The Road To Searing One's Conscious

"This was the first thing Mark had been asked to do which he himself, before he did it, clearly knew to be criminal. But the moment of his consent almost escaped his notice; certainly, there was no struggle, no sense of turning a corner. There may have been a time in the world's history when such moments fully revealed their gravity, with witches prophesying on a blasted heath or visible Rubicons to be crossed. But, for him, it all slipped past in a chatter of laughter, of that intimate laughter between fellow professionals, which of all earthly powers is strongest to make men do very bad things before they are yet, individually, very bad men."

--C.S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength

Sewing At Sunset

Pictures of the finished projects will be upcoming.

Being With "Nice" People

"She hardly even thought about St. Anne's until she found herself there: even as she walked up the steep hill she made no plans, rehearsed nothing that she meant to say, but only thought of Camilla and Mrs. Dimble. The childish levels, the undersoil of the mind, had been turned up. She wanted to be with Nice people, away from Nasty people - that nursery distinction seeming at the moment more important than any later categories of Good and Bad or Friend and Enemy.

She was roused from this state by noticing that it was lighter. She looked ahead: surely that bend in the road was more visible than it ought to be in such a fog? Or was it that a country fog was different from a town one? Certainly what had been grey was becoming white, almost dazzling white. A few yards further and luminous blue was showing overhead, and trees cast shadows (she had not seen a shadow for days), and then all of a sudden the enormous spaces of the sky had become visible and the pale golden sun, and look looking back, as she took the turn to the Manor, Jane saw that she was standing on the shore of a little green sun-lit island looking down on a sea of white fog, furrowed and ridged yet level on the whole, which spread as far as she could see. There were other islands too. That dark one to the west was the wooded hills aver Sandown where she had picnicked with the Dennistons; and the far bigger and brighter one to the north was the many caverned hills - mountains one could nearly call them - in which the Wynd had its source. She took a deep breath. It was the size of this world above the fog which impressed her. Down in Edgestow all these days one had lived, even when out-of-doors, as if in a room, for only objects close at hand were visible. She felt she had come near to forgetting how big the sky is, how remote the horizon."

--C.S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength

A Beautiful Tradition

For a very long time now, I've wanted a hope chest. I think I was about six or seven when me and my friend Halleymarie first heard of them. We talked about it for ages, and asked, pleaded, begged and pestered our families for a hope chest.

A Pennslyvania Dutch/German hopechest. (Photo credits unknown)

About a year ago, or perhaps a little more, Halleymarie's family bought her a chest. Theophilus promised that he'd make me one. But that's never happened. I've finally given up the idea of the chest. So the other day, while at the store, I picked up a couple of dish-towels, and Mum gave me an extra set of candle-holders. My problem was still that I had no chest to put them in. So when I got home, I went into my room to find a place to store my hope chest items. And I saw those suitcases which Mum and Dad gave as a graduation present. I won't be using them for a while for traveling, and there are five, so I could easily spare one.

Another German design hopechest. I think this is so very Bavarian. I like it a lot. If ever I have enough money, and find a chest like this, I think I would very soon be owning it. At least if I had my way about it. Who could resist that beautiful designs and the delightful colours! (Photo credits unknown)

I find that, although not what I'd always imagined and wanted, using a suitcase as a hope chest works just as well as anything else. Of course, I'll have to worry about moths, but maybe soon, I can get an actual chest for my things. Since Sunday, I've also picked up some measuring cups. On Wednesday, Mum gave me a set of three stainless-steel mixing bowls. In accordance with our customs, she checked where they were made because we want to avoid Chinese things, and we were pleased to note that they were from India instead. Mum says that I need to not get things for myself so that others can give me presents. However, it seems that no one's thought of giving me anything of that sort before, and I think I'd better start getting my chest established.

A Chicken Soup Day

If yesterday was a Half-Way to Christmas Day, then I think I'm going to have to name today as well. It's a Chicken-Soup Day. Honestly, the end of June shouldn't be this cold. I was wearing woollen socks earlier, and am currently cuddled on my bed, wearing clothes which I distinctly remember wearing to orchestra practice... in February. The wind is strong, and the clouds are dense, and it just doesn't feel like it is summer in Alaska. In fact, it isn't summer. I think we went from a late spring to an early autumn, with a day or so that might be construed as summer.

