Liking the Rain

Rain, rain, go away // come again another day...

When it rains, it pours...

Rain makes corn // corn makes whiskey...

Raindrops keep falling on my head...

It’s raining cats and dogs...

I love a rainy night...

And many, many more for certain...but I won’t extoll every single rain quote or song lyric here and now...

Life isn't waiting for the storm to pass...yadda, yadda...

Many people don’t care for the rain.  It messes with their plans, it can cause damage, it makes the roads slick, it makes non-drivers stupid, it makes people sad or cranky...in general many just don’t seem to want it.  I get that, but yet, I say bring it on!  First of all, we need it!  No water, no life!  There is so much good from the rain!  And trust me – at the moment where I live, we are seeing a lot of it.  I am certain we had over 5 inches fall in 3 hours last night.  Yes, there was flooding and the typical chaos ensued.  I will admit it’s been a long time since I’ve seen flooding like that.  Ok, that’s not rain...that’s a deluge...and with the report of a newly formed hurricane looming to add to it I say I might need to build an ark.

But regardless, I still like the rain and lightning storms.

Now mind you, I am no stranger to routine flooding.  I grew up in a 250+ year old farmhouse that turned into an island every time it rained 2 or more inches at once.  Between the creek that ran through the side horse field and the even larger creek across the street, that would flood the roadway, the house felt like a castle with its own deceptively devastating moat.  Scary though it was I secretly found it kind of cool.  It was then that I came to understand the sheer power of water.

The awesome thing though was the basement actually had a moat built into it to catch the water that poured in through the old fieldstone foundation.  And I mean moat...not French drain, not weep pipe, not anything you can possibly use in today’s modern houses – I am talking a 2 foot deep (in some spots) 1 foot wide open trench that rimmed the walls in the cellar, the center of which was a thick cement pad, known as a floating floor.  The entire basement was divided by stone foundation into 3 distinct rooms, so you actually had the “front” cellar, the “wine” cellar and “root” cellar.  The last two portions had dirt floors so the trenches there were just enough to divert water to the moat.  And they constantly ran water so the sound of trickling water in the basement was never absent, even in drought years.

The oil furnace and tank were on the concrete floor pad of the front cellar and when the fan would run, it sounded like a sleeping, snoring dragon in there, (at least to my father and me).

But then it would rain...

The rain would awaken the dragon.  I would go down the steps and listen.  Then the sump pump would suddenly kick on, loudly – and scare the hell outta me, even though I was listening for it – sounding like the dragon had awakened growling and snorting...(of course it was the initial draw of the sump pump, then the sound as it cavitated when the water level dropped too low for it).  I would unceremoniously run back up the stairs laughing and write whatever the encounter caused my over-active imagination to believe.

So yeah, I like the rain.

--Rya

Being Catholic

The Pope is in town, and the faithful are beside themselves with joy.  This guy is a rock star in so many more ways than one. 

Work it, Pontiff.

I was born a Catholic.  I was baptized as a wee babe, I made it through my First Holy Communion without spitting out the Host (which I would have sworn was Styrofoam), and I committed to memory the Gloria and the Confiteor and the Nicene Creed and the “short version” of the Our Father (other Catholics know what I mean there) and how to sing “Oh Come All Ye Faithful” in Latin before I was ten years old.  I attended CCD classes with a very strict nun and I made it all the way through Confirmation and was happy to get the Beatitudes straight.

I, like others, have several stories about going to Confession…like the time I lost my balance in the confessional and fell, and the resounding boom echoed in the huge old church for what felt like eternity, and the priest quietly asked if I was okay before continuing.  There was also the time I drew a blank on what sins I’d committed and flipped frantically through my Child’s Book of Confession, only to wave it helplessly and tell the priest to just put me down for everything in there (I could see him trying not to laugh through the screen) and he just gave me a couple of Hail Marys for penance because anything else would have made him bust a gut.

My parents made certain my sister and I had a proper Catholic upbringing, and we went faithfully to Mass every Sunday.  Of course, it would be only a matter of time before my sister and I had to be separated because we would always find something to giggle about – the cantors, for example, had nicknames, like “Julie Andrews,” and “Tiny Voice Woman” and one was simply a hand gesture, which he used to tell everyone to join in the chorus, and to this day it always sends us to our knees with laughter.  Then there were the deacons, like “Story of the Story” (he repeated his words over and over) and “Ta-dayyyyyy,” who had an extraordinarily thick, slow Southern drawl and would read so slowly that it felt like I’d be in service for a week.  I can hear my sister laughing from here as she reads this.  She'll confirm all of it.

