tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57587588491546887792024-03-11T08:14:53.497-05:00The Farr PlaceTracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.comBlogger912125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-5997203941821214622024-03-09T16:09:00.002-06:002024-03-09T16:09:58.085-06:00It's very puzzling<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_w5QGpp_auWJWbHy4tmU_xkv-1075OO8lZ3oXQKrbJWledQTTAJjmAu59DytUEcMDqRTgjr-kbgsBdvwAmwXp-_-gbNXpSpLm7tzYQMIX12yp7uSWftSy8xhzFeezEklfnTl-75W0Y3Tnhn6SBx-rLls-kscqg-gNkb3MPgivsIbjgB67bPqEa9etRY/s1556/Screenshot%202024-03-09%20at%204.05.21%20PM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1156" data-original-width="1556" height="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgP_w5QGpp_auWJWbHy4tmU_xkv-1075OO8lZ3oXQKrbJWledQTTAJjmAu59DytUEcMDqRTgjr-kbgsBdvwAmwXp-_-gbNXpSpLm7tzYQMIX12yp7uSWftSy8xhzFeezEklfnTl-75W0Y3Tnhn6SBx-rLls-kscqg-gNkb3MPgivsIbjgB67bPqEa9etRY/w520-h388/Screenshot%202024-03-09%20at%204.05.21%20PM.png" width="520" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">And extremely frustrating.</span></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></p><p><br /></p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-59194090809872728132024-02-09T10:03:00.000-06:002024-02-09T10:03:33.985-06:00A letter from me to you<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Julienne: I thought you might enjoy receiving an actual letter in the actual mail, so I’ve actually written you one. I know it’s not the most “modern” thing to do, but sometimes a little bit of “old school” is what the doctor ordered.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">It wasn’t all that easy to write, let me tell you. First, I had to put away my cellphone. The urge to just send you a text message was strong. Finding a decent piece of unwrinkled non-lined paper was difficult, too. But as you can see, I found one. Next, I had to find a pen that actually worked (Who owns ink pens anymore?). I went through two dozen buried deep in our “where did this come from?” drawer before I found the one I’m using. Finally, I set thought to paper, checking the dictionary as I went along so as not to misspell anything, then put a stamp on the whole thing, and there you have it. At least I hope you have it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Well, that’s all for now. Have a great day. And I hope to hear back from you, if you feel up to it.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Steven: I hope you don’t mind, but I just wrote a letter to your wife. Since she’s a teacher, I thought she might enjoy one – you know, out of the blue, vintage Pony Express. And then I started thinking, you being an accountant and all, I might need to send you a letter, too, just to keep things even. I’m hoping you don’t find that odd. (HaHa, accounting humor)</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Just curious: when you looked in the mailbox this afternoon and saw there was a letter from me, was your first thought, “I bet he wants me to do his taxes, even though I keep telling him I’m not that kind of accountant”? HA! Fooled ya. It’s just a letter saying I wrote your wife a letter. </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And that’s all I have to say about that. Wish you well, good accounting, and I’ll see ya when I see ya.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Susan: Just giving you a heads up, I wrote letters to both your brother and his wife. I thought while I was at it, I might as well write one to you, too. I know, I could’ve saved a stamp and just told you, but then my words would’ve simply evaporated into thin air. This way, you can save all these words forever in a drawer and bring them out on a rainy day to reminisce about the time I sent you a letter that says I wrote a letter to your brother and his wife. And if that isn’t old-timey romance, I don’t know what is.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Mom & Dad: I’m sorry I never wrote many letters to you two while you were living. It would have been a nice way to keep you informed with all the events in our life, and vice versa. Of course, we did keep each other up to date through electronic means, but a lot of those emails/texts are lost in The Cloud, and I don’t see it raining anytime soon. Digital correspondence is all about ones and zeros, fonts and point size, legible words mostly spell-checked and approved. Physical letters are all about ink to paper, anticipation and excitement, trying to decipher what is actually written.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">I’m guessing we could keep all our emails on a tiny flash drive stuck in a box somewhere, but that’s just not the same as rifling through a pile of letters, all rubber-banded together, and knowing it came straight from your hand to mine.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Ah, the things we should’ve done but didn’t; the things we didn’t know, but now do.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Dear Kids: I’m sending you this text message instead of writing you a letter because I’m not sure you know how to open a real envelope without getting paper cuts. JK. LOL. Hello? Is this thing on?</span></p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-42533575887829850722024-01-27T11:28:00.000-06:002024-01-27T11:28:25.765-06:00Wife of a snorer<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">My wife doesn't sleep with me anymore.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She says it's because I snore.