Later. Peace. Out.


The weekly drone of letters just keeps droning on. Every once in a while something gets my hackles up. But if I don’t start to catch more fish, that’ll raise my temperature, too. Here’s what Ellen and Reid scoped out last week – along with a prelude to another foray into Southern salt water.

————————-

September 8, 2014

Ellen/Reid: Animal lovers, or at least those who love insects, are gonna hate me after a shocking discovery that ants were eating holes in my hard-won tomatoes. I brought the fruits – and the ants – inside to wash and slice off the infested areas. After a quick determination of guilt the ants went down the disposal for a summary execution. My vine has outlasted the vile and invasive HOA garden Nazis, and it will also survive marauding ants. It’s kind of too bad because there was a column in the science portion of this morning’s paper about how good insects were. These particular ants weren’t among the good ones.

I poked my head up from my work laptop this morning just in time to watch a doe and her two fawns tiptoe from the grassy common area to the shelter of the greenbelt. Of course I got up to take a photo but was slow on the draw and didn’t get much of a picture. These creatures must be totally oblivious to mankind. Not 70 yards away, the big machines in the development taking shape behind me were grinding away at whatever they grind away on. The deer showed no concern whatsoever at the din behind them.

However, I show concern. The developer has stripped away a huge chunk of the greenbelt down to the stream behind my house in apparent violation of the pact between my HOA and his project. His drawings all showed – and they assured us – there would be an 80 yard buffer zone of trees that would remain untouched and now they’ve ground them all down to dirt level. The bastards. This is just a brazen disregard of what we were shown, and it impacts a lot more owners than it does me since my sight lines are still okay – but the tree canopy we were told would stay is largely gone. What the hell was the builder thinking? It just frosts me.

The local NPR reporter visits me tomorrow at 3:30 p.m. to walk my path. He said he’ll bring his walking shoes. I pinged Betsy about it but she said to just be myself. I’m worried the scofflaws who dump trash will take the day off and I’ll have little to pick up. But we’ll just have to see how it goes. I’m still not quite sure how the NPR/Dave connection came about but we’ll make the most of it. I’m a little concerned about the shoddiness of pickupyourpath.com but it’s too late to worry about that now. We’ll go with the flow. I told the reporter I’d give him a bag, too. Ha ha.

Tori Furstenau is going to visit me Friday night. She made a snafu with an airline reservation. She chose Charlotte rather than Charleston. Oops. Sounds like your Thanksgiving snafu a few years ago, Ellen. But she’ll live. Bob sent me a hurried message once they discovered the situation. She gets in about midnight after renting a car.

You'd think this portion of the Intercoastal waterway at Charleston would hold fish. Why would you think that when I'm involved?

You’d think this portion of the Intercoastal waterway at Charleston would hold fish. Why would you think that when I’m involved?

It will make for an interesting night since I will be up and outta here by 4:30 a.m. to head toward the ocean with the kayak. I won’t be all that far from Charleston in a place called Mt. Pleasant, South Carolina. It’s new fishing spot for me. Might as well spread the wealth (that is, not catching any fish) between two states. I’m glad Tori is coming down since I cannot recall the last time I’ve had any visitors other than solicitors trying to sell magazines door to door. I think Mike and Mort were the last two, and that was some time ago. Since I’ll be out the door by the time she gets up, I’ll have the coffee pot ready to go and she can leave the key under one of the outside door mats. She’ll have three scenic hours ahead of her. It’ll be an easy drive. She’s welcome to bunk her on the return trip, too.

So by the time you get this I’ll be wrestling with trying to get the kayak atop the car and all my gear stowed in the trunk. I just hope to come back smelling like fish for a change. Later. Peace. Out.

Love, Dad

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