In March an ordinance passed in Barnstead, wrapped in a pretty package masquerading as protection of our water table under the guise of a way to stop companies from coming in and pumping bottled water from that table.

            There’s something about the early October air that invites a quicker step and a deeper breath.  The sunny days warm the breeze, but it’s cool now underneath.  It makes me want to pick apples, cook them down, and put up jars of applesauce for the winter.  I don’t think I’ll heed the call this year; too many other things are luring me out of the kitchen.  But every year I want to do this.  Of course, if I were really serious about canning, I would’ve started weeks ago, when the tomatoes and all manner of insistent vegetables were demanding my attention. 

I am a lifelong learner and innately curious. I wouldn't consider myself an intellectual, but I do believe myself to be a thinking person. Having said that one of my greatest curiosities is the true believers of the Obama campaign. I recognize that certain people on both sides of the political spectrum can become enamored of a candidate. Some will be taken by a person's looks or charisma, some passionately believe in candidate's positions and causes.  These are all things that can be explained and conversely understood. What perplexes me is that none of these things can be said about Barak H. Obama

This event took place in 1996 -

      Early spring, March, Theia was bred to Magnum; two virgin creatures that rather have company in the “love pen” than not.  Neither dog would react to the other if I were not physically inside the ten foot by eight-foot dog pen to watch over the breeding.       I was as virgin about breeding dogs as the dogs were about mating. A week of estimating the timing, commuting Guilford to Hamden, Connecticut and guidance from friends at the vets we were successful.  Sixty-three days later Theia whelped a littler of nine healthy, sturdy, yellow Labrador retrievers all of whom resembled little piglets more than puppies with their pushed in bright pink noses, pudgy bodies, tiny otter tails and little grunting noises.  Willow was the ninth pup delivered at 3:17 AM on May 30, 1996.  She was still unclaimed and unnamed at that point.             Theia belongs to my sister and when the whelping process began early evening the first put finally arrived around 11:30 PM.       Waking Wendy, the two of us cooed and stroked Theia as she let nature takes its coarse.  The first, a male, was all yellow and even before he was cleaned and suckling the second began to arrive. Eventually, my sister became bored with the lack of variety, all pups were yellow and looked the same, and tired she retired to bed.      Alone with Theia I hoped the remainder of the whelp would go smoothly and Theia would handle the situation.  Every fifteen to twenty minutes she whelped a puppy until sleep over came us both around 2:15 AM.  I felt her belly before dozing off and sensed one more puppy waiting to come into this world.  Finally an hour later she made her appearance.  It took a while for Theia to clean the sack off the pups face and time passed, I stepped in to help, but clearly this one wasn’t breathing.  Theia worked diligently licking the pup and gently blowing into her miniature nostrils as she did.  I was struck by this instinctive attempt to resuscitate. Theia new this puppy wasn’t breathing, she was healthy and required air so she worked until successful.  The gentle puffs of air she delivered with each lick were enough to get the pup breathing on her own.  There was a brief moment of panic in my heart as I thought this ninth puppy was not going to survive as she began to turn just slightly in color.           Once cleaned up and breathing on her own the ninth and last puppy born instinctively began to search for sustenance.  I had to complete the cleaning process since Theia was too exhausted to lift her head.  Her job was completed.  The pup squirmed across the sheet, struggled in darkness and driven by instinct, and edged into my armpit.  Imagine, an instinctive search for food only to arrive at a stinky armpit instead of a well of milk.  Marveled by her strength, beauty and perfectly formed miniature canine features, I savored this moment.  The nudging in my armpit tickled; eventually I picked her up, and plugged her into a nipple on Theia’s belly.  I liked this little one, seconds old and we already had a soul touching moment. I pushed the encounter out of mind.  Sleep over came us all, canines and human.  In silence, a new journey was beginning to unfold.   

When someone criticized Winston Churchill, the statesman and highly respected authority on the English language,  for ending a sentence with a preposition, he replied, “This is nonsense up with which I cannot put.”  There is nothing wrong with ending a sentence with a preposition.  Often it’s the only way to form a sentence without turning the words into a pretzel and sounding ridiculous.  Some people learned this meaningless rule from an English teacher, and it stuck in their memories.  Now they look around for opportunities to feel superior to people who break this rule. 

(This analysis was triggered by Karl Rove’s comment this weekend that, if the election were held today, Barack Obama would have three electoral votes more than he needs to be elected.  Everything here comes from conservative Republican analysts and strategists.  I say that because several passionate conservatives honor me by following my comments and taking the time to respond, often passionately.  I got the same passionate criticism, and accusations of bias, from the passionate wing of the Democratic Party during the Presidential Primary campaign.  When passionate partisans on both sides say you’re biased against them, it usually means you’re succeeding at being an analyst, not an advocate.  It’s also important to note that the state polls I draw from here were all conducted BEFORE the vice-presidential debate.  State polls are always “lagging indicators.”)

“Sooner or later, every man sits down to a banquet of consequences” - Robert Louis Stevenson

My mother grew up during the Depression and had to eat mustard sandwiches. As a result my sensibilities have been influenced by many of her penny-pinching habits.

 This entry was written a few years ago, the actual event took place in October 28, 1988. 

A PICTURE IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS. No, make that $700 billion!

THESE SENATORS ARE GIVING THE FINGER TO THE VOTERS. THE PROBLEM IS THAT MOST PROGRESSIVES WILL RE-ELECT THEM. WHAT A BUNCH OF DISTASTEFUL, UNETHICAL EXAMPLES OF EXACTLY WHAT IS WRONG WITH WASHINGTON.

Clementine and Lily are the youngest of our heifers.  Both were born this summer, Clementine to Nectarine and Lily to Muguet.  Their moms are the matriarchs of the herd with Muguet being the top cow and Nectarine her number two. Lily is the sweetest calf imaginable, following anyone like a dog, eager to have her ears scratched.