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She says</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">sleeping with me</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">is like sleeping with a</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">freight train</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">using five engines to pull</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">195 railroad cars</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">filled with trucks,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">lumber,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">patio furniture,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">bricks,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">refrigerators,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">and ice cream</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">up and over a mountain pass</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">it has no business trying to climb.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She says</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">sleeping with me</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">is like sleeping next to an</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">outlaw biker</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">riding 80 mph down the interstate</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">on a Harley Fatboy</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">followed by hundreds of his</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">leather-clad friends</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">wearing sunglasses,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">long beards,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">smoking cigs,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">hauling ass and biker babes</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">to Sturgis for the weekend</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">and then maybe on to Canada. </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She says</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">sleeping with me</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">is like sleeping on an</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Air Force base</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">at the end of the runway while</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">fighter jets</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">punch their takeoffs with</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">afterburners,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">screaming engines,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">low fly-bys,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">strafing runs,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">flying on training missions</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">over the ocean and back again,</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">or some secret mission to the Middle East.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">She says</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">sleeping with me</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">is no guarantee of </span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">sleeping</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">at</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">all.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Which is so strange</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">because I sleep like a log.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><br />Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-11500386652184501782024-01-05T10:54:00.002-06:002024-01-05T10:54:20.994-06:00It's Friday, it's my birthday!<p><span style="font-size: medium;">I try to eat healthy.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Every morning for breakfast, I have either home-made granola cereal with fruit, oatmeal and fruit, or avocado toast, hold the fruit.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">And coffee.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">Every morning.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">But today, even though I've already had breakfast (granola cereal with fruit), I decided to have a SECOND breakfast.</span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgne3xxqjPRa6BqgFWisc0WB7e7LMUBs09-pCYaE3W0s_GGBBMYsxOz54448bURqGhm5tdks_XKEc3utIFzFTDojisUIWwIvK6yVPynaXl8TnzVEE_Pehh9-Nsz74tOhcrQED3Rv56FXcSDD0WtR1HSeH5vyX0njVzQ4HYB2Qkf56n3wIzFJ6p_NcOAYU0/s555/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-05%20at%2010.43.53%20AM.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="555" data-original-width="530" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgne3xxqjPRa6BqgFWisc0WB7e7LMUBs09-pCYaE3W0s_GGBBMYsxOz54448bURqGhm5tdks_XKEc3utIFzFTDojisUIWwIvK6yVPynaXl8TnzVEE_Pehh9-Nsz74tOhcrQED3Rv56FXcSDD0WtR1HSeH5vyX0njVzQ4HYB2Qkf56n3wIzFJ6p_NcOAYU0/w383-h400/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-05%20at%2010.43.53%20AM.png" width="383" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-size: large;">More than likely<br />my heart will stop today.<br />Because it's Friday.<br />And it's my birthday!</span><br /><br /></td></tr></tbody></table><p><br /></p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-4753419102011013242024-01-01T12:26:00.000-06:002024-01-01T12:26:20.988-06:00Plans for the new year<p>I have no idea what’s going to happen in 2024. None of us do. We remember all that’s gone before (thanking our lucky stars that it wasn’t a whole lot worse), and then quietly say to ourselves, “This new year has got to be better. Oh please, it’s just got to be.”