Need a Lawyer

Hey, does anybody know of a good all-purpose lawyer who's a swell person who can handle my family's various problems. The only good ones around got old and retired, and the new fangled ones I've seen are all waxen and fancy with well appointed offices and expensive suits even when they weren't in court. Isn't there some cheapskate lawyer with a sense of humor in a tacky office somewhere in this town? Maybe one with a bottle in his or her desk drawer.

Great Literary Adventure II

Okay, so

Wild Ass Literary Ventures
Goulash Literary Adventures
Pitchfork Literary Ventures
Barnyard Literary Ventures
Fun Girl Literary Enterprises

Any other ideas? Swamp something? Maybe some reference to drinking alcohol would be appropriate, though Last Call Press sounds too desperate... Is there some literary hero we could celebrate? Maybe I'll award a prize for the person who comes up with the best title.

Our home could be the Little Cottage on the St. Joe River, which might become active this year... But we don't have a name associated with it... Cottage on Stilts...

Maybe there's a fun writing word that would eliminate the need for the word "literary" in the name of the organization. The name should appeal to writers, has to sound fun, wide in scope, expansive with its possibilities.

The goal is to have an organization that puts fun in the writing/literary enterprise. Because the whole thing has frankly made a number of us dreary. It will be an unbrella organization under which any sort of lively literary events/opportunities/statements/poses/. Some folks might want to publish tiny books; some may want to have a monthly meeting of some kind, some may just want to dress a certain way.

Okay, I'm feeling better already, just at the notion of such an organization existing.

The Great Literary Adventure

Okay, friends, I'm about to embark upon a new sort of literary adventure in which you will all be involved (surely!). The first order of business is to give it a name, and I'd like you all to weigh in. Here are my favorites today:

Goulash Literary Adventures (or Ventures)/Goulash Press
Wild Ass Literary Adventures/Wild Ass Press

My favorites from yesterday were:

Tomboy Literary Adventures/Tomboy Press
Stinkpot Literary Adventures/Stinkpot Press

The advantage to Wild Ass and Stinkpot is that we have easy graphical logos for the venture. As you know, Wild Asses look identical to my domestic donkeys and live (the few of them that remain) in Northern Africa. The Dog Phallus Stinkpot is, of course, one of my favorite mushrooms, though maybe that would be too manly a choice. Goulash is a natural because I already have a corporation called Goulash Tours and we could just build on that. Tomboy is sort of cute, I thought, but maybe too cute.

The Swan Survives

Just as Christopher was leaving for work, the neighbor flagged him down and said, "There's a swan huddled up next to my garage. I gave it some bread and corn but I have to go to work." So I got home and found a note from Chris, saying, "I had to go to work, but there's a swan at the neighbor's house. Maybe you can take it to the Kellogg Bird Sanctuary." I called the Bird Sanctuary, and they told me they're not allowed to accept a bird from me, a regular person, and on top of that, I'm not allowed to transport wildlife. Well, I didn't really want to do it anyway, what with the way swans hiss at you, and presumably peck. The Sanctuary gal said that the Kalamazoo Animal Control folks were licensed and the the Santuary was allowed to accept from them. I called. The swan was such a peaceful -looking critter, it's neck long and graceful, just sitting there next to the garage, snow falling all around. Oddly enough, it didn't look like a mute swan, but looked more like one of our native swans, a young tundra swan maybe, but the beak was yellowish instead of blackish. (A mute swan has an orange beak). It tried to run when the animal control officer tried to grab it, but it didn't get far. It hissed at the man, but the man calmly and gently grabbed the neck in one hand and wrapped his other arm around the body and put it in the truck. If it had been out there a little longer, it would have eventually laid down its head and we wouldn't have found the carcass until spring.

Midwestern woman becomes tiresome

Self-involvement is deadly for one's personality and one's writing, but gosh it's so hard to avoid becoming self-involved, especially when you have a cold. And the medium of email can make it worse, because, though I'm ready to laugh when I email someone the litany of my woes, the response to email comes days later and from a person who doesn't see that I'm willing and ready (eager!) to laugh (though I have awful cold that makes me want to lie behind back wheels of fuel oil delivery vehicle in which the driver is now writing a bill for 300 gallons; diesel truck won't start because fuel has gelled, and when it finally does start antifreeze squirts everywhere; pipes have frozen and burst in laundry room; we ran out of firewood and husband is sick and feverish but we must cut, collect and split it nonetheless; ice dams have built up so water is running into the house through the windows; squirrel chews through screen to get on porch and can't get off so wreaks havoc all night). If I said this to you in person, you would say something to make me laugh, and I would immediately stop feeling sorry for myself. In truth, I know I have it easy; I have not had debilitating open heart surgery (like Mike M.), or back surgery that has just resulted in my job being terminated (like my sister Sheila), or even an addiction (beyond food) that adversely affects my health, or COPD (like Chris), an expensive and exhausting divorce (like Tom) . In other words, despite this stupid cold, I have my health. God, that's boring.

Bundling Up

Christopher tried to plow the road this morning. He put on the Carhartt coveralls, the insulated bomber hat, the big gloves, scarf. The tractor, Chris's Ford 8-N, started but stalled out in Dave's driveway next door and would not be re-started with jumper cables, so the road did not get plowed. Chris towed the tractor home with the big truck (no easy task since the plow was down and at a severe sideways angle), but he had to go to work and so couldn't take the time to figure out what was wrong. My little diesel truck, on the other hand, wouldn't start at all, though I repeatedly heated the glow plugs and ran the blow dryer on various parts of the engine. So I had to drive the big truck to the farm to feed the donkeys, and, no, I did not dare drive into the driveway but left it out by the neighbor's house and walked in. The donkeys were so cold they were spooky and jumped at every movement I made and kept hunching up their backs. So I decided to put the donkey blankets. This seems like folly, since they'll probably tear them off each other and destroy them in the process, but it's just so cold in the barn. So I fastened the blankets around them and wrapped all the hooks and snaps in duct tape, and let them go. They tore around the pasture in their jackets, one in navy and the other in hunter green. The jackets did not seem to limit their motion--Jack mounted Don Quixote while I watched and Don Quixote kicked him solidly with both back feet. Meanwhile I was wearing double socks (one cotton, one wool) inside insulated lace-up snow boots from Canada, double long underwear (one silk, one military issue polypropylene), microfiber shirt topped by long underwear shirt, topped by turtleneck, topped by zip-up vest, all under Carhartt overalls, covered with big parka, two headbands covered with warm hat, with parka hood up, two scarves, and one pair lightweight stretchy gloves plus one big mitten that Dave left here last year and one big fiberfill glove with a torn finger that I found in the road.