventually she married my father.

The parents, the brothers, and the sister passed away some time ago. There is now no one who can tell me anything more about Donald Phillip Sowers – Sargent, United States Army Air Corp. The uncle I never knew and whose name I share.

Donald Philip Sowers never woke to the face of his bride on the day after his wedding. He never paced the floor late at night singing softly to an infant daughter who just couldn't sleep. He never got to hold his child's hand the last time she needed, or wanted, help to cross a street. He never felt the aches and pains of a long life, well lived. And well loved.

But I will remember him and so will my children. If you've taken the time to read this, tip a glass in his name and remember him. And all the other lost brothers and sisters as well.

Think of the things he missed, for the things you have.

Donald Philip Sowers died fighting the greatest evil of our time – a young man of 19 who will never grow old.

_______________________________

A mighty "thank you" to our past and present veterans, whose sacrifices too many of us are willing to overlook, dismiss, or forget.

Baby fruit

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sat, 23 May 2026 20:56:50 +0000

After an explosive season of blossoms from plums, apples, and other fruit, we're well on our way toward a bumper crop this season.

I photographed two apple trees in our driveway when they were in full bloom. These pictures were taken on May 1.

The flowers were thick with pollinators – honeybees as well as wild bees, various types of flies, and who knows what else. All I know is we could stand under these trees and listen to the loud humming of all the various insects.

Can you see the honeybee (lower center) in this photo?

As a result of all this insect industry, the fruit is beginning to set. I went around a couple days ago and photographed some of the baby fruit we have so far.

I started with the four beds of strawberries in the garden.

These are ever-bearing varieties, not June-bearing, but the first wave of fruit will also ripen in June.

The two apple trees, whose blossoms were shown at the top of the post, are now busy producing fruit.

Lots and lots of baby apples.

We have a massive plum tree in our driveway. Last summer, I photographed it when it was heavy-laden with fruit.

It looks like this year, while perhaps not matching last year in terms of sheer volume, will still be highly productive.

Our older apple trees, the ones we had professionally pruned a few years ago, are also producing heavily. A few weeks ago, they had lots of blossoms.

Now they have lots of baby apples.

Of the four (different kinds of) peach trees we planted a few years ago, all are thriving, though two are significantly bigger than the others.

But all four are producing fruit, so much so that I may have to thin some out lest they get too heavy for the branches. Peaches are, hands down, my all-time favorite fruit, so it's gratifying to see a hearty crop.

The blueberries spent the last few weeks blossoming heavily.

After last year's bumper crop of 92.5 lbs., I'm braced to get even more this year.

The fruit-set is very heavy. Normally I start picking around the end of June, with the harvest lasting until very early September.

That's all the baby fruit we have around us at the moment. The other major fruit category around here – blackberries – won't flower until mid-summer and won't be ready to pick until last August or early September.

Seasons of bounty!

Baby robins

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Wed, 20 May 2026 16:13:04 +0000

This is the time of year baby robins are everywhere, including our yard.

They're at that clumsy, adorable stage where they can fly – sorta – but can't quite feed themselves. As a result, the parent robins hop all over the yard hunting for worms, which they stuff into their twittering and insatiable offsprings' gullets.

Watching adult robins hunt for worms is fun. They hunt by sight, sound, and feel. The most classic pose is head cocked, aiming one eye and one ear toward the ground, then pouncing and pulling the worm from its hole.

A few days ago I watched an adult use this technique and then seized and tried to pull out a l-o-o-o-o-n-g worm. I'm talking five or six inches long. It tugged and tugged at the annelid until finally it snapped free. Then it was tasked with stuffing this enormous meal down the throat of one of its chicks. Let's just say it took the fledgling quite a while to gulp that monster down ... but gulp it it did.

Spring in the country.

An eventful week

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sun, 17 May 2026 18:37:29 +0000

We've had one of those weeks where things have happened, both big and small.

With Older Daughter now living in her new apartment, I decided it was time to deep-clean the refrigerator. She's the gourmet cook in the family, so when she left, she took all her sauces and specialty spices with her. As a result, the fridge is now comically empty.

In cleaning out the refrigerator's freezer, I came across a bunch of random cuts of beef taking up space. I ended up throwing them all in the slow cooker and turning it into "zesty orange beef." With just the two of us, we've been eating off this for days now.

By the way, Older Daughter stinkin' loves her new apartment. After a few days, Frumpkin (her cat) also settled in and has adopted one particular chair as his very own.

Older Daughter is so pleased with this apartment, in fact, that she hopes to stay there for the next four years, the duration of her schooling to become a nurse.

Last Saturday, our church had its annual deep-clean work party. Don's job was to build a child-proof gate and barrier across a dangerous four-foot drop to a tiny basement area where the church's heater is located. This drop-off is right off the fellowship hall, which is in constant use. Our church building is about 125 years old, so it has its quirks. Our pastor's son is now a bit over two years old, plus we have some other young kids, so this was an overdue safety concern.