</p><p>You wanna know how I always start off a new year? I start it off by refusing to take down the Christmas tree until absolutely necessary. Sometimes it comes down mid-January. One time I kept it standing well into February. This year, I have half a mind to leave the tree up until next Christmas, but the other half of my mind (the side my wife owns) says, “Jan. 4 is the perfect day to take it down, seeing you won’t have anything else better to do. And while you’re at it, don’t forget to vacuum the carpet and empty the cat’s litter box.”</p><p>It seems like only yesterday we were bracing for The New Millennium, Y2K and airplanes falling out of the sky. Now look, we’re almost halfway through the 2020s. The French referred to the 1920s as “anneés folles,” the crazy years. I wonder what teachers will say to our grandchildren about the Roaring 2020s?</p><p>“Children, the 2020s didn’t really ‘roar’ at all. The people back then were slightly nuts. Well, not all of them, but some were, especially the ones who thought the Earth was flat. They gathered at yearly conventions to convince each other they weren’t completely wackadoodle.”</p><p>“You’re kidding us teacher, aren’t you?”</p><p>“Not at all. And then other people went to comic book conventions and dressed up like space warriors and superheroes and… Was that the bell? Ok, kids. Don’t forget to put on your gasmasks before you go outside. The air is a bit thicker than usual today.”</p><p>I should really try to keep a journal this year, but I have a lousy history with them. I tried keeping one back in the 2010s, but I kept forgetting to write in it. Eventually, I forgot where I put it. It’s possible I’m just not a journal-keeping kind of guy, but I won’t know until I try. Again.</p><p>Actually, I do keep track of how much I exercise each day, which usually looks something like this: Monday, walked a mile around the block; Tuesday, thought about walking a mile around the block, but couldn’t find my favorite socks. Wednesday through Sunday, decided walking is dumb. Read a book.</p><p>Speaking of reading books – I don’t understand why more people don’t. There used to be a time when families sat around a single candle, Pa in his nightcap holding the latest edition of “Master Humphrey’s Clock,” reading the newest chapter of “Barnaby Rudge” by Charles Dickens. Not as good as the “Pickwick Papers,” but better than just sitting in the dark, watching the candle burn out. I doubt 2024 will be known as the year recreational reading came back into vogue, causing the demise of FaceTik and InstaTok, but I can dream, can’t I?</p><p>“So, what do YOU want to do tonight?”</p><p>“Go to the library, of course, and check out some new books.”</p><p>“Wow! I was thinking the same thing!”</p><p>And before we knew it, more than 18 billion people across the world had free library cards; they checked out more than 57 books a year per person on average; not a single living soul doubted humanity’s effect on climate change; and the world was round again, just like we knew it was all along.</p><p>C’mon, 2024. Bring it on! </p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-14849959743674877102023-12-28T15:05:00.001-06:002024-01-04T15:23:20.698-06:00Holiday babysitting duties <span style="font-size: medium;">Working together as a team, Max, Gimli and Raven made sure I was well fed and stayed mostly out of trouble!</span><div><br />
<div class="separator"><div class="separator" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggRWTk14ASj-uXpjFRHg_XGq94bJ33Qz1jBMioY8D_okrGvqyDvMr75EbCPOV9ToojOoIVZE3z9vwg8HPQHCcsTuctfs1v1d_S-KpFxOy2nN3heQysDV7tf2_iWAXX2pVooq52RQYIvKhExR8-hFOo09mKdK7hRrRBUYOhf6jORZwtkyHWpZvgj-h_ECA/s508/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-04%20at%203.03.35%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="505" data-original-width="508" height="579" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggRWTk14ASj-uXpjFRHg_XGq94bJ33Qz1jBMioY8D_okrGvqyDvMr75EbCPOV9ToojOoIVZE3z9vwg8HPQHCcsTuctfs1v1d_S-KpFxOy2nN3heQysDV7tf2_iWAXX2pVooq52RQYIvKhExR8-hFOo09mKdK7hRrRBUYOhf6jORZwtkyHWpZvgj-h_ECA/w582-h579/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-04%20at%203.03.35%20PM.png" width="582" /></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWMhyphenhyphenhpizrD2va2SSv4ifZ5VtI4pHnqLuDoRkuKKgKjePwRUS8K2BeIZf5sFzQWMVfYD4J8WzsiizMgt9XIpvd2-CiFc81N7TI3E-yfjkBeK1ILK5ELj7p2IZiqUMLbiFxvzZ_9YCycaDt6scmat4eGib-RkJx6_EmJt92BKeXFA7MiDD92Pr5XPyQk0/s718/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-04%20at%203.04.13%20PM.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="443" data-original-width="718" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimWMhyphenhyphenhpizrD2va2SSv4ifZ5VtI4pHnqLuDoRkuKKgKjePwRUS8K2BeIZf5sFzQWMVfYD4J8WzsiizMgt9XIpvd2-CiFc81N7TI3E-yfjkBeK1ILK5ELj7p2IZiqUMLbiFxvzZ_9YCycaDt6scmat4eGib-RkJx6_EmJt92BKeXFA7MiDD92Pr5XPyQk0/w582-h358/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-04%20at%203.04.13%20PM.png" width="582" /></a></div><br /><img border="0" data-original-height="648" data-original-width="877" height="419" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXG58STefCB0nug1cKZitTXRZMTHC5xF-peqVb9Uu7BFY2ZfKr0seSKvnshdXTNlbmQXmL-W2oyUqSE0490pcqY_3WpoQw43Gfpp2Lcj53DGunGzmdw5GZirrx2Zi76_nmhAV-UYC_Sj1xVYsONlbHK59WQyyiH-vLyduWjt6uOVOklhe_lXTiTasgVI/w569-h419/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-04%20at%203.02.51%20PM.png" width="569" /></div></div><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXG58STefCB0nug1cKZitTXRZMTHC5xF-peqVb9Uu7BFY2ZfKr0seSKvnshdXTNlbmQXmL-W2oyUqSE0490pcqY_3WpoQw43Gfpp2Lcj53DGunGzmdw5GZirrx2Zi76_nmhAV-UYC_Sj1xVYsONlbHK59WQyyiH-vLyduWjt6uOVOklhe_lXTiTasgVI/s877/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-04%20at%203.02.51%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIXG58STefCB0nug1cKZitTXRZMTHC5xF-peqVb9Uu7BFY2ZfKr0seSKvnshdXTNlbmQXmL-W2oyUqSE0490pcqY_3WpoQw43Gfpp2Lcj53DGunGzmdw5GZirrx2Zi76_nmhAV-UYC_Sj1xVYsONlbHK59WQyyiH-vLyduWjt6uOVOklhe_lXTiTasgVI/s877/Screen%20Shot%202024-01-04%20at%203.02.51%20PM.png" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></div></div><br /> <p></p></div>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-47679306825182700862023-11-26T08:15:00.002-06:002023-11-26T08:15:45.543-06:00Haiku from me to you<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Cool Texas mornings<br />beg me to forget about<br />fiery Texas nights.