The girls went to Halleymarie's house today, for quite a while, and so my parents were gone as well. That left Theophilus and I to finally buckle down to writing Thank-You notes from graduation. (We take a very proactive approach to such things, obviously!) Everything seemed to move slowly, but we got them done. When Mum and Dad got home with the girls, it was just plain cold.

That's when Mum decided to make chicken noodle soup. Hers is delicious. I was possessed by some strange notion to go outside. I rambled around for a bit, feeling chilled and dizzy, and it began to drizzle. It's not really rain, it's rather like someone left the faucet on and occasionally you get hit. Finally, I went back inside, feeling drained and exhausted. Mum asked me to go play piano, and so I sat down at the bench, not really certain of what to play. I knew that I ought to practice my pieces, but sometimes the pieces aren't right for the day and I can't bring myself to play them. (Unless I have someone else forcing me to play!) But I saw the nocturne by Grieg that I've been learning recently and decided to work on it. It was perfect for today. If you ever get the chance to hear it, you definitely should give it a serious listening. It is a beautiful thing, Nocturno, and it, according to my teacher, invokes the idea of birdsong in certain spots. Also, once we decided that it reminded us of a garden on a moonlight summer night, with birds.

I changed my mind as I played it today. It's a piece about quiet, drizzling days which are rather chilly when one expected warmth. It's not disappointed, though it does sound melancholy to some: it merely is reflective and peaceful. It's a piece about chicken-soup days.

Six More Months!

Do you realise that it is six more months until my favourite day of the year? That's right: Christmas is coming! I know, most people will get depressed because it means winter, and all that. But actually, I like Winter, and snow, and Christmas is just simply the loveliest time of the year. At least, I think so.
I suppose I shall have to start thinking about what I shall make or buy for everyone, and in my family, that's always seeming to be a very long list. (And every year, it gets longer!) I also am looking forward to baking Christmas cookies. That activity always makes the house smell delightful, and perhaps this year, (even though Theophilus will be gone) I can get Lance or Harrison to help make a gingerbread house. Theophilus used to be the master of the gingerbread house, but since this may be the last Christmas he spends with us until after he's done with college, I'm not sure if he'll be doing a house.Anyways, Christmas is coming, it's right around the corner, and that means another bout of reading Narnia and Middle-Earth. Merry half-way to Christmas Day!

Sugar Cookies

Okay, I must admit that I'm borrowing just a bit, but this is for Rebekah (Tzedeqiel). It's known as an eBatch or eCookies. No, not the little browser cookies on the computer which only confuse those with little techno-savy. These are actually my sugar cookies, lightly sprinkled (very lightly) with cinnamon sugar.

One of Belle's friends came over today, my friend Halleymarie's sister, and later, two of her brothers. The cookies were pronounced by the youngest of them to be "too good to be true, and too tasty to not be real." I think that amounts to "You can bake some decent cookies, Laura." But instead, the other brother, Phillip, stationed himself in the kitchen as the official guard and somehow (very confusingly) several cookies became indefinitely missing...

Anyone else up for an eBatch? Of course, Rebekah Tzedeqiel gets the first choice, and if she likes it, she may be in for more!

Weather

"That's why Camilla and I got married," said Denniston as they drove off. "We both like Weather. Not this or that kind of weather, but just Weather. It's a useful taste if one lives in England."

"How ever did you learn to do that, Mr. Denniston?" said Jane. "I don't think I should ever learn to like rain and snow."

"It's the other way round," said Denniston. "Everyone begins as a child by liking Weather. You learn the art of disliking it as you grow up. Haven't you ever noticed it on a snowy day? The grown-ups are all going about with long faces, but look at the children - and the dogs? They know what snow's made for."

"I'm sure that I hated wet days as a child," said Jane.

"That's because the grown-ups kept you in," said Camilla. "Any child loves rain if it's allowed to go out and paddle about in it."

-- C.S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength

A Lovely Visit With Leah

A few days ago, when Leah and her mother came to visit us, they invited us to come down to the beach to see them. We took them up on their word yesterday, and spent a little while there. No, it wasn't a warm beach, it was by the river, and there were people fishing.

We got there a little early, and so we waited in the dunes, which were covered in tall grasses. Dad lay down, and Mum sat nearby, and I was both knitting and snapping shots...
The girls had fun running through the tall grass, and I had fun photographing them!

After a bit, and when almost all of us kids had gone at least one time on the four-wheeler, we headed over to Leah's house, which our family had never been to before.