(By the way, you might remember our pastor's love story – see here and here and here and here – and I'm pleased to announce they're expecting their second child in late October, another boy! Mr. and Mrs. Pastor have proven themselves to be excellent parents, and their first child has become something of a church mascot, much beloved by everyone.)

We spent the week arranging for a new (used) vehicle for Older Daughter. Her other car has a major transmission issue, which makes fixing it more expensive than it's worth, so she'll sell it either for parts or to someone who wants to repair and flip-sell it. Meanwhile, we asked our mechanic if he had any knowledge of an inexpensive-but-reliable vehicle available, and by golly he did. Having a mechanic you can trust is such a blessing!

I've also been spending a lot of time in the garden, weeding out beds, layering them with compost, and planting seeds. We've had some crazy temperature swings (hey, spring) so I'm refraining from planting some of the more sensitive veggies until things stabilize.

We had a neighbor come up with his small track hoe to dig a trench behind the barn so we could lay in a drain to divert water from the barn door. Don lined the trench with weed cloth and laid down a perforated pipe, then covered it with gravel. This was a task we'd hoped to accomplish last fall, but the weather caught up with us before we had a chance to accomplish this step.

Older Daughter came in late last week to pick up her new (used) car and return ours, which she had been borrowing. We had a busy day helping her pack more of her things and fit them into her car, which has the advantage of having more room than her previous car.

This left one of her previous rooms empty. It needs some patching and trim, but above all it needs a paint job. (As a brief history, we had to move Older Daughter in rather hastily four years ago when her apartment lease ran out about the same time Don had some minor surgery, so cosmetic changes weren't high on our list.) The family from whom we purchased our house were absolutely lovely people, but their choice in paint colors was ... unique. I kid you not, the color is that bright.

Don started the prep work necessary to paint, which we hope to do this upcoming week. We'd like to get it finished in time to convert it into a guest bedroom, since Younger Daughter will be visiting in late June before moving west to start her new civilian job.

Meanwhile, through all of this, I finished up several magazine articles and sent them off, and began blasting through my next Love Inspired proposal which I hope to submit within a week or so.

And to top it off, we're having a new roof installed! This is something for which we've been saving for at least two years. We would have had it done last year, but we couldn't manage it financially after I was laid off from my online job in February 2025. It took us an extra year to save up for it.

Our current roof is asphalt shingles, and it was getting quite ragged. We were delighted to learn installing a metal roof was actually more economical than installing a new shingle roof. (We became huge fans of metal roofs after experiencing the benefits in our last home.) We chose a nice solid brown as a roof color.

The contractor is a young and highly respected Mennonite roofer whose work has high ratings. At the moment one-third of the roof is newly covered, but then work had to pause for some rainstorms. The rest of the roof should be completed next week.

We chose the roof color to complement the house color we chose for an upcoming paint job. Our current house color is a rather drab "greige."

This summer, Don and I will paint it a nice green. (The color chips shown below have a distinctly blue tinge to them, but I assure you they're green.)

We're also sorting through a lot of shelves, cupboards, and closets for items to sell at a yard sale we plan to hold this summer.

So yeah, that's been our week. Lots of stuff going on!

Greener grass

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Wed, 13 May 2026 13:27:44 +0000

Last year, you might remember, we subdivided our larger pasture.

This allowed us to add additional rotations for cattle grazing. It also allowed us to have the garden fences down while we worked on strengthening and raising the fences against deer (the garden is carved out of a slice of the pasture), since the cows were restricted to the upper portion while we worked.

As a result of last year's garden-fencing efforts, we didn't release the cows into the larger pasture until late June. While the grazing was certainly great, it was past its peak.

This year we had no such restrictions. As a result, we opened the gate to the larger pasture last week, and let the cows into their little slice of bovine paradise.

We started by opening the gate (translation: peeling back some of the field fencing right at the corner of the garden) and giving our "Bossy bossy bossy!" call. Maggie was the first to investigate.

Romeo and Stormy soon followed. "Hey, look at all this grass!"

Maggie looks at the garden. "Hey, can I get in there?" No, you can't.

This time of year, the pasture is at its peak lushness.

Don has a theory about pasture quality. When cows are grouped together when grazing, it means the pasture is lush. When they're scattered apart, the quality is less. Right now, the cows are always grouped together.

A couple hours later, the cows were bedded down, chewing their cud, looking about as happy as cows can look.

Speaking of Maggie, our Jersey cow, she's looking more and more ponderous.

She was bred on September 8, so according to an online bovine gestational calculator, that means her due date is June 12, a month from now.

Unlike last year's unexpectedly early birth of Stormy, however, this time we're ready. We have the milking stall and calf pen built and all the quirks worked out. As her due date grows closer, we'll take the animals off the larger pasture and restrict them to the small pasture right below the house, so we can keep an eye on Maggie. Fresh milk soon!

"How is your father?"

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Mon, 11 May 2026 22:40:00 +0000

I called my dad yesterday (Mother's Day). I can't talk to my mom anymore since she's in a nursing home, and so I called my dad instead.

