Dowsing

There is a practice, handed down from generation to generation in rural areas. It's used by city workers round about here to locate old pipes that never made it into the city diagrams.

This practice is much-maligned in some circles, and much heralded in others.

I'm talking about dowsing.

There is a lot of controversy over this particular subject even amongst those who believe it works. Some say that it is the body getting in tune with Mother Earth and communicating with the conscious mind through the medium of the pendulum or rods.

Others say it's an outside force pointing the rods and the dowser in the right direction.

A lot of people say it doesn't even exist.

Some of ya'll will believe, and some won't. It's up to you to make up your mind which group you fall into, and how you feel about it.

The man who's opinion I always respected most on the subject had little to say about it, really.

When asked, grandpa would say "We can do it, some folks can't. I don't know what it is, I don't know how it works, but then, I don't know much about how that dag gum teevee does it either, so that's all right."

Grandpa witched hundreds of wells, with scary accuracy. He could tell you where to drill a well, how deep you'd have to go, and how many gallons per hour the well would support. When people went missing, he was right there looking for them, too.

When Elizabeth Smart went missing, Grandpa called to offer his assistance. Shortly after that call was made, he came to the Old Homestead, bearing his rods.

After a short discussion with Farmmom, a hair brush that we both shared was stripped of a few hairs, those hairs were tied onto the rods, and we trooped outside.

I'd seen grandpa witch a well, and I'd seen Farmmom check the path of a water line, so I had an idea what was going on.

Grandpa told me "Stand here, hold the rods like this, loose, let 'em sag a bit, thats right, and close your eyes. Think about finding the person the hairs belong to."

He and Farmmom then walked in circles around me, and I tried to think about finding things.

One rod swung back and forth, following, near as I could tell, one set of footsteps, impeded by my shoulder as the person would walk behind me. The other rod swung immediately around and began bumping me on the shoulder.

After a while, grandpa told me to open my eyes. I was sure that I'd failed the test, and wasn't a dowser, given the wacky behavior of the rods.

Grandpa pursed his lips for a moment and then said "I've never seen anything like this."

Slightly dissapointed, I asked "So I'm not a water witch, then?"

"Weeeel, no, I think you are."

Remember I mentioned that they used hairs from a brush that Farmmom and I both used? Apparently, one rod had followed Farmmom like "a puppy on a string" in grandpa's words, and the other had never followed anyone, just flipped around and started bumping on my shoulder.

They got hairs from both of us.

The relevant authorities in Salt Lake declined Grandpa's help, something that bothered him until she was found. But he'd planned on dropping everything and taking Farmmom and I to help look for her.

After that, I spent some time experimenting with this strange talent, finding quarters tossed into the yard, things like that. Farmmom told me that she had to use copper rods, while her grandfather, grandpa's dad, had used a forked stick exclusively. She told me of how Great Grandpa would forget to wear gloves, and wind up with bloody hands from the stick twisting in his hands, pulling him this way and that.

It's a family tradition, she told me. Not everyone in the family can do it, but there's usually at least one in every generation.

"Never take money for finding a well," Grandpa told me. "It ain't something we learned to do, it's just something we can do." He got a thoughtful look in his eye, "When I was a kid, my dad told me we were just helpin' out the neighbors. When I got older, I figured that since I really didn't have nothin' to do with it, it wasn't right for me to charge folks."

The man would spend hours tromping through fields, finding a pocket of water and asking the rods about it. He did it right up till he physically couldn't do the tromping through the fields. And he never accepted a dime for it.

I've never witched a well. I've never been asked to, but I'm a dowser. It's one more piece of the heritage I inherited from my grandfather.

I believe, do you?

Knives

A lot of people talk about their knives. I've never really talked about mine, since it's less of a toy and more of a tool, for me.

See, everyone in my family has always had a pocket knife on them. Except for, for a few years, me. For a few years, I was in high school, not cutting twine, etc, and got tired of having the slip-in-the-front-pocket style knife jabbing me every time I sat down. So I quit carrying one.

Fast forward to my 18th year, when I started working road construction. Farmmom and I were running across a lot of situations that required a pocket knife, as you do when you work outdoors... and I didn't have one.

So, Farmdad dug in his myriad of knives and tossed me this one:



I had planned on carrying the big chunky thing for a few days, until I could find, and purchase, something of my own. Then I became comfortable with it, and I kept forgetting to get a new knife... and then I began to love it.

It's big, it's bulky, but it's my knife. After four years of every day carry, various cutting and hacking activities, that knife is nearly as much a part of my ensemble as my rings. I don't wear it when dressed up, but that's about it.