<br /><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>* * *<br /><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>It rained yesterday<br />soft and gentle like feathers<br />floating on the wind<br /><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>* * *<br /><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Cats are long liquid<br />purring from counter to floor<br />not making a splash<br /><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>* * *<br /><br /></b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Sometimes poor Haiku<br />hits the spot much better than<br />fancy-pants rhyming</b></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-78757628668928269302023-11-05T05:40:00.001-06:002023-11-05T05:40:57.103-06:00It's a trombone thing!<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9WJACNuRBVy4SI1iDzw-jQ6rHm6xd1hdzkSkToRvfVoCsNHoIgFYSsuxUry9Bxs8DO8fI8sxcncW6GC3b1XBj4mk3I8yTv-1ayGpUuO0isD5BFR1KBeqoWj6AunIgPODwYagshcx79u9wLeEfWBu0Ew5-HiMLnxz0HjfvdYiMORq5jOIvwwHaeGHs30I/s1261/IMG_4191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1261" data-original-width="1257" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9WJACNuRBVy4SI1iDzw-jQ6rHm6xd1hdzkSkToRvfVoCsNHoIgFYSsuxUry9Bxs8DO8fI8sxcncW6GC3b1XBj4mk3I8yTv-1ayGpUuO0isD5BFR1KBeqoWj6AunIgPODwYagshcx79u9wLeEfWBu0Ew5-HiMLnxz0HjfvdYiMORq5jOIvwwHaeGHs30I/w475-h476/IMG_4191.jpg" width="475" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-37912328835990217552023-10-25T08:59:00.000-05:002023-10-25T08:59:01.137-05:00Birdsong is not only for the birds<p>How many cats should you have in one house? One? Three? I’m thinking 181 is a bit obsessive. Not that I HAVE 181 cats in my house, but if I did, I wouldn’t tell you because I’d – 1) be super embarrassed to admit it; and 2) be so tired herding cats all day I’d have no strength leftover to even floss my teeth – not that I do floss, but I really wouldn’t be able to if I did.</p><p>One dog is more than enough. A small dog. A dog that knows deep inside it’s a cat.</p><p>According to something I read somewhere a while back (maybe a week or two ago, online, from a credible source, not some “Joe Bob’s Therapy Blog” dot com website), I read that going outside and listening to birds is good for your mental health. The birdsong – which is all around us and absolutely free – is calming, and could very well help reduce feelings of anxiety.</p><p>The humming of the humming birds; the cooing of the mourning doves; the pips of the tiny Titmouse; the knock, knock, knocking of the woodpecker; the who-ing of the owl; the who-ing owl impersonation by the sarcastic mockingbird – birdsong, to help lift a heavy heart and give us the strength to keep doing what needs to be done.</p><p>Unless, of course, you unleash all 181 cats. Then a screaming, cawing, squawking cat-induced cacophony ensues, and nobody wants to listen to THAT while you’re all Zen-like on the front porch, drinking your morning cup of coffee.</p><p>I envy birds and their ability to fly – their talent of soaring high above their problems, alighting on any branch of their choosing, and then calling out to their neighbors as if in deep conversation:</p><p>“Yes, I actually heard it in the other tree. It was from a credible source, not some ‘Toucan Sam’s fruit loops detector’ dot com website. I heard that if you sit and listen to those people down there for too long, you’ll absolutely lose your little birdie mind. They’ve done studies. I think I’m going to Tweet about it. Re-Tweet, like and follow.”</p><p>Then of course, the conversations change significantly when the birdie neighborhood is awash with 181 cats, all with dubious intentions.</p><p>“Yes, I see them. There are too many to count. Stay high. Stay high. Did you hear me, Fred? Good. Now, Betsy, where’s the children? Whose children? Are you serious? Grab them all and… Hey, where’s little Monica? She’s not down… Oh no! There she is! You divebomb that Tabby, I’m going to take out the Siamese. Good hunting, boys! We’ll all meet up back at the branch. Tallyho! Tallyho!”</p><p>Many a time I’ve walked around in the front yard, or sat on the porch, and listened to those little winged creatures and thought to myself we should be more like birds. See how they fly with gusto; see how they live their short lives to the fullest; see how they look after each other; see how they “live deep and suck out all the marrow of life,” as Henry David Thoreau once wrote (even though he wasn’t talking about birds).</p><p>Yes, we should be more like birds: as brave as an eagle, as thoughtful as an owl, as quick as a roadrunner, as amusing as a humming bird, as useful as a turkey vulture who always volunteers to help clean up after the party’s over, all the while being mindful of the cats – all 181 of them – who may not always have our best interests at heart.</p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-60984636697981647432023-10-08T08:45:00.000-05:002023-10-08T08:45:25.091-05:00Hawk in a tree<p> The blue jays were making a ruckus, so I stepped outside to see which cat was doing mischief. But it was a hawk in a tree, instead. Minding his own business.