Nevertheless, we continued to attend, because despite the humor, we still enjoyed the ancient majesty of the Catholic service, the huge old church, and especially the sense of stately ceremony, especially on Easter Vigil and Christmas Midnight Mass.  I enjoyed the music, and inserted myself into it by joining the handbell choir.  I had many a great time with wonderful people in that choir.  When the director quit, the choir fell apart, and to this day, I miss it terribly.  I understand they have regrouped, but for me, it just wouldn’t be the same without that director and the other fun folks.

A few years ago, my strict churchgoing began to drop off.  I get up for work at 4am, as you already know, and I took advantage of sleeping in on Sunday mornings.  As time rolled on, I was surprised to find myself a “twice a year” Catholic – Easter and Christmas – and sometimes even those are questionable.  I know, I know – God doesn’t judge, but a part of me - that little girl in white gloves and black shiny shoes - still feels the sting of guilt for not attending like I should. 

So today, I’ve had the TV on all day on Channel Pontiff.  I’ve watched His Holiness stop the Pope Mobile to kiss babies, shake hands, and take selfies with the faithful.  I’ve watched him canonize a saint, and hold High Mass in Spanish.  And I’ve found that there’s still a part of me that knows God walks in all of us, and even though my churchgoing days have slowed, I found that I talk to God in my own way, and on my own time. 

So peace be with all of us today.  Love your neighbor, forgive (or ignore) the self-proclaimed pundits who post anti-Christian crap on Facebook, and dance your way through life.  Just don't trip in the confessional.  

As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.  Amen.

--Rebecca

Autumn

Finally!  According to the calendar fall is here. . .not sure about you but for me that kicks off the beginning of my favorite time of the year – from here to the end of it.  So actually fall and winter for me are the best.  From the first day of fall to the last day of the year I am ecstatic.

Hello, gorgeous.

Why?

WEATHER.  Oh let’s start with cooler weather.  BAM!  Hoodie weather.  Love my hoodies.  The cool crisp air feels good in the chest.  The cool breezes that give just that little chill that makes me burrow deeper into my hoodie.

BUGS.  As in NONE!  Yeah, not afraid of them, just tired of them being up in my face all summer long.  Because trust me I am the first one who will catch bugs in my house and turn them loose outside instead of killing them. 

TREES.  I love to see the leaves change in autumn.  Living in the mountains I get that privilege in spades.  The explosion of gold, red, yellow and russet leaves falling into the edge of the horse fields turns the green grasses into a particolored display.

HORSES.  The cooler weather is ideal horse weather.  Now yes anytime is a good time to ride, but the fall and into the early winter is the best.  The weather is perfect – not too hot, not too cold and the horses can just go all day long.  Riding in the first early snowfall is where it’s at.  Just as the snow starts to fall the horses sense the serenity that comes with it and as you ride in simple silence there is no better peace for the soul.

HARVEST.  I am relatively decent backyard gardener and I make everything I can, from tomato sauce to pepper relish, pickles, soups – you get the picture.  I dry, can, and I freeze everything I grow.  There is great satisfaction in eating the foods you have made from seed to harvest.

PUMPKINS.  Everywhere, just everywhere.  And in everything.  (I am a coffee drinker and love some seasonal pumpkin spice creamer in my coffee.) Pumpkins are the best single decoration for the entire tail end of the year.  They go with everything!  Pair them up with homegrown Indian maize for decoration.  And when ready make pumpkin pie and multicolored popcorn – the best desert and snack ever!

FROST.  The anticipation of waking up to that first sunrise of frost, which turns the world into a glittering realm makes me check out the window first thing when I get up.  Guaranteed to put an impish grin on my face!

WINTER.  And that of course leads to the thrill of the first snowfall that every school age child dreams of.  I am far from school age anymore, but I am just as excited as the neighborhood kids when I see all that white stuff falling from the sky.  Even simple flurries can just keep me grinning like the Cheshire Cat!

Then of course there are the big three:

Halloween.

Thanksgiving.

Christmas.

No need to extrapolate here!  Yes I love them all.  Yes I decorate for them all.  Yes I am that raging fanatic that has 40 storage crates of decorations – EACH!

What can I say?  At least I admit it.  I’m in full blown holiday mode from beginning to end.  And I absolutely love it!

Autumn is where it’s at.  It is a gateway we all get to step through every year. It is a return to childhood and simple make believe if you want it to be.  You just have to believe.