As it turns out, he wasn't home when I called. That's because he was with two of my brothers and sisters-in-law, all of whom were visiting my mom, so that was nice to know. Dad called me back this morning and we caught up.

He told me that Mom hadn't seen one of my sisters-in-law ("V") in quite some time. The moment V. walked in, Mom said – clear enough that even Dad could hear it (Dad is quite deaf) – "Hello. How is your father?"

Dad was ecstatic.

V. is from Russia, and her father had suffered a stroke a few years ago. V. had to travel all the way to Moscow and then on to Siberia to care for him in the immediate aftermath. Mom's mind was sharp enough to remember V's struggles, and to ask V. how her father was doing.

Dad confirms that Mom's brain, underneath the symptoms of her own stroke and serious bout of pneumonia over the New Year, is still chugging along bright and alert. We agreed it must be intensely frustrating that she can't always communicate her thoughts.

Still, Dad admitted that Mom is receiving not just excellent care in her nursing home, but far more socialization than she would have gotten at home, so he's come to terms with it. I'm grateful he only lives a couple miles away from her facility.

The dying art of writing

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Sat, 09 May 2026 15:50:00 +0000

Back when I was seven years old, I wrote a story about Glinda the Fish. I don't remember anything about it beyond a few vague watery adventures Glinda had. Certainly the story rambled, had no story arc, and lacked a conclusion, though I did include crayon illustrations of a very pretty and feminine fish decked out in glittery scales. Hey, I was seven.

Obviously the writing bug bit early, and I've enjoyed practicing the written word ever since.

Perhaps for this reason, the artificial-ness of writing done by artificial intelligence drives me nuts. I'm complained about this several times (here and here).

Oddly I'm conscious of times I use turns of phrase that might be misconstrued as written by AI. I submitted a magazine article recently, for example, concerning the honey hunters of Bangladesh (people who harvest wild honey in the coastal areas of that nation). In the second paragraph, I set the scene by describing what the mangrove forests are like, which included this line: "It is a moist, humid, and unforgiving ecosystem that straddles land and sea, and protects the coast from erosion during high tides, tsunamis, and cyclones."

It was the term "straddles land and sea" that I almost took out because it sounded like AI, even though it describes perfectly the placement of mangrove forests.

Similarly, one line from our recent trip to Italy also triggered my AI radar. In this blog post, I described some Roman ruins we saw, including the impressive brick work, as follows: "The fact that the brick work has held up so splendidly for thousands of years is a testimony to the skills of Roman craftsmen." It was that word "testimony" that tipped the line over into the realm of sounding artificial. It's bugged me ever since.

Every writer develops his own unique voice when mastering the craft, and I guess you could say the same applies to artificial intelligence. In a piece entitled "The Rise Of AI Writing And The Decline Of Human Voice," it states:

"New research suggests that widespread use of large language models is making language more uniform. A study conducted by University of Southern California found that after the release of ChatGPT, diversity in writing styles declined across several forms of communication, including scientific publications, local journalism, and social media posts. Researchers observed fewer differences in vocabulary choices and sentence patterns, pointing to a growing preference for polished, formulaic language. ...

"Researchers at the Max Planck Institute for Human Development analyzed more than 740,000 hours of spoken and written material and found that certain words commonly associated with ChatGPT responses are appearing more frequently in everyday communication. Words like 'delve,' 'meticulous,' 'boast,' and 'comprehend' have become increasingly common, suggesting AI-generated language may be shaping human speech habits as well. ...

"Not everyone sees that as progress. Alex Mahadevan of the Poynter Institute for Media Studies argues that AI-generated content often feels empty despite being technically sound. He described it as noticeably 'soulless' and 'mediocre,' adding, 'There's no art in it.'"

Or, as I'm fond of stating, AI writing is a lot of "blah blah nothing."

At this moment in time, we are straddling (that word!) the cusp of human-generated writing and AI writing. But the handwriting is on the wall, and the latter will become the norm. Not only is it easier (give a command, and hey presto! your essay or advertising copy is written), but the younger generation will grow up unable to discern between the real and the fake ... especially since AI shows every indication of becoming indistinguishable from the human voice. Personally I find that very sad.

I don't know how long I'll be able to cling to a career as a writer, but I'll enjoy it while I can.

Happy birthday, Sir David Attenborough

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Fri, 08 May 2026 20:59:00 +0000

The incomparable Sir David Attenborough turns 100 years old today!

Tributes are pouring in from all over the world, the world he saw so much of.

• Sir David Attenborough: A century of storytelling - BBC

• David Attenborough at 100: A Special Birthday Message From King Charles (this had a cute and unexpected twist)

• Inside the wild life of broadcasting legend Sir David Attenborough | 60 Minutes Australia

• Sir David Attenborough at 100: A Century of Wonder | 9 News Australia Documentary

...and on and on and on.

From all accounts, the man is a true gentleman on and off the screen.

Happy birthday, Sir David!

The Three Stooges

noreply@blogger.com (Patrice Lewis) — Fri, 08 May 2026 04:23:00 +0000

Larry, Curly, and Moe.