</p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFxhmmn2bJRe0yUQ66RQAxGt-prXFW_PS6C_Ch9rX2ofZw-XJwP9jkpwlqmn8PsY5_zLI2n5lORvsGQdxLCqx9D1vL6GmmIt8RXBtQdjq0VT8G3nAv-LGYuiJLg9Wa7vh8lEL8ON3gbyge3NiBhdFyqL-kcyb3I3NQ9XX_dqvl4RR151571B3g5BJiNc/s743/hawk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="743" data-original-width="577" height="585" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBFxhmmn2bJRe0yUQ66RQAxGt-prXFW_PS6C_Ch9rX2ofZw-XJwP9jkpwlqmn8PsY5_zLI2n5lORvsGQdxLCqx9D1vL6GmmIt8RXBtQdjq0VT8G3nAv-LGYuiJLg9Wa7vh8lEL8ON3gbyge3NiBhdFyqL-kcyb3I3NQ9XX_dqvl4RR151571B3g5BJiNc/w456-h585/hawk.jpg" width="456" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-40757623989462474082023-09-29T13:31:00.000-05:002023-09-29T13:31:24.448-05:00TV everywhere & not a drop of stream<p>C’mon, now. Raise your hands. How many of you actually thought at one time the word “streaming” meant going to a fancy water park, grabbing an innertube, and floating down the lazy river looking for a little peace of mind with hundreds of other like-minded folk?</p><p>Or maybe “streaming” was grabbing your fly-fishing rod, putting on some fancy waders, and wading into a lazy river, looking for a little peace of mind while catching (and hopefully releasing) hundreds of unsuspecting rainbow trout who themselves were “streaming” down the same river?</p><p>Or maybe, you of the high-tech ilk, knew that “streaming” was just a hip term used for turning a clunky, non-aerodynamic piece of equipment into a fancy sleek machine, able to slice through the air like hundreds of starlings forming an ever-changing lazy river of patterns in the sky, giving us all peace of mind that we’re moving from one place to another as efficiently as we possibly can in order to save the planet?</p><p>STREAMING: “The continual transmission of audio and video files from a server to a client. In video streams, content is sent … over the internet and is displayed in real time.” TechTarget.com – some website that knows.</p><p>“Unless, of course, you have terrible internet reception, and STREAMING becomes an ongoing battle between infinite BUFFERING and deciding to just read a book instead.” – Me, because I know.</p><p>In the “good old days,” we didn’t use such fancy terms. We just watched television – a device that caught a continual transmission of audio and visual analog signals sent from a broadcast studio along modulated radio carrier waves. They were sometimes snowy-looking, but if you wrapped your antenna in aluminum foil or held it with your right hand while performing the Single-Leg Wheel Yoga Pose, you could still watch your favorite shows without a hint of BUFFERING.</p><p>BUFFERING: “Refers to downloading a certain amount of data before starting to play the music or movie.” Not to be confused with TO BUFF: “To polish or shine.” Or LOOKING BUFF: “Having a physique enhanced by bodybuilding exercise,” which makes you look more pleasing while IN THE BUFF: “Without clothes on.” </p><p>I haven’t watched “broadcast television” since June 12, 2009. That’s when broadcasters switched their analog signals to digital TV. We had an analog TV that couldn’t catch the digital signal. The “black box converter” which was supposed to make the signal catchable, didn’t catch a thing. And I was too cheap to subscribe to a satellite service for something that I had been getting for free. </p><p>So, on that fateful day in June, we as a family gathered around the TV set to see our analog signal turn into snow and static. But since we were basically only getting one channel in the first place, there really wasn’t that much of a difference. </p><p>“But how do you survive?” I imagine you asking after you find out we missed the recent coronation of King Charles, have no idea who won the Super Bowl or the World Cup, and have never watched an episode of “Yellowstone,” “Ted Lasso,” or any “NCIS: name your city.”</p><p>“Fourteen years without watching TV? I’d go nuts! What do you DO?”</p><p>Talk. Herd little kitty cats. Cook. Walk the dog. Read. Play music. Write. Complain about not having good internet reception like our “big city cousins.” Chase Chupacabra off the porch. But mostly, sit in quiet and listen to the beautiful sounds of wind chimes and bird song without any annoying commercial interruptions. </p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-72304235998096374772023-09-26T10:22:00.001-05:002023-09-26T10:22:54.707-05:00By the light of the moon<p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyicKc7MwPTYi8U6civU4l9vI-ppS2xDMvWVms6KNY5LX5Z5Lh893egUi_kI1yiHVTQ8KdwLiH5Iw-SI7BJlQQEBL6unfTNq25kpbGX0NBbObhNVZjjXr-h2obigL9g1FOQn_lTJ1jXyqul9YXRGZJ1WIf1QnTYWtJGq1LCCJ7MqvAjmeL4tyzsb3tXzQ/s2991/IMG_3962.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2067" data-original-width="2991" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyicKc7MwPTYi8U6civU4l9vI-ppS2xDMvWVms6KNY5LX5Z5Lh893egUi_kI1yiHVTQ8KdwLiH5Iw-SI7BJlQQEBL6unfTNq25kpbGX0NBbObhNVZjjXr-h2obigL9g1FOQn_lTJ1jXyqul9YXRGZJ1WIf1QnTYWtJGq1LCCJ7MqvAjmeL4tyzsb3tXzQ/w523-h360/IMG_3962.jpg" width="523" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /><p><span style="font-size: large;">My first attempt at photographing the moon.</span></p></td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-size: large;"><br /> </span></p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-18446427878264912162023-08-07T11:11:00.000-05:002023-08-07T11:11:08.495-05:00Centigrade the poetic way<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I'm trying to learn what the weather feels like in Centigrade. I wrote these rhymes to help me out.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">40’s roasting there’s no doubt<br />30’s wear your short sleeves out<br />20’s chill feels good all day<br />10’s with coats come out and play<br />0 turns the lake to ice<br />Below that makes the skating nice.