The clip allows me to slip it into my back pocket, clipped over the outside of the pocket, and know exactly where it is at all times, unlike the no-clip models I'd tried before.

In this picture you can see two places on the grip which look like there ought to be something in them:


There used to be. Those slight hollows used to be the home of two pieces of fancy skateboard tape... on steroids, I guess. It was the same style of "grip" material, except more so. They were glued in with something that seemed to be a molecular bond... and I wore them out. Not only did I wear them out but they came loose in the middle, first. Not as surprising as it might be, considering the small screw holes that they were concealing. I have no idea what was intended to be screwed into those holes, but they're threaded and everything. The grippy-bits been gone for a couple of years now.

The finish is beaten, battered, scratched, worn away, and otherwise abused, as you can see. But the blade is just fine:


The blade lock has never malfunctioned on me, opening or closing, and while it has been sharpened with everything from a restaurant grade motorized knife sharpener to a steel from a high-end set of kitchen knives, it's always gotten the job done for me.

No matter whether the job is cutting twine, re-adjusting a loose screw, prying open a paint can, picking muck out from under my fingernails, trimming a mane, removing cockleburrs from various of my furry children, or, once, as a visual aid during an offer to cure that whole "testosterone" problem, this knife has gotten it done.

I can operate it one-handed, despite its size, and wouldn't trade it for all the shiny little toys in the world.

Happy Birthday!

Today is FarmBro's birthday, tomorrow is his anniversary. Since I know my SIL occasionally reads this blog, I'm gonna go ahead and drop them a line so they don't think I forgot them when I say....

Happy Birthday LawDog!

I figure since I've met him, and happen to know when his birthday is, it's only polite to wish him a good one!

The post office wouldn't let me mail a stripper general delivery, though. Something about regulations......

I have to confess that when I started this blog, I didn't read many myself. LawDog's was one of them. In a way, I suppose you could call him my BlogFather, since it was while I was reading his blog that I decided to start mine.

Or maybe I'm the illegitimate BlogLoveChild of both him, and AD since both of them really inspired me through their stories to give this whole thing a shot.

So thanks guys, for being such excellent writers, and down-right good folks, and for making a crazy skinny chick in Colorado think that just maybe, she might have something to say that the blogosphere might be interested in hearing....

Now write more!*


*Yep, I slipped a plea for more entertainment into a touching post. I'm that shameless. *snicker*

Quick Note

A few days ago I posted a giggle (well it made me giggle) about someone finding my blog through a search for "why the FBI is looking for me" or some such...

Poking through the sitemeter, there are more of them.

Folks, if you're wondering the whys, hows, and wherefores of the Federal Bureau of Investigation... This blog is not where to find it.

It disturbs me enough that folks are finding me through these searches that I'm contemplating going back and removing the post that's leading them to me.....

And now, back to your regularly scheduled roofing.

Musings on Writing, and It's Effects Upon Those Around You

I've fallen into bad habits, whilst away at college.

See, when I started this little blog a while back (frankly I'd have to get into my posts and go all the way back to the first to tell you when it happened) I wasn't living alone.

As such, I had trained myself not to go completely insane when I was writing and someone would feel the urge to talk to me, change the TV channel, sneeze, twitch, cough, scratch themselves, breathe, or otherwise interrupt my writing Zen.

As Heinlein said: (Gimme a minute to search the intarwebz for the exact quote, as my copy of The Cat Who Walks Through Walls is in my car, and it's cold out there, and I'm in my PJ's) ((Great Googly Moogly, how can it be this hard to find that quote?? Who in their right mind doesn't know that it's one of the greatest quotes on writing of all time, and post it prominently on any collection of quotes by the Grand Master of Science Fiction???))

Ok, side track here, folks, I realize that there is a more... base... quote about writing than the one I intended. However, the quote I'm searching for is more complete, highly accurate in my experience, and danged skippy brilliant.

So all you Heinleinites compiling quotations pages, step away from the implied mental masturbation* and think for a moment, will you?

Ok, here's the quote (After locating tenny-runners, donning said tenny-runners, stomping out to my car, and retrieving the book.... damnit that's my emergency book.):

".... Writing is anti-social. It's as solitary as masturbation. Disturb a writer when he is in the throes of creation and he is likely to turn and bite right to the bone... and not even know that he's doing it. As writers' wives and husbands often learn to their horror. And- attend me carefully Gwen!- there is no way that writers can be tamed and rendered civilized. Or even cured. In a household with more than one person, of which one is a writer, the only solution known to science is to provide the patient with an isolation room, where he can endure the acute stages in private, and where food can be poked in to him with a stick. Because, if you disturb the patient at such times, he may break into tears or become violent. Or he may not hear you at all... and if you shake him at this stage, he bites." -- Colonel Colin Campbell/Richard Ames, The Cat Who Walks Through Walls, by Robert Anson Heinlein.

