The Stand of Death

Lawyer and Sid and I assembled another deer stand in preparation for the hunt this fall.

This is it.

It also sports (not shown) a fancy railing that is equipped with a cammo shroud and fancy cammo padding for the seat and seat back and the gun rest.

The gun rest flips back so a shooter with a bow can utilize this stand as well.

It is quite capable of allowing for the indulgence of a nap without the occupant befalling any harm. (Pun intended)

This is our latest purchase of a factory manufactured stand.

The last time we purchased a store-bought elevated stand was more than ten years ago when we acquired a contraption from Fleet Farm that consists of a tubular steel tripod that has a platform with a swiveling boat seat precariously balanced on top.

We call it - The Stand of Death

It is a well-earned name since many a deer has been slain from that strategically located stand.

Alas - it is showing its age and rust is taking its toll. Further reinforcing its pedigree. That is why all the hunters grit their teeth when they clamber up one leg of the tripod to climb onto the flaking platform.

Now I know why I never see these being sold anymore. This flimsy thing is going to kill me when it collapses.

The new stand is much safer. And in recognition of the litigious nature of the world we live-in it sports a half-dozen blaze orange labels (Not To Be Removed Under Penalty of Law) that have all of the requisite legal disclaimers, warnings and heedings conveniently printed in teensy tiny print.

Sunday Night Lights

There is nothing like the spectacle of football at the world’s Mecca of football – The House of Lambeau.












Lawyer invited Sid, the Frau and I to accompany him to the Packer opener against the Bears.

It seems only right that Das Bus would appear here at the Campingplatz. (Hey. Bus guy. Bad grammar. Der Bus.)














No - that is not a flag growing from the head of that clown. It is a poorly composed picture by me.
















Speaking of clowns. These two clowns from Minnesota sat next to my Frau. One a Bear fan and the second a Viking fan. They were a pathetic duo. The sociopath in the Bear jersey insisted on wearing the Frau’s Packer feather boa. He is one sick dude. His sidekick sported a Viking jersey with old broken-down whathisname on it.

We had to put-up with the beer-soaked, drooling blather of these cretins for almost four entire quarters.

With barely a minute left in regulation play the Pack scored from behind to win 21-15. It was at this point that God (who happens to be a Packer fan) struck them dumb. Not a peep.

Good things come in fours. Four injured Bears players are taken from the field. And Cutler throws four interceptions.

Urlacher underwent surgery Monday to repair a dislocated right wrist and is done for the season. Stick a fork in him and check for yourself. He's done. Perhaps that will teach him a lesson for taking a cheap shot at Packer quarterback Aaron Rodgers.

Smell That Derrière

No. Stop. Wait.

That was supposed to read - dairy air.

The wind is favorable today - for my neighbor the dairy farmer - which means he is spreading manure.

When the wind blows in the direction of me and my neighbors - and not in the direction of the house where the farmer with the dairy herd lives - that means it is time to spread liquefied manure on the fields.

I guess we won't be hanging laundry out today...

Anger Management

There has been a great deal of anger and angst on some of the message boards I visit. A recent attempt to inject some humor on one of them appears to have fallen flat.

Oh well. You cannot win them all.

I think I’ll just stay away for a spell and post my ruminations over here at the Campingplatz.

And if all of all of those other folks want to get their undies in a knot that is fine by me. My undies are resting on the floor of the laundry room where the sauerkraut is fermenting.

It has occurred to me that those parents who hollered the loudest about the president speaking to their children might possibly be insecure about their parenting skill-set. Maybe that would explain why they were so afraid?

Sometimes I think that all of the angry yelling has deteriorated into revanchist enmity. Unlike the conservatism of Eisenhower, Nixon or Reagan modern conservatives in many ways have fallen into a pattern of anger and scare tactics.

They might benefit from a stiff dose of intellectual renewal and conquering the higher ground of loyal opposition.

Yet, what do I know.

Anyway - here is something to be scared about.

According to the Office of Management and Budget the estimated deficit for the 2009 fiscal year is $1.58 trillion. Did you know that it took 197 years (1789 to 1985) to amass a deficit of $1.58 trillion?

