I do apologize for my recent lack of contributions to this page. My Missing Muse has left me in a mental void as to what I should write about, what I shouldn’t, and if I should write at all. I have no clue as to how many visitors might have just dropped by, taken a quick look and left, or how many have actually read my ramblings, or Harold’s chapters. Haven’t gotten much in the way of comments to help me determine the directions in which I should go, what subjects are interesting, or amusing, etc. In my defense, I did finally stop sitting here in my chair watching out the back door all day, at least as much as I could, so as to not be totally useless. I have been canoeing a couple of times, to dinner a couple of times, and to the liquor store, when I was missing my boy particularly badly, without taking a shower. Yes! I actually left my house and went out in public without taking a shower! Twice! Both times to the liquor store! Ask Lisa how unusual that is. At any rate (you’ll find that term a lot in Harold’s book) I just added chapter seven of “Harold’s Room” in atonement.
Now for the “BUT…” noted above: The little yellow boat was recovered from the flood waters of Pigeon Creek, where a scholar and a gentleman climbed out of his kayak onto the log jam in which it was stuck, wrestled a log out of it which had punched a crack in the hull, above the waterline fortunately, got in it, and paddled it to safety towing his kayak behind. He contacted the police and the DNR trying to find the owner, but after two months gave up and had his niece post it on the internet for sale. Sean, who frequently looks at used canoes and kayaks on-line, saw it, and of course recognized it immediately. My seat, rod holder bracket and cup holder were still in it. He contacted the young lady who had posted it, told her the story, and the boat listing was removed. Several days later the gentleman who retrieved it contacted Sean, told him about having tried to find the owner and said to Sean, “If you could have him call me and tell me the one other item that would have been in that boat…”, at which point Sean blurted out, “A JBL water-proof speaker system.”
“Well. That answers that question,” he said, and that if Sean would have me call him he would give me directions on where I could pick up my boat.
And the gentleman who brought the craft out of the flood and restored it to me? His name is Noah. Lisa had been telling me when I found out I was getting my boat back that I should call her “The Yellow Submarine,” but when she found out who had rescued her, and his graciousness in returning her to me, she said I should call her “Noah’s Ark,” and I believe I shall.
The first pic below is one Sean saw in the ad. The next few are from last Wednesday when I picked it up from Noah, brought it home, and immediately patched it. The rest are from Saturday, and explain themselves.
Thank you Noah. You are a scholar, a gentleman, and a man who lives his faith and does not just profess it. You walk the walk to back your talk. You have given me renewed hope in the human race.
I suppose those of you who follow up and look to see what we’ve been up to have noticed I haven’t posted in over two weeks. I am afraid I made a major mistake in gauging Harold’s mood, and I paid for it. A pretty little girl turtle showed up outside in the feeding area, and I brought her in to meet him. He started his “I’d like to get to know you” moves, but she was having none of it. She sat in his food bowl completely drawn into her shell, and closed for business. He tried everything, but to no avail. He gave me a disparaging look, gave up, and went to his window to watch the neighbor’s foundation for lizards. The young lady took this opportunity to move to Harold’s hut. There is room for two turtles in there, so Harold joined her, but she was still having none of it. Unfortunately there is NOT enough room in there for Harold to really show his best, most winning moves, though he tried. This time when he failed to make an impression, he turned to face me, stood in the middle of his courtyard, and gave me the “stank eye.” I told him I was sorry, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. He began pacing back and forth along his windows, occasionally stopping to peer about. I had the patio door cracked open about eight inches to let the kittens and Stripey Cat come in to nibble and drink their nice, cool milk as it was pretty warm that day. He must have walked past that door at least five or six times. He made one more trip around the room, and then went back to his hut to try talking to the pretty girl again. He was a bit more insistent this time, repeatedly pecking at the front of her shell trying to get her to loosen up a bit and at least acknowledge him. He tried and tried, but still no luck. This time when he failed he came back into his courtyard, climbed into his feeding bowl, and he literally glared at me, for a long, long time, while standing on top of his smorgasbord of treats. I told him again, “I’m sorry, buddy. You’re on your own. I brought her in, but it’s up to you to win her affections. There is nothing I can say or do to help you with this. You’re just going to have to take care of it yourself.” That did not go over well at all. He continued to glare at me for a few minutes, and then wandered off in a huff. I had a few things to take care of inside the house, so, not thinking much of it, I went about my business. I looked out here occasionally to check on his progress with his lady friend, but she still continued to hide out in the hut, and I heard Harold clunking along the windowsill.