Now, to me, this is a perfect explanation of the writing process. I do tend to snap at people for derailing my train of thought, if I'm out of practice in dealing with such interruptions. I did manage to train myself to be somewhat less violent, while living with the Farmparents, and they are understanding of the condition in a way that only people who have lived with such occurrences for years can be.

It helped that they avoided directly interrupting me while I was writing, unless it was absolutely necessary.

Staying with Mamaw and Step Grandpa, however, has made me realize how nice I had it while I was away from home. (I love you guys, really, and it's not your fault I get snippy, not really.)

See, when I was in my own place, if I got the urge to write, I simply turned on some music to drown out the sounds of the neighbors and random street activities, and wrote.

I might snarl a bit if the phone rang, but really, I was interruption free.

Now that I have some more free time on my hands, I've been trying to write more. Of course, I'm also co-habitating with other people. It becomes somewhat tense when I'm in the middle of a phrase that I'm not quite sure how I want to finish, to all appearances staring at the screen with a faraway look in my eye, and someone asks me a perfectly reasonable question.

Occasionally, it derails my train of thought to the extent that the clean up crew can't find any survivors, and the entire thing is scrapped. Which doesn't help the whole cranky writer syndrome.

I'm not the world's greatest writer, but the need to write does not care how good the writing is, it just cares that you write. The quality is dictated by the person, the quantity by that strange urge that, in myself, seems to manifest itself as a twitching in my fingertips. When I have written enough, the twitching goes away.

My hard drive is not full of things that I've written that will never see the light of day. The practice of going through a writer's things after they've shuffled off this mortal coil and hailing that Lo! We have discovered Never Before Published Material! has always slightly disgusted me... the writing of Variable Star and other works which a writer started, or intended to start, is excepted from this, however.

In those cases, the writer either intended what they'd written to be seen, or planned on them being of a quality to be seen. In the case of a sheet of notebook paper shoved in the back of a file cabinet, covered in scribbled handwriting, I feel that it's a case of the urge to write without the ability to ensure quality, at that particular moment. Lacking the testicular fortitude to look at said scribblings, realize that they're crap, and destroy the evidence, or perhaps having the all too common feeling (I get it myself) that everything they write is a piece of themselves (true) but not being able to bear parting with it (bushwa, to steal a phrase from LawDog) they stuff it in the back of the drawer hoping that no one will see it.

Of course, if a writer achieves any measure of fame, upon their death things will be gone through and those things will, inevitably, see the light of day.

In an effort to curtail the publication of such examples of the need to write without the ability to make it quality stuff, should I ever achieve the level of notoriety required (I plan ahead,) I often type up things, read them through, realize they are complete crap, and promptly delete them. No hard copy, no electronic copy, they exist nowhere but in my mind.

Occasionally these pieces of drivel which I have culled from the herd later spark a good idea, so I still write them. I just don't let anyone see them, and get rid of the evidence faster than you can say "flush."

The Ex witnessed me writing, and I explained the snappishness thing to him, but he asked me, one memorable evening, how the book was coming.

"It's not, I'm blocked."

"But, you've just spent the last two hours staring at the computer and typing."

"Yep, I was writing."

"But not the book."

"Nope."

"Was it more weird stuff?" (He found my taste for werewolves, fanciful mental powers, and talking animals a bit strange...)

"Nope. It was a treatise on the habits, appetites and behaviors of the common phallic appendage." **

"Can I read it?"

"Nope." (Cue offended look.)

"Why not?!?"

"Because it doesn't exist anymore."

"Huh?"

"I deleted it."

"Why?"

"Because it was crap."

"But, you edit stuff, right? Go back and re-write it..."

"It had no purpose. There was no reason for it, and it was crap anyway."

Confusion abounded. Why write, if I wasn't going to keep what I wrote?

Because I had to. The twitch was in my fingertips, and if I hadn't written something, I would have wound up even crankier than when my train of thought gets derailed in the middle of a scene.

Writing. It's the monkey on my back. And there is no Detox.

So here's my public apology to my family and friends for all of the times I've bitten, or snarled, or snapped, when I've been writing. And my public thank you for understanding!




* "Writing is nothing to be ashamed of, but do it in private and wash your hands afterwords." The most famous Heinlein quote on writing, apparently. While the concept of mental masturbation in writing may be accurate, really, there are other, better quotes!