 -- Rya

The Tao of "Why"

Hi folks, Rebecca here.  So this is the fifth day in a row that I have awakened at 2am for no reason whatsoever.  2am.  Or 1:57.  Or 2:03.  Still, give or take a few minutes, I'm awake at the SAME DAMN TIME every night.  And I have lain there, trying in vain to go back to sleep, until my alarm goes off at 4am.  

Why is that?  Why?  Why do we always ask "why?"  Sometimes there's an answer, sometimes there isn't.  We can blame that on the Tao of Why.

Good old Wikipedia defines "the Tao" as "the intuitive knowing of 'life' that of which cannot be grasped full-heartedly as just a concept but known nonetheless through actual living experience of one's everyday being."  Um, yeah.  That's just useless, W; if I wanted whacked-out poetry, I'd get out some e.e. cummings and chow down, scratching my head through it all and asking myself what the fuck I just read before starting over.

At any rate, some things can't be answered, and when you're stumbling about on five days of less than 3 hours of sleep, your brain really starts churning out some wild shit.  Like, am I waking up because someone or something was in my room and willed me awake?  (That would freak me out, especially because my husband was on travel all week.)  Did some smidgen of my subconscious, astrally projected out into the wild black yonder that is my lucid dreamland, instinctively know about that earthquake in Chile yesterday and came flying back to tell me about it, thus awakening me from slumber?  Was it just trucks downshifting on the highway that reached my inner ear through the layers of cottony semi-coma?  (BTW, I really hate FedEx for their damned jake brakes.) 

Why??  Why couldn't the faceless phantom or subconscious beastie wait until the alarm went off?  Couldn't you for cripe's sake just have waited a couple more hours, and hit me with this after I was already up, so I could stagger to the bathroom and stare at my frumpy morning self blearily in the mirror, wondering what the hell just happened? Nope. The Tao of Why will not allow me to grasp the concept, remember.  I have to be awakened with this in the middle of the night.

What's even better is when you get a brain dump and your cerebrum happily starts downloading song lyrics, news reels, and Jimmy Carter spewing useless rhetoric, all tangled together in an incomprehensible sailor's knot of sound and light, and then you remember some job you forgot to do at work, which you immediately start trying to solve while Taylor Swift blathers through her latest song (probably singing backwards) and cats and gummy bears dance ballet around you in purple tutus.  This is not the shit you want happening when you're trying to get back to sleep.  But yet, this has been my life for the past five nights.  I can't even blame it on alcohol.

Go, brain.  Run away, you're fucking DRUNK.

Why?

No answer, except, "just because."  A piss-poor answer, but it'll have to do because nothing else will fit.  Damn you, Tao of Why.  You're right.

"Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die."  Well, thanks, Lord Tennyson.  What I'll do is take some Nyquil and hope I get some sleep tonight.  Maybe the next blog will make much more sense.  Never write when you're tired, folks.  It makes Alice in Wonderland look like frickin Ghandi.

To sleep, perchance to dream...just not about tsunamis and gummy bears, please.  Sweet dreams, all.

-- Becca

9/11. Never Forget.

Today is Patriot’s Day.  Those of us here at FarCrutchProductions want to take this time to thank the members of our military, fire and police forces.  Thank those you see today, and remember those who lost their lives that fateful day, be they of the groups mentioned above, or one of the innocent civilians lost in New York, Washington, or Shanksville.  And remember those who have lost their lives in the ensuing wars since.

Fourteen years after this despicable act, our nation still bears the wounds.  It will be a long, long time before they heal enough to be called scars.  Until the threat of global terrorism has ended, these wounds need to remain open.  Their pain needs to be fresh so that we can still draw on that source and bear the resolve necessary to continue to fight.

We Americans are a loud, mouthy, opinionated bunch...always have been, and always will be.  But that is not a weakness.  We are more likely to stand up for ourselves, let our opinions be known, and tell you the things that you may not want to hear.  We do not always agree with each other – that is human nature.  But when it counts, we stand together.

There is truth to the phrase – “when the goin’ gets tough, the tough get goin’.”

We are tough.  We are proud.  We are free.  And we are unapologetic about it. 

So never forget those who have given their lives, and never turn your back on these who are still willing to do so.  They do this for you, for me, for everyone.

God Bless America!
--Rya

Mass Dandelion Break

Time for a rant, folks.