Furthermore, healthcare spending currently accounts for more than sixteen percent of our gross domestic product. That figure increases by about one percent every three to four years.

That might not seem like much - but the rate of increase is going to really pick-up the pace as all of us boomers get older than we already are. And if it continues on this course we will all end up giving virtually all of our money to the healthcare-industrial complex and not have a sou remaining to spend on other stuff like food, clothing and shelter.

So, in one of life’s great ironies we will be fleeced of our wealth and dead in the end.

Scary - eh?

The President spoke about this the other day and he is going to have an interesting time of trying to reconcile both of these irreconcilable truths.

But I digress. Which is the problem with being alone with your thoughts.

I am having a great day today – puttering in my kitchen, doing the day job shtick. Taking calls, tapping out emails and replies to emails, talking with my people while all the time canning another (and thankfully) last batch of pickles. Tomorrow I do applesauce from this year’s vast crop of apples.

That is unless I am butchering a deer.

The archery opener is tomorrow and this is splendid weather to hunt in. Not too hot. Not too cool. We have gone almost two weeks without rain so there will be no pesky mosquitoes.

I think that tonight the Frau and I will go to town. We will have a cocktail, chat with our favorite waitress and enjoy a fish fry.

Life is good when you’re not angry.

The Skipper and Gilligan

We are from time-to-time a two dog family.

As if Girlfriend wasn’t enough to handle we also have Little Buddy living with us for a spell.

That’s not his real name. It’s just that when the two dogs are together they both remind me of The Skipper and Gilligan.

He is her side-kick. As the Skipper used to say – Little Buddy.

A big, blocky Labrador retriever and a pint-sized terrier mix.

And he’s always making trouble for the steady and reliable skipper.

The Skipper goes out on the lawn to squat to take a leak and he comes along and tinkles on her spot.

The Skipper leaves her Frisbee lying about and he’ll abscond with it resulting in a wild game of keep-away that he ultimately loses.

The Skipper is snoozing on the floor or the porch and he’ll come along and gnaw on her nose until she gives him a whap and sends him flying.

Little Buddy will attempt to mount and hump The Skipper and all hell breaks loose. Little Buddy is all heart.

The two of them get along famously and actually get excited at the mention of each other’s names in the absence of one another.

Little Buddy ordinarily lives with a related family member and he vacations with us when his owners are on vacation.

But unlike Girlfriend - Little Buddy is a city boy. He’s also a momma’s boy – but more about that in a bit.

When he’s with us it’s like sending the city boy away to camp.

There is all sorts of room to run about off-lead. Lots of fresh air and exercise. The world is filled with exotic scents and different scat to sample. There are dark nights lit only by the moon with all sorts of imagined threats to growl and bark at. Get up early and stay up late.

But there is also order and discipline. He has to sleep in his crate and he’s not allowed on the furniture.

He does come prepared with his own chow. And I am cool with that as canines can become accustomed to a certain diet.

Having said that – Little Buddy’s diet includes canned turducken. You know - that southern delicacy made from a chicken stuffed into a duck which is stuffed into a turkey and slowly roasted. A generous supply of which was sent along with him as part of his daily ration. I have never indulged in turducken. Have you? Heretofore I did not know that dogs ate turducken on a regular basis.

That’s not to say that if I dropped an entire, real, whole, turducken on the kitchen floor Girlfriend wouldn’t grab it and run for the border.

But canned turducken for dogs? Lest you not believe it here is the proof.

I swear - I am going to sample this stuff before too long because it smells really yummy when you open a can of it.

On the other hand Girlfriend eats kibble which can be purchased at Fleet Farm in quantities sufficient for a working dog. And she is hardly a picky gourmand.

Make no mistake - Little Buddy is a sweet guy. I just happen to think that he needs spend more time with his burly cousin The Skipper.

You know – toughen him up a bit. Sharpen those soft edges. Indulge his inner wolf.