** Yes, I did write this. No, it doesn't exist anymore.

On The Other Hand...

Today I was reminded, in a pleasant way, that chivalry is not dead, Gentlemen still exist, and they somehow turn up in El Marto Del Wal on occasion.

Purchased a wire kennel for the Fuzzy Pup today, since he's a Houdini and I haven't (yet) been able to locate the escape hatch he's using this time... Normally, if I'm not around, I put the pups outside to enjoy the day, which they think is just fine. However, with Fuzzy Pup going a-visitin, and I suspect likely a-courtin (what kind of schnauzer mixes will show up around here?) that's not really an option.

Mamaw, being a firm believer in the pup-containing powers of a baby-gate, purchased one for use in shutting the pups in the kitchen, on the tile, when no one was home.

I had my doubts, and after two attempts, this plan was abandoned.

First time, Fuzzy Pup found the gallon of canola oil that Mamaw had set out of tripping range near the nifty cart that holds her microwave.

His coat was nice and shiny, though.

Second time, Mamaw made a sweep to make sure that any containers not utilizing a mechanical closure (and twist-tops don't count, he got the lid off the gallon jug without damaging it's effectiveness) containing foodstuffs or other "interesting" stuff were out of pup range....

And he opened the flour-jar that takes a rocket scientist, two PHD's, and a mechanic to operate properly.

So, she checked on the price of kennels. Now, I'm not against kenneling dogs when you're not home. Farmdog doesn't require such treatment but she's a well behaved pooch and for most of her "oh, that looks really interesting/tasty/confusing/it's gonna eat me so I must destroy it first" days she was riding around in the car with me, not home alone.

A couple of times spanking her with a shoe (it was a cheap foam flip-flop, relax... it was like spanking her with a wet noodle) she'd chewed was enough to get the point across that her toys were her toys, and people toys were people toys, and never the twain shall meet. "Not Yours" causes her to instantly abandon whatever object she was investigating and look slightly guilty.

Fuzzy Pup, on the other hand, is in the height of his "everything is mine and I'll do as I please with it" stage... which is seemingly aggravated by his being a male and intact.

Or maybe it's a schnauzer thing, or a Fuzzy Pup thing. This is after all the same dog that heels pretty well perfectly off leash (if I can get that "no" or "leave it" command through his thick head to the full-stop point, he'll never have to wear a leash again) but will run and hit the end of a leash, with no provocation, mind you, hard enough to flip himself over backwards. Repeatedly.

I think he likes it.

Anyway, he's already half kennel-trained, if a little spoiled to being a free-range pup, since Bestest Friend, who gifted him to me (she breeds the fuzzy little critters) kennels her two bitches and her stud. They're house-dogs, no doubt, family pets, but they get crated when no one is home, and momma and pups are crated pretty well constantly until the pups are ready to start exploring. (Ample potty-breaks for momma, no worries, but Bestest Friend says that Fuzzy Pup's mom, anyway, will close the crate door herself if someone leaves it open.)

Anywho, back to the original point, we needed a crate. Local dept store had only a 20 inch model, not really what we needed, so Mamaw told me to get one at El Marto Del Wal.

Of course the things were on the top shelf, and of course someone had shoved a mangled box from the stack of the size up from what we needed over on top of the stack of the size we needed.

So Farmmom and I are standing there, pondering this situation, and I reach up to check the feasibility of getting the danged thing myself. No dice, I could take down the larger crate and then get the smaller one that I wanted, but that would necessitate leaving the larger crate sitting on the floor. I couldn't shove it back over onto its proper stack myself.

I am not a fan of creating more work for folks who don't get paid all that much anyway, not to mention the inherent rudeness of leaving the box sitting somewhere that it might be in the way of Grannie Goodcookies trying to get kibble for her beloved Pomeranian.

"Better get an Associate," I proclaimed sagely, and Farmmom and I both turned, only to spot a man that can only be described as a gen-u-wine Long Tall Drink Of Water perusing the treat aisle behind us.

He looked up, looked at me (5'7) looked at Farmmom (5'mumblemumble, but shorter than me) looked at the top shelf, and very politely asked, "Do you Ladies need some help?"

"Um. Well, we just need to get a kennel down, but I can't quite manage it myself so I was going to get..." (Not being one to impose, it didn't really occur to me to request his help. Frankly I was boggling slightly at being addressed as a lady while wearing a brown Queen of the Lake hat, orange hoodie, tahr-smeared Wranglers and beat-up Thorogood boots.)

"Which one do you need?"

"Um. The smaller one?"

