Here’s looking at you, kid.

The neat things with blogs are that they evolve, and since I have spread myself around with a number of blogs, I’m looking for a home for all of them. Heavens, I’m not positive all the time, or happy, or even pleasant, but I’m aiming in that direction and inviting others to come along.

Can we do it?

It’s easy to get into the “Ain’t it awful mode,” so let’s see what we can do about that. Give me a call-out when I slip off the wagon. We won’t be Pollyannaish here, just trying to aim for the high ground.

Daughter and Grandson at Blank Sand’s Beach, Hawaii

A lady sifting sand on Black Sands Beach in Hawaii taught me about Aloha. As she sat there sifting sand, she told me that she and her husband used to look for tiny white shells among the black sand. The one to find the smallest shell had their choice of restaurants for dinner.

“Aloha,” my beach friend told me, “means more than Hello, Goodbye, or I love you. It is a way of life.

It means to do good with expecting anything in return.

Spring around the farm.

Our “farm” is only 1/4 acre, but you can take the girl away from the farm, but you can’t take the farm out of the girl, so I grow chickens and weeds.

I began with three baby chicks that grew into hens. (I was right about getting only females this time.)

A year later two other hens showed up from somewhere, and adopted us. I call them Blacky and Red, not very creative, but descriptive. They are the ones that lay the brown eggs.

Two of my three hens lay sea foam green eggs, one lays a buff colored shell. Since Blacky and Red were giving us eggs, I reciprocated with food, water and conversation.

The new arrivals were never penned, so they were free to leave, but this is their second season with us, and we endured the no-egg molting session of winter, and now all are laying again. Now all are free-range. We have a grassy area behind the “Wayback,” an auxiliary building beyond the backyard, so there is a lot of picking, and scratching going on back there.

The peacock–well you who have read my totem story know that the peacock came to me as a totem long ago. This peacock wasn’t fabricated during a guided meditation, but is real flesh and feathers.

Some evenings we hear his plaintive call, and thus discovered that he roosts in a humongous Douglas fir tree a few blocks away. I believe he belongs to the people who belong to that tree, but he is our neighborhood peacock and wanders wherever he chooses–sometimes it is our yard.

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