Every morning when I wake up - at the ungodly hour of 4am, no less - the first thing I grab (other than the cat, to get her butt away from my face) is the TV remote.  I blindly turn on the TV to NBC and lie there in a half-zonked stupor, slowly absorbing the news of the morn.

And it is always shit. Negative, nasty shit.  Seriously, gray clouds everywhere.  Everyone hates everyone, someone else got shot, stabbed, hit by a car, snake-bit, punched in the face, kidnapped.  The camera is always zoomed in on fake, orange-tinted politicians with wild-ass hair and huge, phony "Hey, GOOD TO SEE YA" slimy car-salesman smiles.

I'm sick of nitpicking politicians, negative news, useless killings, forest fires, hit-and-run accidents, the whole dog-eat-dog world.  After 30 seconds of "news," I wake up pretty quick, literally and figuratively, and I change the channel to "I Love Lucy," or a movie on HBO.  I might not be up to snuff on my News Of The World, but I'd rather watch Jon Snow kill a bunch of White Walkers than put up with the bullshit happening out there.

And that, dear people, is why I write.  I write to escape the Hillarys and Trumps and kale-chewing, Bible-thumping uber-fanatics of our real world, and create my own.  Because at least there, I have control of the situation.  I can manipulate everything to go my way, move the arms and legs of our heroines like Gumby and Pokey bendy figures, bang out my own Happily Ever After while explosions and rioting and #AllLivesMatter continue unnoticed on the boob tube behind me.

Everyone needs their own Silent Lucidity, the ability to bend your dreams to your whim, or a place to go when the world just gets to be too much.  Writing is my dandelion patch.  (Thank you, Berke Breathed, creator of the incredible "Bloom County," for this analogy.)  So when life gives you lemons, pitch those bitches at the TV and head out with Opus the Penguin for your dandelion break.  Don't forget your tea and a good novel. -- Rebecca

Clancy of the Overflow

Hey, Rebecca again, and it's poetry time, folks!  From time to time I'll come across a great quote or poem and I'll share it with you.

I was watching an old favorite movie tonight - "The Man from Snowy River" - and suddenly remembered the character of Clancy was the basis for several of Banjo Paterson's poems.  How many of you know about Banjo Paterson?  Well, if you live in Australia, he's incredibly well known..."Waltzing Matilda" comes to mind; I KNOW you've heard of that one.  No?  Well, look it up.

I'm also a huge fan of Colleen McCollough's "The Thorn Birds," which I've read several times, and Banjo is mentioned in there, too.  I remember the first time I read "The Thorn Birds" - soon after watching the miniseries, of course - and came across the first few stanzas of "Clancy of the Overflow" in one of the chapters.  The poem was so perfectly rhymed and had such outstanding meter that it would have made Shakespeare applaud.  It stuck in my head for months.  I had it locked away in my mental treasure chest, and only while watching the movie tonight did I suddenly remember how I loved it, so I found it online to share.  Read, and enjoy the excellence.

CLANCY OF THE OVERFLOW - A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
   Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
   Just "on spec", addressed as follows: "Clancy, of The Overflow".

And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
   (And I think the same was written in a thumbnail dipped in tar)
'Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
   "Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."

In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
   Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
   For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
   In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
  And at night the wondrous glory of the everlasting stars.

I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
    Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
   Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.

And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
   Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
   Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
  As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
   For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

And I somehow fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
   Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cashbook and the journal -
   But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow."

The Bulletin, 21 December 1889.

Titles and Icons and Layout, Oh My!

Hi folks, Rebecca here.  So, I'm sitting here with a bottle of Coke Zero working double duty against a raging headache and the hell that is summertime heat, and I just hit a major milestone - I figured out how to put the social media icons on this page.  (They're up in the upper right hand corner, by the way, and they spin! How cool!)  Thank you to the nice folks at Helplogger for giving me the exact code to enter into the HTML. 

I tell ya, this webpage building is enough to cause someone to stroke out pretty quickly.  I really need some whiskey for this Coke Zero.  Hey dragons, whiskey, please.

Anyhoo, Part 2 of "And They Shall Be Nameless" (ATSBN-2, for the uninitiated), subtitled "The Wreck of Humanity," is moving along well.  I just finished updating the Kindle version, after Rya and I agreed on text and title for the prologue, and I'll be starting the formatting for the Smashwords version soon. Ry is drawing the cover again for this one, and it's gonna be a beaut, people!  I stuck with the same fonts for the titles, but changed the colors to reflect the trials and tribulations of our two heroines...so here ya go, side by side.  These will look fantastic on my bookshelf - hope you think so, too.