<br /><br /><br />Zero ice begins to form<br />10 nice coats to keep you warm<br />20 feels so good to me<br />30 shirts should be short sleeved<br />40 means you’ll probably roast<br />Above that means you’ll burn like toast</span></div><p style="text-align: left;"><br /></p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-65258456944594731792023-07-13T09:46:00.000-05:002023-07-13T09:46:32.490-05:00It's just a Chupacabra Morning!<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvp8chtQY-vzuff-zDNrWxaQwg1GITvbGisIbbzR9i2zay6MNkhUBcthVM6JvGnDlehJdDjzw0bPTYMSxe_gm2tiWmSMR9D1cNpKZWJP8VZ6DiPzCiwi-BfLeNGOxtfkMa4PtpXATAtWBj18umwQ3cZqhPtcO_8qREWXU2FWgl_ya-Y5iirs_BnYN37Qc/s583/image0.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="537" data-original-width="583" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvp8chtQY-vzuff-zDNrWxaQwg1GITvbGisIbbzR9i2zay6MNkhUBcthVM6JvGnDlehJdDjzw0bPTYMSxe_gm2tiWmSMR9D1cNpKZWJP8VZ6DiPzCiwi-BfLeNGOxtfkMa4PtpXATAtWBj18umwQ3cZqhPtcO_8qREWXU2FWgl_ya-Y5iirs_BnYN37Qc/s400/image0.jpeg"/></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9lRKDpvTze69qwlxpNkskbmVccbEB9wRhpaTjCpMJNva0tpKGfVo7J_pU1wioAZyEwGbu3YiU5X0i3U58VE0EchZIuyPXR616oaBFnS6UWo4OSZsSsKPKl9a5O5WFyYEFNO50DiNhDYmxxiDQDK8JA0AA9L5oJEv4TUK3BWO5ci7i35DJDyZZKhs61M/s764/image1.jpeg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="400" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="764" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib9lRKDpvTze69qwlxpNkskbmVccbEB9wRhpaTjCpMJNva0tpKGfVo7J_pU1wioAZyEwGbu3YiU5X0i3U58VE0EchZIuyPXR616oaBFnS6UWo4OSZsSsKPKl9a5O5WFyYEFNO50DiNhDYmxxiDQDK8JA0AA9L5oJEv4TUK3BWO5ci7i35DJDyZZKhs61M/s400/image1.jpeg"/></a></div>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-30857855555548114372023-07-05T02:00:00.001-05:002023-07-05T02:00:00.142-05:00Fireworks!<div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The neighbors launched some fireworks on the first day of July.<br />And then upon the second they shot more into the sky.<br />Shooting lots of fireworks on the third was kind of stupid.<br />Cuz on the Fourth they ran out and had nothing left to shoot with.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-78992609861117962732023-05-27T03:00:00.002-05:002023-05-27T07:18:08.915-05:00I used to be sauve and debonair!<p> When I was three. Maybe four.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrYTYW3tlYoLteeYeMvQYFMjplzDHC_1yZ-XSVXyndPJlnteWXlTc5BOCYJcUzq_oYLR-BQy2hmrWXgychlWrta-0foUBKEKgJlTdrHawicZ4RWlDHXnfz1LC38Q8ASVlUfJAS1sBL70UTQVjS11i69KfQfPEPvMg-y--jhV1uIYDK95IBi0dlBbqO/s768/young%20me.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="768" data-original-width="659" height="457" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrYTYW3tlYoLteeYeMvQYFMjplzDHC_1yZ-XSVXyndPJlnteWXlTc5BOCYJcUzq_oYLR-BQy2hmrWXgychlWrta-0foUBKEKgJlTdrHawicZ4RWlDHXnfz1LC38Q8ASVlUfJAS1sBL70UTQVjS11i69KfQfPEPvMg-y--jhV1uIYDK95IBi0dlBbqO/w393-h457/young%20me.JPG" width="393" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-6862302787878653212023-05-20T03:00:00.015-05:002023-05-20T03:00:00.144-05:00Sometimes you meet your match<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">The creature I saw prowling around on my front porch last Tuesday afternoon was, without a shadow of a doubt, a hideous Chupacabra. </div><p>Yes! I said Chupacabra. All seven-feet tall of it, by my estimation. With teeth as sharp as knife points (its mouth was clenched tight, but I could imagine them) And his breath smelling like the putrid trash I forgot to toss out Thursday – or maybe it WAS the trash. It was hard to tell. The vile creature was outside on the porch. I was inside the kitchen washing dishes. It was only a whiff. </p><p>Proof you require? Proof you demand? There’s the photograph I took of the beast in my front yard as it was skulking away into the late afternoon shadows. I took it on my little cellphone through the dirty kitchen window. I had to zoom in, which affected the quality, but I swear it was just as clear as any photograph of Big Foot I’ve ever seen, and NOBODY doubts Big Foot.</p><p>A revolting, horrendous, odious Chupacabra on my porch! And the only reason I can invent for why it crept away like it did was because of my cats: </p><p>Porch Cat, the Intimidating Tabby, who meets danger head on; Sevvy, the Cunning Calico, who sneaks around looking for vulnerabilities; and Toby, the Zen Master Siamese, who uses his lightning speed only as a last resort. Three of them – paw to paw and fang to fang in solidarity against the monster. </p><p>First, the Chupacabra lunged at Porch Cat’s jugular, assuming if it took out the biggest cat, the other two would shrink away in fear. But no. Sevvy, who was lying in wait for just the right moment, bit down hard on the very tip of the mutant’s tail, and ripped it clean off. Toby, who had been in deep Zen meditation and observing the whole bruhaha with his eyes closed, attacked with a half-crescent kick to the monster’s left eye ball – which forced the Chupacabra to make a hasty retreat and think twice about his devious plan of total domination of my porch. THE CAT’S porch!</p><p>To say I was shaking at the audacity of the beast and the fearlessness of The Cats would be something very easy for me to say. But, when I showed a local veterinarian the photograph of the deadly fiend in my front yard, she was not impressed. Where I was imagining winning a Pulitzer Prize for the first verified authentic image of a living Chupacabra seen in my front yard, she was indifferent (“Yep. Chupacabra. Coyote with mange. That’ll be $35.”) to say the least.</p><p>A coyote? With mange? What exactly is mange? “MANGE: a skin disease that affects mammals caused by microscopic mites that burrow into the skin.”</p><p>Oh, how horrible. How atrocious. How dreadful, frightful and alarming. But…I don’t think that accounts for the creature’s rat-like tail, steely eyes, or its hideous cackle I pert near heard as it disappeared into the shadows.