It’s A Short Jaunt To Our Mailbox

Living in a rural area, it’s a short jaunt to our mailbox for the daily arrival of our mailman. I place the letters in the box and raise the flag so he’ll know there’s a pickup. On my way up the driveway back to the house, I hear the sound of fall. Acorns dropping, as I mentioned last week, and leaf-blowers removing the first deceased leaves of the season. All around I see different colors depending on the variety of tree. I’ll have to say, this is the most colorful time of the year. Yellow, red, rust, and green, these colors set off the entire forest with an unprecedented beauty of its own.

Normally the days of fall usher in cooler temperatures with a nighttime nip in the air. However, today there seems to be a large amount of confusion in the surrounding area. The color still remains and the sounds are the same, but the temperature is 80°. Exhausted bumblebees and haggard butterflies sip the last vestige of nectar from dying flowers.

I assume before long, the cold air will set in. Some insects will die leaving eggs to hatch in the spring. Others will band together and weather the winter months, while some will hibernate sheltered underneath tree bark.

Me, well, I guess I’ll stay inside where it’s warm and write this weekly blog. Aside from that there’s always a novel in the works, my latest to be released in the next few weeks. Dalon Con . . . the Annihilation of Time is my first trip into temporal travel. Take a gander at my website, lynnsteigleder.com and have a great week!

The Season Of The Nut Job

Well, it’s that time of year again, and I’m not talking about fall, even though we are in the middle of autumn. Where I live, we have a season within a season and we call it, “The Season of The Nut Job.” Let me explain.

In my front yard grows an abundance of oak trees. Beginning in October, acorns start to fall. Now, when I say acorns start to fall, I’m sure you immediately think, “What’s the big deal about a tiny nut such as an acorn dropping from a tree?” What you don’t understand is these nuts have a mind of their own. They don’t drop one here, one there, plink, plink, plink. No, they drop by the bucketful.

It honestly sounds like foot-falls across our roof. Park a car in this danger zone, and it will remind you of someone playing a desperately out-of-tune xylophone.

A hard-hat is required to stroll through the front yard without receiving head trauma. Once you acquire your cranial protection to move through this area with reasonable safety, you must prepare to walk as if you were stepping on marbles. If by the end of your jaunt you have made it safely (side stepping bodies of the unlucky ones) to the mailbox and back to the front porch with minimal damage, you may count yourself among the fortunate.

The squirrels, of course, love the deluge of protein sent their way to enjoy during the upcoming cold winter months. If you take a notion to find out what an acorn tastes like, and it doesn’t kill you, please let me know. I’d have enough food to last me till the cows come home . . . of course, that’s another blog.

Have a great week and may God bless!

During My Drinking Days, I Suppose, “Pass Out,” Would Have Stood In For, “Sleep”

Ever slept out under the stars? Ever slept in a tent? Ever slept out of doors in any fashion just to get back to nature? I’d have to say, “yes,” to all three. Of course, as much as I hate to admit it, during my drinking days, I suppose, “pass out,” would have stood in for, “sleep,” under whatever was overhead when I decided to nap.

Some of the worst night’s sleep I ever experienced happened during the summer in a tent. As a teenager, several of us got together to participate in a night of camping. All we had was an old canvas tent, the operative word being old. As it is frequently wanton to do on hot summer nights, the rain began to fall. Not a gentle steady rain, but an out-an-out gully-washer.

I don’t know if you’ve ever had the pleasure of spending a night in a canvas tent during a rain, but let me assure you, all is well as long as you don’t touch the ceiling of the tent.

On this particular night as we scrambled into our canvas abode and zipped the doorway shut, at least a generation of mosquitoes beat us to the punch. We grabbed our flashlights and began poking the blood sucking insects that landed on the ceiling.

The rest of the night was spent swatting mosquitoes and dodging drips that turned into rivers and ran through the floor of the tent.

Every time I attempted to sleep in a tent, rainy summer nights turned into muggy summer days. I finally realized that a camping trip for me equated to a hotel room with an easily accessible thermostat. So, happy camping, and I’ll leave the light on for me. Have a great week!

Talk About Being in the Right Place at the Right Time . . . “Burp!”

I caught the cooking bug a few years back and dove head first into the world of gourmet food. I became a foodie and followed that trail for quite a few years. The job I had at the time fell in place with fine wine and dining. Talk about being in the right place at the right time . . . “burp!”`

I found myself able to travel the country sampling exceptional eats and drink.

One of my earlier novels contained several large banquets of exotic fare due to a post-apocalyptic earth. I received several reviews that thought the book needed to reduce the time characters spent sitting around a table shoving their faces full of food.`

I still enjoy fine dining occasionally, but my pallet thankfully has reverted to enjoying simpler fare. Give me a well-dressed hot dog or brat. If not a dog, then a perfectly grilled burger, toppings unlimited.

 I do have to draw the line at certain fast food. If the material used to prepare my meal is shipped by tractor trailer, frozen and ready to drop into hot grease, it’s probably not for me. If the burger whinnies and the chicken’s . . . well, not really chicken beyond a reasonable doubt, I’d probably pass it by.

If I’m in the mood for a pizza and the eateries offering more resembles or worse tastes like Bisquick and Ketchup, I’ll make a B-line to an Italian restaurant where English is a foreign language.

I grew up on grandma’s fried chicken. What I find most ironic in this day and age is your average person either cannot or will not attempt to fry a piece of chicken. This usually arises for fear of overcooking the outside and the inside remaining underdone.

Here’s where I pile kudos on top of the fried chicken, fast food industry. They have cooking chicken down to such a science; a high school student can fry a perfect batch without fail. Come to think of it, I’m getting a taste for something crunchy like, with a good bit of spice . . . gotta go, have a great week!