This is the side of their house, which I think is so beautiful! It's the way that log houses should look. I fell in love with their house, which is really just a piece of art, and took many pictures. (No, Leah, I won't stop!)
Becky, Leah's mother, has beautiful plants, and I adore her orchid plants! I wanted to take this one home with me, but I knew that wouldn't be allowed, so I restrained myself to taking pictures of it.

They have these wonderful light fixtures, and I liked how their vines rambled around it.
Leah showed me Becky's room, and I noticed that in one of the mirrors, there was this reflection of a painting which I couldn't otherwise see. Even Theophilus noticed it.
Mum and I are calling this The Peacock Light. Doesn't it just look like a peacock's tail feathers?
In their greenhouse, the flowers looked absolutely gorgeous. I really want ours to start blooming now.
Here a few of us are walking up the hill to look at the amazing view of the inlet. Doesn't Leah's lawn just look lush and great, compared the rest of Alaska right now? (As in, no one else seems to have nice grass in yet.)
Leah finally smiled for the camera! I promised her that I'd only put the ones of her that she allowed, and I think this was the only one which passed. She's even pickier than I am.
I have a fascination with coals and embers. It just looks like something that would be nice to eat. No, I've never tried to touch one, but they're just so pretty!
Theophilus is the offical marshmellow roaster, and he didn't want me to take a picture of this one, because he said it was deformed.
Hotdogs were the first fare of the night... Followed by salmon, which I actually really liked, and a batch of cinnamon rolls.I like their Dutch Oven, and Dad buried it nicely with coals.But we left them in a little too long, so they were blacken on the tops and bottoms.The insides, however, were the best I've ever had.It took a bit of team-work to do the salmon properly. But between my dad and Becky, they got it flipped, and it was delicous.We really had very little trash, as we threw almost everything on the fire. Very convienent.
I was surprised that I could actually take something of a sunset picture, as we almost never have evening sunsets in the summer. But there were some nice colours, and an illusion of the sun going down.Nothing is really more fun and inviting than a nice, roaring campfire with friends. It was a beautiful night.

Educated Conditioning

"Why you fool, it's the educated reader who can be gulled. All our difficulty comes with the others. When did you meet a workman who believes the papers? He takes it for granted that they're all propaganda and skips the leading articles. He buys his paper for the football results and the little paragraphs about girls falling out of windows and corpses found in Mayfair flats. He is our problem. We have to recondition him. But the educated public, the people who read the highbrow weeklies, don't need reconditioning. They're all right already. They'll believe anything." ... "Don't you see that the educated reader can't stop reading the high-brow weeklies whatever they do? He can't. He's been conditioned."

--C.S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength

I think this speaks for itself.

On Arthurian Legend

During lunch Dr. Dimble talked about the Arthurian legend. "It's really wonderful," he said, how the whole thing hangs together, even in a late version like Malory's. You've noticed how there are two sets of characters? There's Guinevere and Launcelot and all those people in the centre: all very courtly and nothing particularly British about them. But then in the background - on the other side of Arthur, so to speak - there are all those dark people like Morgan and Morgawse, who are very British indeed and usually more or less hostile though they are his own relatives. Mixed up with magic. You remember that wonderful phrase, how Queen Morgan 'set all the country on fire with ladies that were enchantresses.' Merlin too, of course, is British, though not hostile. Doesn't it look very like a picture of Britian as it must have been on the eve of the invasion?"

"How do you mean, Dr. Dimble?" said Jane.

"Well, wouldn't there have been one section of society that was almost purely Roman? People wearing togas and talking a Celticised Latin - something that would sound to us rather like Spanish: and fully Christian. But further up country, in the out-of-the way places, cut off by the forests, there would have been little courts ruled by real old British under-kings, talking something like Welsh, and practising a certain amount of the Druidical religion."

"And what would Arthur himself have been?" said Jane. It was silly that her heart should have missed a beat at the words "rather like Spanish."

"That's just the point," said Dr. Dimble. "One can imagine a man of the old British line, but also a Christian and a fully-trained general with Roman technique, trying to pull this whole society together and almost succeeding. There'd be jealousy from his own British famliy, and the Romanised section - the Launcelots and the Lionels - would look down ond the Britons. That'd be why Kay is always represents as a boor: he is part of the native strain. And always that under-tow, that tug back to Druidism."

"And where would Merlin be?"