</p><p>Nope, it was a bona fide Chupacabra. A Chupacabra looking for an easy-to-acquire feast. But not today, bucko. There are no goats on my porch. Say hello to The Cats!</p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-50772045733150640642023-04-17T22:03:00.000-05:002023-07-04T11:12:14.271-05:00How like a cat<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvwYuJ4onIjnQYNOizlmhBPpI3sgWFLaGn6MmjE1OW7fq6RK6W_GL83of0jBOwekQdYpdSRGGGnyGGyQcL7xaVpKEFekonbC0O5797my1vlmG4PplwOJvnslNvwqxj7k86zdU-IyX4MU/s1800/cattire2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1205" data-original-width="1800" height="268" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDvwYuJ4onIjnQYNOizlmhBPpI3sgWFLaGn6MmjE1OW7fq6RK6W_GL83of0jBOwekQdYpdSRGGGnyGGyQcL7xaVpKEFekonbC0O5797my1vlmG4PplwOJvnslNvwqxj7k86zdU-IyX4MU/w400-h268/cattire2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Cats are forever hungry, always begging for more and more; they cry to be let out to chase lizards, birds and other things, then eat them while you’re watching, right in front of your very front door.</span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">And what does the lucky lizard think as it limps away without tail? “Oh, it could have been much worse, let me say; he was ferociously hairy, but I got away. And what a great story I forever will tell.”</span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Then the cat comes back inside, begging as if it had not eaten a thing in a week. And what do we do? We give him a treat, just to tide him over until meal time, nothing more. And the cat repays us for his full tummy by barfing it all up – lizard tail and all – all over the living room floor.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">Does the cat show any kind of shame or remorse? Of course not. It purrs and purrs its peaceful cat song. He mesmerizes us into believing he’s the king of the house – which isn’t quite right and definitely not wrong.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“Why do we have three cats?” I enquire while the culprit feigns innocence and scratches his head.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">“I don’t know. Are you saying you’d like five, 10 or 20?” Believe it or not but that’s what my wife said.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I actually prefer cats, it’s hard to believe. They fend for themselves, chase mice on occasion, and warn you whenever a snake is around by standing as still as a concrete cat statue – leaving you to wonder what they’ve found on the ground. A turtle, a lizard or possibly a cricket? A butterfly, maybe, or some little frog. But a snake? “Oh, come on now. Really? That thing would be long dead if you’d been a dog.”<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;">I think dogs are quite nice, but a little bit needy. They need to be walked; they need to be talked to; they need to be bathed, of that there’s no doubt. They need sticks to fetch, balls to catch, they need their own door to go inside and out. Their own dog-size condo is what a dog requires. A cat on the other hand, sleeps wherever it desires.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="Body" style="border: none; font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; font-size: 11pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">I don’t know why a cat inspires poetical feelings to come over a man who really has no business writing poetry at all. Maybe it’s the way cats always land on their feet when something unexpected happens and they meet with a fall. Or jump up on the kitchen counter, which to them, is four times as tall.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;">A long time ago my pets counted turtles, a rabbit, a hedgehog and even a mouse. Of course we had dogs, but never a bird (though, I always wanted one inside of the house). But today, off all days, in a world tight with tension, the last thing we need is one more tit for tat. So, let’s leave it at this, your pet may be awesome, but for all of its faults, I’ll stick with cat.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><o:p> </o:p></p>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-68044843630019020392023-03-27T03:30:00.000-05:002023-07-04T11:05:17.278-05:00Reading like a Hoss<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/tracyfarr/29084118803/in/dateposted/" title="Reading like a Hoss"><img alt="Reading like a Hoss" src="https://c4.staticflickr.com/9/8041/29084118803_cb56eae342_c.jpg" width="520" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-16091862818000259742023-03-09T02:30:00.000-06:002023-07-04T11:02:17.399-05:00The Key to HappinessThe key to a long and happy life is Routine.<br />
<br />
If you're used to getting up at 5 in the morning, don't get up at 4:50 or 5:10. If you shower before you brush your teeth, don't change the order one iota. If you put your socks on first and then your pants, do it like that for now and ever more. If you have coffee and cereal before going to work, don't have a banana and juice.<br />
<br />
Routine.<br />
<br />
Routine is the key.<br />
<br />
This morning I got up late. I forgot to brush my teeth. I'm not sure if I'm wearing underwear. I forgot to bring my coffee cup to work so I could have my morning cup of "get up and go." And I have no idea where my cellphone is so I can call up my wife and complain about the whole thing.<br />
<br />
Routine?<br />
<br />
Mine's out the window.<br />
<br />
