Most folks in the United States have heard of the Land of Lincoln, state motto of Illinois, where famed President Abe Lincoln had his roots. But did you know there was a Sea of Lincoln?
I know how he felt. When you get a nice day in January in the Pacific Northwest, it’s not a time to be sitting on the couch. It’s come on already, let’s go!
We’ve all heard about the 1 percenters, usually in a less than flattering way. The richest 1% hold 50% of the world’s wealth, and most have no interest in sharing it. Greedy bastards. But let’s be honest, wouldn’t you like to be part of the 1 percent, even for a day? I had that chance, last Monday.
It’s so hot… farmers are feeding their chickens crushed ice to keep them from laying hard-boiled eggs!
It’s so hot… I saw two trees fighting over a dog!
What do you do when it’s so hot that you wear your wrinkled clothes outside to use nature’s ironing board, but you still need to cook up dinner?
Continue reading “How Hot Is It?”
100 posts. Somehow, despite the snail-like pace at which I write, this will be my 100th little essay, my 100th excuse to share a picture or 10, my 100th effort to pitch content against the wall of the blogosphere to see what sticks. What have I learned after all that rigmarole?
THUMP! Thumpity thump, crash, thump thump. The rock (or rocks?) continued to bound down the cliff I was hanging onto as the seconds rolled on, reminding me how far I had to fall should I lose footing with the other foot as well. Once I found a new foothold to replace that sizable sounding rock I’d knocked free I looked around for my wife – she was somewhere below.
I’m not in the habit of taking on challenges from other bloggers, be it photography or writing. But Greg over at Almost Iowa has put out a challenge to write about “My Stuff“, something he’s been doing with great success for years, and I couldn’t resist. Greg puts a new spin on homespun humor and wisdom, check him out.
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The rich aroma of brewing malt and hops filled my nose, the house, and possibly the neighborhood as I peered into the bubbling cauldron of my brew kettle. A dark, chocolaty concoction for a batch of Porter boiled away, both a visual and olfactory delight, suggesting the rich flavors that in due time would greet the tongue.
Beep, beep, beep, boop! The countdown at the starting gate sounded its tones and the two skiers pushed off, trying to get up to speed before swinging into the slalom gates. I was one of them.
* It was so cold, the politicians had their hands in their own pockets.
It was so cold in Beverly Hills even folks without Botox couldn’t move their faces.
I apologize in advance for this story of woe.