I can remember the first time I saw a wild turkey. We were renting a house in the middle of an industrial park--sort of this island of woods and fields in the middle of this huge airport industrial park, maybe half a mile from the airport. We had this very long half-a-mile driveway, and we were on our way out--the driveway dumped us in the middle of an aerospace contractor's parking lot--when we encountered this huge bird sitting in the middle of our driveway. It was way too big and ugly to be one of our chickens, and not ugly enough to be a turkey vulture.
We New Englanders rarely have to worry about hurricanes--the last Big One hit Connecticut when? Something like 1938? Not counting the big whimper that was Hurricane Gloria in the 80's, when my Favorite Younger Sister and I filled the tub with water and fancied ourselves Water Barons only to not even lose power for five minutes--but once again I digress. Even the Big Snow we get each winter is no big whoop, despite how the media likes to whoop it up as something Scary and Meaningful whenever a flake falls.
So Mojo failed to blog yesterday. Big whoop. My pitiful, stammering excuse is, I had to get up extra early (and by extra early Mojo means somewhere between three and four, because as we all know by now--by virtue of her whining--she is usually up somewhere between four and five) to drive my Favorite Husband to the airport, where he spent several hours making new friends and promising them that Mojo will run all sorts of errands for them back home here. Or words to that effect.