I probably won't survive the day.Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-67408684178575812042023-02-13T21:17:00.001-06:002023-07-04T10:56:57.796-05:00Sock it to me, baby!Oh, the years we’ve wasted donning white socks and black, sometimes brown if the ensemble screams for it, but never bright orange, or psychedelic candy stripes like the ones I’m wearing today.<br /><br />“How gauche,” I hear. “How unprofessional,” you say.<br /><br />Well yes, maybe if you’re a banker or the chief of police, but wouldn’t you trust the mayor just a wee bit more if he went around wearing knee-high rubber ducky socks on purple, or pink stars on fluorescent orange? I know I would.<br /><br />Just think of the mindless hours we spent separating those “boring” socks – darks in this pile, whites over there – when bright reds covered with pizza slices would’ve given us at least a hiccup, something to ponder, a respite from the endless tedium.<br /><br />“You can’t wash those with your white shirts. They’ll turn everything into a faded bad acid trip.”<br /><br />Yes, but we’d be awash in exotic colors the likes of which the world has never seen. Let’s do away with the white oxford. Let the business blue fade from memory. Give me something boldly muted that makes people wonder, “What the heck was he thinking?”<br /><br />Navy blue socks with palm trees; gray socks bearing pineapples; tropical fish swimming in black; blue hibiscus on white; polka dots for the left foot, stripes for the right. These are not the socks of children anymore. I say they are the socks of men.<br /><br />“He must be suffering from heat stroke. Somebody call an ambulance.”<br /><br />No, I’ve just seen the light, thanks to my loving wife who bought me a pair of bright red socks for Christmas – bright red socks that remind me of a time when life was simpler, more adventurous, a playground expedition followed by snow cones in the park. But then life crept up one day and declared, “Become a man. Throw away your childish things. Cleave unto all things adult like mortgages and insurance payments. Embrace navy blue, a good all-around color that’s befitting for every occasion. And by all means shun the Star Wars Chewbacca socks like the plague, for they will be your undoing.”<br /><br />Ah, too late. For my sock collection will remain undone until every last tiresome pair goes extinct through natural selection, leaving behind a drawer full of adventurous foot attire that only the brave would dare to don.<br /><br />“It might be too late, but does anybody know CPR?”<br /><br />No need. My heart is so much lighter, now that my feet are so much brighter. I’d recommend it to one and all (buy yourself a cheap pair of silly socks to improve the quality of your life) but most people would never fall for the idea that happiness can be bought for mere pennies on the foot.<br /><br />There will come a day when I will breathe my last breath, cry my last tear, sing my last song. Is it so appalling to want to live those final days with a smile on my face and Super Mario socks on my feet?<br /><br />I think not.Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-58666611737401752352023-01-05T03:00:00.001-06:002023-07-04T10:53:19.012-05:00My Texas<a href="https://www.flickr.com/photos/tracyfarr/32569327433/in/dateposted/" title="My Texas."><img alt="My Texas." src="https://c1.staticflickr.com/4/3787/32569327433_29dd09c777_c.jpg" width="520" /></a><script async="" charset="utf-8" src="//embedr.flickr.com/assets/client-code.js"></script>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-9206331420051963392022-12-30T02:30:00.000-06:002023-07-04T10:49:58.065-05:00Like I was saying...Life has a way of making perfect sense until you wake up and find you are 20 minutes late for work and there's no way on Earth you're going to tell the boss you overslept. So, you come up with some ridiculous lie about how you came upon a nasty accident, and since you were the only one around who knew the number to 911, you were obligated to stay and render whatever aid you could give, to the best of your ability.<br />
<br />
The horrific wreck, which was 20 miles south of the Middle of Nowhere, was burning when you came upon it. Bodies were strewn across the county road like dropped matchsticks, and the smell of gas fumes meant an explosion was eminent.<br />
<br />
With only moments to spare, you moved the helpless victims away from the wreckage, beat the fire down with your jacket, performed CPR on three victims at the same time, set the broken leg of a middle-aged woman who kept screaming she was going to die, and sang a lullaby to soothe a scared little toddler who seemed to be the only person not hurt in all the carnage.<br />
<br />
Exactly eight minutes later, the ambulances started to arrive and you, not wanting to be known or recognized as a hero, quietly snuck away like Batman, but without the utility belt.<br />
<br />
"Sure I was late, so fire me," you tell the boss as you head to the men's room to comb your hair. You slam the door shut just for effect.<br />
<br />
The boss, stunned at your boldness, stares at the place where you were just standing and contemplates early retirement.Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-54603300838350074742022-11-14T03:00:00.001-06:002023-07-04T10:44:45.737-05:00Meandering ...<span style="font-size: x-large;">Meandering has never hurt anyone. Neither has piddling. People should meander and piddle more. Eat right, exercise, meander a bit, and piddle when you can -- the four pillars to a happy and healthy lifestyle. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: x-large;">And fishing. Fishing's good, too.</span>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5758758849154688779.post-88331713826394827092022-10-17T05:14:00.000-05:002023-07-04T10:29:03.844-05:00The oldest excuse in the book<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/tracyfarr/6983819457/" title="6-11-2012 headache by tracyfarr, on Flickr"><img alt="6-11-2012 headache" src="http://farm8.staticflickr.com/7057/6983819457_4652c282a2.jpg" height="500" width="389" /></a>Tracy Farrhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05401307174663051730noreply@blogger.com0