And thusly he reached up (not near as much a reach for him as it was for me) and shoved over the larger kennel, retrieving, and placing in our basket, the one we wanted.

Me being me, I opined:

"It sure is nice to have tall people in the world!"

So, nice man with the rather spiffy hand-tooled(?) leather belt and the plaid shirt, if you assisted two women to retrieve a wire dog crate in El Marto Del Wal today, Thank You.

Frankly, you did a bit more than save us a bit of a walk to find whatever Pimply Faced Youth they had working the pet section today.

Growing up in a county where the standard used to be that a gentleman tipped his hat, cowboy or ball cap, to a female as she walked by, held the door in that understated sort of "I was standing here anyhow" way*, and generally assisted folks of both sexes wherever he saw a need, I've been a little discouraged lately.

See, our current Sheriff (whom I've ranted about before, I know, but trust me this one is a tiny one) not only doesn't tip his hat to us setters (he doesn't wear one,) but he declines even a genteel nod to acknowledge our presence. Or the presence of anyone, really. The finer points of Country Manners are lost on him entirely.

As a result, the Deputies have ceased such practices as well. Two Sheriffs ago, if a Deputy had failed to hold a door for a lady in the presence of the Sheriff, or if the Sheriff had even heard that the deputy had failed in his duty to be courteous and helpful to the residents of our fair county, said Deputy would have been quietly called into the back office and dressed down but good.

There used to be a belief that the elected officials, and their hirelings, should be good role-models to the younger generation. Strangely enough, it worked, to a certain extent. While the young males of the county did not routinely hold doors for their female friends, they did so for dates and elders. Things like that.

It seems lately that less of that kind of etiquette is being practiced anywhere, and it saddens me. Such niceties are the social lubricants that keep members of society from rubbing together too hard and starting to smoke.

So thank you, Nice Man. You've reminded me that there are still Country Gentlemen out there, who may not make grand gestures but make a habit instead of small gestures, with greater impact.

I feel better, being reminded.



* This right here is why I'm so awkward when a man quite obviously opens a door for me, or holds out a chair. It's always been such an understated gesture here, that it's a bit of a shock to realize that, hey wow, there's a guy holding a door for me! The understated nature of the door-holding does not, of course, preclude me from saying "thank you" as I pass, or at the very least offering a small smile and nod. Social lubricants, like I said.

Today...

My head was full of snark.

I found myself, whilst on the roof struggling with a falling-apart paint brush to smear roofin tahr (not roofing tar, roofin tahr... like the dog says.... it's a hick thing,) contemplating what that stuff must be made of. Not the ingredients on the can, that's obviously a lie, since no man-made substance, not supplemented by witchcraft, can possibly be that damned sticky. And goopy. And gloppy. All at the same time.

Here's what I've come up with so far:

Two parts drool from the Hounds of Hell, collected whilst they sleep and dream of daisies and rainbows.

One part tears of an obsessed man (these are most likely obtained outside of Angelina Jolie's house...)

A waft of lies, (best effects if collected from a man drunk on "two beers")

And most importantly, if least available, two drops of honest working sweat from Sumdood's brow.


The fact that these ingredients would make only a small amount doesn't deterr me from believing I'm on the right track... the stuff multiplies anyway. Then drips crawl off from the "mother" smear and wait in ambush for an unsuspecting roofer to step on them, and spread them everywhere.

Also, happened to be in El Marto Del Wal today searching for additional roofing supplies, ran across some... er... well political correctness specifies that I say hispanic but let's face it, this dude was a vato.

Anywho, we're walking along behind this shaved head vato and I happen to see something on the back of his head. I figured he had one of those weird-ass haircuts I've been seeing everywhere, with the head shaved all the way to the back, but leaving enough hair to shave a pattern into on the very back of the head.

Those things are bad enough, but worse, I was wrong.

This guy had a tattoo on the back of his head. A word. His.... name???

I dunno, maybe it was a nickname, but it said "Bato."

I looked at Farmmom with some confusion and asked "Does that guy have his name tattooed on the back of his head??"

"Well, he's got something tattooed on the back of his head, I don't know if it's his name, but we could ask..."

Always helpful, my mother.

Anyway, I pondered this for a minute, as it struck me as so absurd that there had to be a reason.

Finally, putting together his appearance (clothing, not race,) demeanor, and the quality of the tatt (looked like either a very well done prison job, or a very poorly done professional job,) I figured it out.

It's so that his cellmate doesn't forget Bato's name when he's tappin' dat... er... I mean... when they're getting acquainted.

It's the only thing that makes sense to me, anyway....