Time passed. The music played. I piddled in the house, straightening, folding, vacuuming, cleaning my “gas station bathroom,” as Lisa calls it: all the usual stuff. I checked on the cats and the turtles a few more times, and noticed Harold wasn’t galumphing about anymore. I figured he was sulking in a corner or behind the air filter as he usually does when he isn’t happy with me. Again, didn’t think much about it. I yanked the bag out of the kitchen trash can, put a new bag in, and went around the house gathering the rest of the trash, Thursday at dawn (No kidding. Before dawn in the dead of winter.) being our collection time, and Wednesday at dusk the “preferred time for curb-side placement” here in the “retirement community.” I took the bag out to the big container, grabbing the recyclable container as I passed, and hauled them to the curb. Our neighbor, a wonderful elderly lady who collects our mail and newspapers for us while we are on vacation, was struggling with a large chaise lounge pad. We recycle a lot, so there was only the one bag in our trash can, so I offered to put it in ours since it is much larger than hers. She chose the small version when the city started prescribing their own contractor’s containers for the new one operator lift trucks. I shoved it in, she thanked me, and I returned to the house. I went to Harold’s room and started looking for him. Not with the lady in the hut. Not in the corners, behind the pots in his jungle, behind or in front of the air filter, nor under the tables or chairs. No Harold. At some point after his stomping fit stopped, he decided THIS time he was going out that door to find his own women if I wasn’t going to be of any assistance with the one he had.
I sat in my chair looking out the back door at the turtle feeding plates every hour of every day that I could, watching for him to come looking for meal worms since he’s an addict, or chasing some lady up or across the hill from the gully behind us to bananas she will eat, but he refuses to. I saw quite a few turtles, nibbling bananas, cantaloupe, grapes, blueberries, chicken: whatever I could find I thought Harold might want. I put his feeding bowl out on the patio, hoping I’d find him standing in it demanding meal worms, whole wheat bread, and whatever else he might deign to eat that day. No luck. I saw five one day, and one had yellow spots like Harold, which is a rarity here, so I got very excited, but this gentleman was younger, with a black plastron, no crack. I set him down, wished him well, and went back to my chair.
There I sat for the next couple of days until I had to start packing for Akumal Bay Health & Wellness Resort (all inclusive) on the Riviera Maya, an hour or so south of Cancun. And that’s where I was until 11:00 AM Sunday morning, at which time we were picked up by our shuttle and headed back to Cancun. We got back home at 11:45 or thereabouts that night, hit the sheets, hard, and struggled through yesterday, being Monday the 31st, unpacking, sorting and all the other wonderful stuff you do with yourself and your suitcases and all. I did get a new canoeing hat down there, and a decent canoeing tan. We just lounged on the beach listening to music on my JBL Charge 3. It’s a beast for its size, and you can charge your various electrical devices off of it, and it will still play for ten or fifteen hours, twenty if you don’t tap the battery. Anyway, Lisa read, I listened and sang. We drank. We ate. We listened to the musicians at the bar if they were good, and drank some more. It was nice. But now here I sit, watching out the back door while my laundry spins, listening to music (Jack White at the moment), waiting for a yellow spotty headed turtle, with a regal bearing, a hankering for meal worms, and a cracked plastron. More on Mexico later. I have to go mope some more, and take my pants out of the dryer. A lot of pants.