For instance – he follows my wife around like a shadow. Not me – but the Frau. If she walks to the shed he follows. If she fetches the pick-up truck to haul something he’s right there in the extra cab with her. If she is in the shower he can be found right beside the bathroom door, peering beneath the crack and waiting for her to materialize.

If the Frau leaves to run an errand he’ll tolerate me but wait expectantly on the porch for her arrival. If I leave - I think he’s glad to see me go.

I have a theory about his disdain for me.

I think it is because I used a power saw and nail gun over the weekend and he now associates me – personally – as being the canine kingdom equivalent of Ivan the Terrible.

To top it off - just the other night I went out to the back yard to polish my target shooting with a pistol and after about 14 rounds my lovely wife emerged from the back door to politely ask if I could refrain.

Little Buddy was about to have a heart attack immediately following his tinkling upon the floor.

For The Skipper - gunfire is music to the ears. But my reputation with Little Buddy diminished further.

Yet, with time, Little Buddy is taking to the country life.

Just last night The Skipper and Little Buddy raided a rabbit nest and stoked their inner wolf by dining on bunnies.

As their tummies were full they both went off to bed without supper. No kibble - no turducken.

The Skipper will make a man out of Little Buddy yet.

Just you wait and see.

Random Musings and Idle Chit Chat

That is black bean and corn salsa.

It's a recipe from Chef Andy Weber who owns the Nautical Inn in Sturgeon Bay. I recommend the joint. Tell Andy that Swamp sent you.

It's Labor Day weekend and the Frau and I have been laboring - constructing a picket fence around the kitchen garden.

She dug the post holes one by one, set the posts and mixed and poured the concrete. An industrious woman the Frau is.

This weekend we installed the pickets.

Speaking of Labor Day what do you think of all of that nonsense down at Mercury Marine? What were these people thinking?

I'm going to vote no and lose my job instead of a accepting a wage freeze and sharing more in my health care costs. I'm going to show them a thing or two. I'm going to teach them a big fat lesson. Just you wait and see.

Sanity appears to have prevailed in Fond Du Lac and the insanity has moved along and infected the radical right making them cower in fear over the President speaking to the children.

What is with all of this madness?

I have a good reason to be mad. I still haven't gotten over the loss of this year's corn crop to the raccoons. But yesterday I bought a big bag of sweet corn from Pierre for only two bucks. I guess at that price I shouldn't be engaging in risky corn-raising ventures. I should be letting the farmer down the road take that risk. For not a whole lot of money I can purchase a whole bushel of fresh-picked, bi-color sweet corn and save myself a pile of trouble.

I'll have to think about that before next springs garden planting.

We roasted a bunch of Pierre's corn on the Weber grill last night - along with a beer can chicken. And I just finished dining upon a sandwich of leftover chicken and lettuce and tomato from the garden. All topped with real mayo. That's living!

And what to do with the leftover corn?

You slice it off the cobs and make Andy's salsa.

Black Bean Corn Salsa

In a mixing bowl add:

1 C of cooked corn

1 C of cooked black beans. drained and rinsed

1/2 C of red onion - finely diced

1 small red bell pepper, cored, seeded and diced fine

1 jalapeno pepper, seeded and minced

1 t minced fresh garlic

2 T chopped fresh cilantro

1 t honey

Juice of one lime

2 T balsamic vinegar

1/4 t of chili powder

Pinch of salt

Lots of fresh cracked pepper

Stir to blend it all together and chill for at least an hour to allow the flavors to harmonize.

Serve with grilled chicken, pork or seafood.

Not wanting to drive to Sturgeon Bay for cilantro I skipped that step. I substituted red and green bell pepper and sweet onion from the garden.

I've got lots of fresh cukes so I whipped-up a batch of cold cucumber salad. Neighbors invited us over to grill tonight.

If Only The Dead Could Talk

Out riding my bike last weekend with some friends and just had to check-out a simple country cemetery.

There were cattle peacefully grazing in an adjacent field.

The graves of children haunt me and I always wonder what the story is behind the life snuffed-out at such a young age.

And then there are the portraits of the dead.

Like this handsome young man...