"Yes. . . . He's the really interesting figure. Did the whole thing fail because he died so soon? Has it ever struck you what an odd creation Merlin is? He's not evil; yet he's a magician. He's obviously a druid; yet he knows all about the Grail. He's 'the devil's son'; but then Layamon goes out of his way to tell you that the kind of being who father Merlin needn't have been bad after all. You remember, 'There dwell in the sky many kinds of wights. Some of the are good, and some work evil'."

"It is rather puzzling. I hadn't thought of it before."

"I often wonder," said Dr. Dimble, "whether Merlin doesn't represent the last trace of somthing the later tradition has quite fogtten about - something that became impossible when the only people in touch with the supernatural were either white or black, either priests of sorcerors."

"What a horrid idea," said Mrs. Dimble, who had noticed that Jane seemed to be preoccupied. "Anyways, Merlin happened a long time ago if he happened at all and he's safely dead and buried under Bragdon Wood as every one of us knows."

"Buried but not dead, according to the story," corrected Dr. Dimble.

--C.S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength

Well, I love Lewis, and I love myths and legends. Probably my favourite English/British Isles legend is Robin Hood, but Arthur is a close second. Mostly, I don't know as much about him as I do Robin Hood. But Lewis has some interesting ideas about the legend of Arthur, and the nature of Merlin, especially. And I liked the Dimbles. Very much.

Age Touches Only the Surface

I suppose the mere fact of being walled in gave the Wood part of its peculiar quality, for when a thing is enclosed, the mind does not willingly regard it as common. As I went forward over the quiet turf I had the sense of being received. The trees were just so wide apart that one saw uninterrupted foliage in the distance but the place where once stood seemed always to be a clearing; surrounded by a world of shadows, one walked in mild sunshine. Except for the sheep whose nibbling kept the grass so short and who sometimes raised their long, foolish faces to stare at me, I was quite alone; and it felt more like the loneliness of a very large room in a deserted house than like any ordinary solitude out of doors. I remember thinking, "This is the sort of place which, as a child, one would have been rather afraid of or else would have liked very much indeed." A moment later I thought, "But when alone - really alone -everyone is a child: or no one?" Youth and age touch only the surface of our lives.

-- C.S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength

P.S. I am going to be doing a series of posts from That Hideous Strength, basically some of the parts that stood out to me for various reasons. Some may be more obvious, others not so. But I just really like the ending of this paragraph, it's more true than I know, and everytime I think about it, I see more.

Postal Joys

It is sad for me to realise that it now becomes a special occasion when somebody - doesn't matter who - in the family actually recieves a personal letter in the mail. These days, it seems like it is almost always things to throw away: credit card offers, junk magazines, sales brouchers from companies that we don't buy from and aren't interested in, and the list goes on. Of course, during Christmas, everyone feels the duty to send the obligatory greetings, family newsletters, pictures, etc. In these, it seems like suddenly you hear from people for the first time since the Christmas before.

For years, I've wanted to write letters more regularly. I don't like the fact that December is the only month that one gets personal mail. So I've gathered together a few addresses, and last week sent out a packet of letters to several friends. And today, when most of the mail was immediately doomed to the waste basket, a personal letter came for me from a friend whom I shall call Maryanne. She decorated the envelope beautifully, and wrote messages on the back. The letter itself was delightful, and I immediately sat down and wrote a reply. Harrison asked what I was doing, and when I told him, he asked if it was a school assignment. After all, most kids seem to only write letters when their teachers tell them to. I know - I did this as a child too. They were to my Gramma. Most kids' letters are.

But now, I'm looking forward to writing my friends letters, and even if they choose to respond over email or phones, I'll still try to continue the practice of postal contact. Letter-writing is a dying art but it's one that I plan to do everything I can to save. It makes the day brighter when you recieve a letter, meant for you, and just for you. And the little kids think is a special treat and want to help dictate your next letter. (Yes, Kat, most of my last to you was Belle's ideas.) Of course, it might mean buying a fortune's worth of postage stamps, but there's always the joy of having something in the post to look forward to, a box of well-read and loved letters, and the comfort of settling down with a missive from a dear friend.

An Afternoon's Tea

Belle decided that today was a pearl day, so she wore the pearl and crystal necklace that I gave her for her birthday, and I wore the matching earrings and this vintage fifties necklace which my great-grandmother left to me. I think it goes well with my sundress... don't you?


