Category Archives: rural

Come To Vermont

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If Jesus were alive today, he’d operate a snowplow.

We have arranged a nice dumping for you. They’re pumpin’ out the white stuff as we speak. But this is just a primer.

You behind the wheel, baby.

It will go on for 2 days, then the sun will come out.  Catch you on the slopes, the trails, and in the sugar shack. BYO hooch.

“God made the LIFT to get me UP.”
(hover cursor over fotos)

DEET Plus…at Renys* of Maine

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LP BG

Pinky is loaded with fresh DEET for spring fishin’.

You always find something at Renys. Today’s mouthwatering score: a Little Playmate. It’s no longer called that ~ prolly some trademark dispute with Playboy.  I got my first from bigmama12 on eBay.

Next, at a church sale, I bought a weird knockoff that seemed more suited to organ transport. Could be…they hold blood drives at that church; maybe they removed parts from donors high on blood loss — and my Little Fauxmate got left behind. I named it Pentagram.**

I hope Pinky Tuscadero holds up like the true Playmate from the 80s. Shaped suspiciously like a six-pack, this vintage workingman’s lunchbox can withstand being driven over by a pickup. But you can’t run it through a dishwasher and don’t ask me how I know that.

Charles named his The Real McCoy.

*No apostrophe. That’s rural punctuation for you!

**Always name your Little Playmate.

Obey the Sign

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i'd tap that shoe oddity biggerMy own weird example of asking for (and receiving) a sign is how I landed in L.A.  I had abandoned NYC after 1 too many psychotic boss & boyfriend let-downs and was living in VT. The ponies! The lakes! But I was fraternizing/knitting with people twice my age. Knowing I could relocate back to VT, a retirement/casket state, I asked the Forces one day while driving: “Forces, where should I move?”

Exactly then, the Killington radio station WEBK (The Peak) played Randy Newman’s I Love L.A.  [Who would spin that song at a New England ski resort — DJ Jungle Jane?]  I laffed. I left.  “I got it; I’m gone.”

While snowshoeing today, a cloud formation looked suspiciously like the I’d Tap That t-shirt maple tree. Clearly it means I should tap that.

Obey the sign, even if you didn’t ask for it.

I’d Tap That

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i'd tap that - redIf you love innuendo ~ and I know you do ~ behold my favorite t-shirt on Earth.  A male friend says this in public to rankle me, so I dig that their ads show chicks wearing it.

I kick myself daily for not buying one at the Tunbridge World’s Fair. Happily, Independent Vermont Clothing has restocked so I can order online…just in time for spring skiing, the only kind of skiing I do. Why else I need this shirt*: the colors, gr8 cotton, price, made by actual Vermonters weary of the same old krep you see at every tourist stop…plus, it’s sugaring season!

Stuff: hand printed in VT.  Motto: “Spreading Vermont Pride, Worldwide.” Ethic: when Hurricane Irene hit, they designed a shirt and sent all the proceeds ($26K+) to the VT Red Cross. I don’t know them. But I lerv them.

*or hooded sweatsi'd tap that long-sleeve blondehirt made of heavy sweatshirt fabric I personally wouldn’t call a “hoodie”, one of my favorite words to hate, ever.

@indievtclothing

If This Doesn’t Blow Your Mind Wide Open ~

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sarah kay~ whether you like photography, metaphysics, New York City in the snow, non-combative spoken-word poetry, young people with insane talent, or Ted Talks ~ if this piece by Sarah Kay doesn’t blow your mind wide open, you are already dead.

And I say that with utmost respect, from the sticks, well on my own way to Kepler 22-b.

Vermonters Don’t Wear Bikinis**

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Silver Lake SP in snow

*Today’s post is brought to you by the letter “S”.

As a modern Vermonter, you know that for the real snow, you’ll have to move to New York, Baltimore, or DC…Hell, even Fairfield. Welcome to the New Climate. So after a good dumping here, you’d better git out and play ~ whether that’s shoveling, snowman building, skiing, snowboarding, or shoeing.*

This is the entrance to the Silver Lake State Park. Hard to imagine that in a few months we’ll be there in our bikinis. Oh, wait…**

Jack Frost Nipping at Your…

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frost largerRegardless of what part he’s nipping, nibbling, or gnawing at, we’ve had just about enough of it. Enter cabin fever.

Disclaimer: The above link will not take you to a Wikipedia discourse on the history of cabin fever, a term first recorded in 1918, but to the IMDb coverage of a 2002 movie by this name about five 20-somethings in a cabin in the woods who “fall victim to a horrifying flesh-eating virus, which attracts the unwanted attention of the homicidal locals.”

Given a choice, I’d go virus. But I just don’t think I’m going to see this fine work, much as I like the poster.

Ice Fishing in Vermont in 30 mph Winds

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ice fishermanI asked this congenial nutter why he was ice fishing in 30 MPH winds. The answer? Power out at home. Due to 30 MPH winds. Gone fishin’.

Below is your typical Vermont ice hut. They come on wheels or skis, for hauling. Tempura batter recipe for fish here.

The point is you’re fishing, and drinking, inside. ice hutMan is resourceful.

While You Were Making 7-Layer Dip for Sooperbowl

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mouse truckin' thru snow

Click to see sparkles.

…I was out snowshoeing in a world of sparkles. Photo doesn’t do the sparkles justice, but it does show how Mousy-mouse made his way thru the snow.

Here you can see where he thought, mouse about face in snow“Going this way, going this way…nahhhhh, that’s no good; gonna go this way.”

It only sparkles when it’s bloody cold out. I want your dip.

The Call of the Wild

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Hoping little Jack London grows into those ears.

…is apparently not that strong. A new wave of mice moving indoors has set the Freedom Chronicles back in motion.

Only these guys don’t want to leave their Tomkat “Live Catch” Torture Box once in the wild. Stockholm Syndrome? Too chilly out? Who knows. Never try to get into the head of a mouse.