Hard Shelled House Guest

I've got four of these little guys sitting in a box in the guest room.  They were hatched at the museum and have been living there (they're about a year old now) but now they need to be released so I've brought them home to the swamp.  The next couple of nights are still going to be chilly, though, so I'll wait a couple of days.

Having them around reminded me of Bob's Great Turtle Adventure last year--which went unnoted because that's when the blog was in haitus.  Last June he found a disturbed turtle nest just outside the barn--where we sometimes have to drive one of the cars or the jeep.  Normally we just protect nests when we find them, but this was in a bad place.  Moving turtle eggs is tricky--just handling them can kill the proto-turtles inside.  But he carefully as possible moved them to a bucket of dirt that we put on the back deck.  And he cared for that bucket of dirt, day after day, week after week, eventually month after month--checking it, misting it to keep it moist, moving it so it was warm but not too hot.  Normally eggs hatch around August.  Which came and went, as did September.  One day in October we were out for most of the day, and talking in the car about that bucket, and saying that it was just about time to give it up.  We came home; I put some stuff away and then went out to see him on the deck, sitting and looking at the bucket of dirt that he had cared for, with an odd look on his face.

Because it was filled with baby turtles.

The miracle had happened--12 of the 15 eggs survived to produce wee turtles.

Then came the hard part.  After months of caring for that bucket of dirt that turned into a bucket of tiny turtles -- he let them go.  That's how it works in nature--they're on their own from the first moment.  He gave them a head start--they didn't get eaten as eggs (the most common fate) or upon hatching.  We gave them a day to get used to being out and around, and then took them down to an eddy in the stream and watched them slide into the water and paddle off in their 12 different directions.

Chairs with a View

We have a back deck on the house, off grade, with a lovely view of the woods.

  Most of the deck has been wired in for the use of whatever animal needs a little TLC (say, a sick chicken) or my various fosters (squirrels, opossums).  Otherwise it's for the use of the cats.  But a wee bit is for us.

But I don't spend much time out there.  It was sort of an area for general purpose dumping of whatever temporarily needed a home (OK,  I'll confess.  Mostly for fleeces I can't resist buying, even though I have enough fiber to keep me spinning for an unnaturally long life.)  I am putting this in past tense because I did clean it all up about two years ago when we had the house repainted, with the intention of having a sitting area for a cup of tea and a book.

Two years, and the sitting area hadn't happened.  What I needed was a place to sit.  I had a folding wooden chair out there, but it hits my back just in the wrong spot.  But my problem is that I'm really really bad at spending money on anything (except, it seems, for fleece and fiber).  When I do buy something, I want a certain degree of excitement over it, not "meh, it'll do."   So for two years I looked at outdoor furniture, and for two years I went "meh."  Especially since unless you go for plastic the stuff's pretty expensive.

Finally I spotted it.  At a new pop-up thrift store next to the gas station where we sometimes get a hamburger (don't judge--they make good burgers).  Two metal chairs and a love seat.   A style you used to see on front porches everywhere--so I don't know if I should call them "vintage," "retro," "old fashioned,"  or just "dated."   But I love the look, they're quite comfortable, and the price was certainly right.

Of course, they needed a bit of love (like a few hours with a pressure washer, wire brush, scraper, and a couple of cans of spray paint.)

But no table.  I was resigning myself to a couple of years of looking at "meh, it'll do" tables and not getting one when I remembered that stuck in a closet were a couple of sheesham  wood tables (which I liked well enough to keep but didn't really have any place to put them).  Dug one out, cleaned it up, and voila!  My sitting area!

Now to get that book and cup of tea.  Fast.  Here--the time between "uh, it's only 50 degrees and a little chilly to be sitting in a metal chair" and "ugh--it's 85 degrees and the biting flies and mosquitoes are driving me crazy" is about three days.  Better enjoy them while I can.

Except . . . sigh.  I have often discussed with my friend Gill that I lack the "clean gene."  Other people seem to be able to clean--I just uncover more dirt.  So, sitting in my chair with my tea and book, I found I had to keep my gaze up to that lovely view.  Because right in front of me is the low wall of the deck.  Where we have the squirrel feeder (after I release my baby squirrels I of course forever put food out for them.  Where the squirrels run back and forth.  Uncontrolled, unhousebroken squirrels.  I couldn't help but notice that what was supposed to be a khaki tan wall was, well, sort of a streaky brown.  So out came the bucket and cleaning towel and magic eraser and *then* tea and book.  No--I'm not posting a before picture--it was sort of gross.

Odd Coincidence: Tablet

I was reading the Neil Gaiman short story "The Truth is a Cave in the Mountain."

Near the beginning, a strange wee man approaches a crofter's house, seeking a guide to a mystical cave in the mountain.

Sensing something supernatural, the crofter tells his young son to go inside:

"Calum, go back to the house."
"But da --"
"Tell your mother I said she was to give you some tablet.  You like that. Go on."

Expressions crossed the boy's face--puzzlement, hunger, happiness--and then he turned and ran back to the white house.


Hmmmm-- tablet?  When I think of tablet, it's this:

The current generation thinks of this:

Previous generations might have thought of this:

But, in general, it's something to write on ("quick, my tablet.  'Tis meet I write it down.")

On the other hand, it can be a pill.

Neither seemed to fit in with the context of the story.  I assumed it was something to eat, put it in the back of my mind to look up, finished the story, probably read another one, did other stuff, and forgot about it.

For two days.  Then, I was perusing Pinterest--that source of all things random.  There, amidst the pictures for tightening your butt, keeping the house from smelling of cat pee, how to make a salad in a mason jar, and steampunk costume--was a recipe for Scottish Tablet (did I mention the story takes place in Scotland?)

Apparently it's a cooked milk sweet, similar to the Latin dulce de leche.  (Combine milk, butter, sugar, and condensed milk and cook it down.  Sounds sweet enough to make your teeth curl)

In the back of my mind, I was hearing the theme music of "Twilight Zone."  Seriously--what are the chances that I would hear this obscure term twice in two days?

Now I want to make some.  And maybe write about it.  On a tablet.