Today, my dear friend Leah and her mother came to visit us. A few days ago, we discovered that we both shared a love of tea and teaparties. I promised her that sometime, we would have one together.

I love the fact that Leah's much more photogenic than I am. But that didn't stop her from taking a picture of me...


So this afternoon when she came, we decided that we were going to have a teaparty, however informal. She and her mother had brought us banana bread and I had some biscuits left from before, so it was easy to put together.

Then, as her mother shares Mum's love of India, Mum brought out some of our sari-material skirts, and some of her scarfs. We had fun dressing Leah up, and though she made faces at me, I got some good pictures anyways!

A Birthday For Belle

I curled Belle's hair for her special day, and in her yellow Sunday dress, she looked just like the little princess she is!

The day before, I made the cake. Belle helped me decorate it, which included about half an inch of chocolate icing and then lots of non-pariels shaken liberally over the surface. It was delicious.

The lady-bug present came from the Nurses' offices, and the little red package was from me. Yes, she got to eat off the purple pansy plate: it makes everything taste better. I'm thinking of making her a denim skirt with that lady-bug sewn onto it. It would go with some large, crazy-daisy designs, don't you think?

Of course, it wasn't strictly speaking a High Tea, but we had tea, and biscuits. And who could refuse chocolate cake and chocolate ice cream to boot?

Yes, don't I look quite festive with Belle's ribbons strung through my hair? I think I should look like this everytime I'm stressed, and so people will have warnings prior to my biting heads off. Not that I did, or at least, I'm really, really, really trying to control my temper when I'm stressed and tired.

All in all, Sunday was a lovely day for Belle and her birthday. I think it must've been a good Father's Day too - what could be better than having six kids at the table with you to make you feel very Daddy-like! I love you Dad. I love you Belle.

All Dusted

Today we had a mass-cleaning the house day. Everyone had their bit to do, and after it was all over, Mum sat down to go through the girls' clothes that came from their house. Anyways, some of it was obviously stuff that they hadn't worn since they were babies.

One find was a sock, small enough to fit on their hands, and Belle decided that she needed to dust. As I was baking her chocolate cake, she came to the living room, which is separated from the kitchen by a half-wall, and was dusting the end-tables and the shelf-top of the half-wall. Everytime she finished something, she'd look at it and smile with satisfaction: "All dusted!" And then she'd go on to the next thing, until everything that she could possibly reach had been dusted.

A few minutes later, Tink, who is only three, came up with the sock on her hand. Smiling to herself, she walked over to the endtable closest to her and ran the socked hand over it. Looking triumphantly at me, she said: "All dusty 'gain!"

What a Day for a Birthday

No, not because it's Friday and the thirteenth. Belle turned six today, but it wasn't the sort of day you'd want for a birthday, no matter how old you are.

First, Tink was finally better, but they fought in the morning and had to spend a while in time out. Then follow that with a longish ride into Slow-Town. By the time we got to the OCS office, Belle wasn't looking very happy. She just looked plain troubled. They went inside and Mum and I left, as the girls visited their father, and later, their mother.

Meanwhile, Mum and I went to the store, because we'd been given vouchers for the girls. First I had to fill up Sherwood, at 128.01 dollars. Mum practically had a heart-attack right there. When I went to pay, I was thinking about asking the cashier if she knew how to do CPR. But they had a new guy in training (I actually know him), and he was fumbling enough already that I didn't want him to have the heart-attack too. After that fiasco, we went shopping for a few hours, only to discover that OCS hadn't paid their tab with the store, and so the store didn't honour the vouchers. So, very tired and slightly over-stressed, we headed back to pick up the girls.

After a bit to eat, and some snuggle time in the Sherwood, we picked Harrison up from his friend's house and went to the beach. If only it had been warm... But that's daydreaming in Alaska. Belle seemed to be happier there. Then we went to my piano instructor's home for a barbeque. She still seemed subdued, and it was late by the time we got home.

She came down to my bedroom and sat a my stomach, looking solemnly into my eyes. "What a day for a birthday."

"I know honey." I gave her a hug. "Don't worry, we'll have cake and presents on Sunday."

"Why? Today was great. Your teacher gave me a chocolate crepe."

Apparently, chocolate crepes are enough to salvage the bad beginnings, and middles, of a day. I think I will go learn how to make crepes.

"True Freedom"

"Most sapient Mouthpiece of Aslan, The Tisroc (may-he-live-forever) is wholly of one mind with your lordship in this judicious plan."

"There! You see!" said the Ape. "It's all arranged. And all for you own good. We'll be able, with the money you earn, to make Narnia a country worth living in. There'll be oranges and bananas pouring in - and roads and big cities and schools and offices and whips and muzzles and saddles and cages and kennels and prisons - Oh, everything."

"But we don't want all those things," said an old Bear. "We want to be free. And we want to hear Aslan speak himself."

"Now don't you start arguing," said the Ape, "for it's a thing I won't stand. I'm a man: you're only a fat, stupid old Bear. What do you know about freedom? You think freedom means doing what you like. Well, you're wrong. That isn't true freedom. True freedom means doing what I tell you."

--C. S. Lewis, The Last Battle

Learning to Cope

Late this afternoon, Tink went to the ER because she still has a fever, and no one can seem to figure out why. Later, after three hours, she finally came home and we put her to bed. A little while after that, I heard her calling, and answered her. She said that she wanted to go upstairs and sit on my lap. So I carried her up and was barely seated when she murmured about the bathroom. As I was standing up, she launched forth red grape juice all over me. Whoever had that idea wasn't thinking so clearly.

A while later, after I'd scrubbed up both of our clothes, I found myself disinfecting the toilet. I knew that Mum was out, trying to clean Tink and get her calmed down, and Dad was cleaning the floor by the couch.

I suddenly realized that if you had asked me a few days before to go clean up this sort of mess, I'd have felt queasy and my stomach would immediately have gone into revolt. Most likely, I'd have come up with reasons not to do it, or gone on to be sick myself. But now, when it actually happened, I was just doing it. No one asked me. It was just something that I had to do. There was no question of coping.

Sometimes, when I talk to people at church, orchestra, or anywhere else, they ask me how I expect to learn to cope with the trials of motherhood, or why on earth I'd want to be a mother. Don't you know that kids get sick and you might be the nearest object to be splattered? Well, I actually don't know if there really is such a thing as learning how to cope. At least, I'm not sure if there is: there might be perhaps just learning to cope. It's not a theory, it's a fact. (As well as a slight semantic difference.) There is just doing it and going on with things in your life. Sure, there is a lot more that I have to learn, and I haven't really been an older sister that long; but life's about learning and doing, isn't it? Some people just say that I don't really know what I'm talking about, and once I have my own children, I'll finally understand and learn about the 'trials'. I don't know about you, but I think Tink's pretty good training for right now.

Excuse me, I'm off to unload the washer. Here's to hoping that my white shirt isn't stained from the grape juice.

Summer Time, And The Livin' Is Easy

You could have called this "A Day In The Sun" but Mum loves "Summer Time". It was nearly eighty in the sun, I believe, and that's quite warm for Naptowne in summer. Poor Tink wasn't feeling well, and threw up most of the morning, but she felt well enough to set on our deck swing.


Belle and I went for a walk, she called it the purple flip-flop march. Later, I made us both some shaved ice - apple flavoured - and we pretended that it was cordial.

I am very pale, and Mum wanted me to stay in the sun so that I could get a little tanned, although I was not very excited about the idea.

I couldn't resist cooling myself down with the cold cordial...

And the sun also melted my shaved ice. But it made very good juice, mixed with ginger ale which I *borrowed* from Tink.


And here are the pale Alaska girl legs... it's a confusing jumble, but there are three pairs: all pale as the others!

Here's to warmth in Alaska and days in the sun!

P.S. The picture of me was taken by my mother. Since Monday, it's gone grey and cloudy again.

Squirrel Nutkin

Yes, I love Beatrix Potter, and I'm especially proud of my collection of her charming little tales. The other day, actually when I was making my rhubarb cobbler, Mum called me out onto our deck to see this little fellow.

I had my glasses off, and could not see him unless I was looking through my camera: a convient excuse to take lots of pictures of him.

Harrison suggested putting a bomb in one of the pine cones he was nibbling on. But I am very against blowing up poor, unsuspecting creatures. And I have been reading the Chronicles of Narnia over again, so I'm not about to let him hurt any beast. I used to have a pet squirrel, of sorts, named Pippin. I believe he died last year, as I haven't seen him around. (He was mentally deranged, so that's why I could partially tame him. Well, tame for a wild little beast that's as nervous as squirrels are!) Because of my affinity for the Chronicles of Narnia, I'm calling this one Pattertwig. Adorable chap, isn't he?