Well, since our poor un-honoured leader is bemoaning his lack of medals and fan clubs, I e-motioned, seconded and unilaterally passed the notion that he should recieve a medal for service below and beyond all expectations. The problem is this - we need a name for said medal.

I suggest the Raisin' Heart (kinda like the purple heart only fruitier).

Other suggestions, anybody?

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), April 16, 2000

Answers

Gold raisens?

Purple hearts?

Pink carnations?.....Didn't they make a song out of these?

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), April 16, 2000.

Oh Boy! A metal just for me? This is exciting! I cant wait to see what name is picked :)

Now Rob, arent you forgetting something?

Who are you?

Im Mike Roberts, remember me?

Yes, but you only come around when I get into a bit of trouble. Im in no trouble now, right?

Well, no trouble really, just a little matter which needs to be resolved.

Oh, and whats that?

According to the FRLian Code and Bylaws, Section 4 Title 2 paragraph 2.6.1, only the Chieftin awards honors. Think back now over the last year and a half  you have always been the one to hand out the FRLs honors and awards.

So?

Dont you see? If you are to get an award or honor, you would have to give it to yourself, which is a Violation of the FRLian code of conduct!

Sheesh! Ya mean I cant get any honor after all? Sheesh! Go away! Youre no fun. First you tell me I cant drink and party, and now this.

Very well, Ill go, but remember that as Chieftin, you must set an example and never violate the rules.

Double Sheesh! Ill think of a way out of this and get that metal, though I may need some help from my friends to do it. So there! Now, I'm going back out to the yard to finish that special chore I am doing for Dear Mrs. Michaels, and at the same time think of something... I hope.

-- (sonofdust@alter.ego), April 17, 2000.

The dawn was grey, the sky overcast. Mammoth clouds rose on all sides of the mountain like the smoke from distant fires. The woodpeckers hammering was heard all across the lake, the echoes bouncing softer and softer off the jagged line of receding hills. I set about the chore given me...

By early afternoon the clouds broke, like the lifting of some vast, immeasurable curtain. The sun is dazzling now, as bees buzz, and sparrows flit through the warm, still air. A glance at the lake shows barely a ripple, its surface broken only by a large snapping turtle that comes up to bask in the suns rays, and an occasional fish that rises for a fly from a recent hatch.

Immobile in the breezeless afternoon, It stands; naked and alone, already accustoming itself to its new home: The Sapling. Unseen by human eyes, its thirsting roots spread slowly out in the dark cool earth to drink. A sudden, unexpected breeze comes across the lake, announced by the ripples coming ever closer as they spread from the far shore. The Sapling shivers, then is still. It is surrounded by a formidable defensive perimeter, protection against the razor teeth of that which wants to kill it. I set my jaw at thoughts of the battle that lay ahead, which are mingled with other thoughts, and stride with determination back to the house.

Dinner time. Distant thunder rumbles over the expectant earth. Dark clouds race towards us from the west. The Saplings leafless branches sway. It is springtime at the Michaels, and it has begun.

-- I want my metal! (sonofdust@still.thinking), April 17, 2000.

Oh man, oh man this I gotta see!

First elephunts....now mammoth clouds.

Ever wonder what would fall from a mammoth cloud?

-- Looking Up (waitingwithbatedbreath@wonder.com), April 17, 2000.

A gentle rain fell all morning,..and as the afternoon approached, the sky began to grow darker, the rain heavier. At 1:30 we saw it on the horizon. A mamouth cloud. We ran to the Weather Channel, hoping for the best..but it was not to be. Warning tones beeped at us angerily! "Mamouth Cloud Warning in effect for the New Jersey Shore area, take cover immediately" Dear God, the children..they're in school!

We gathered up the dogs,..hurried down to the basement, and closed the door. Huddled there,..in the occasional light of the one blinking flourescent light still working..we could hear it coming. Distant at first, than louder and louder. (pray it passes to the south of us, pray it passes to the north of us) Suddenly, one so close, we could hear the trumpeting call of the mamouth as it hit. I screamed. The sound of splintering wood above. Another trumpet..a loud sickening crash above.

When all was said and done, we were lucky really. He only took out the garage and part of the neighbors house. The rest of the mamouths feel further to the south of us. The clean up was a nightmare.

-- kritter (kritter@adelphia.net), April 17, 2000.

LOL! What an entertaining bunch of fruitcakes ;^)

Now MikeR, you stop meddling with Rob's mettle.
He's in no kettle, stop making fishy, don't sap his energy!

Red Sock Trophy, DuckedTape Honorary Badger he's already won.

-- Ashton & Leska in Cascadia (allaha@earthlink.net), April 17, 2000.

Looking up: When I read your post the first thing I thought of was, well, er, was mammoth dung drops falling down from the mammoth cloud and landing, by sheer coincidence, on the beavers, burying them. Can ya picture it? They would fall close to the Sapling, naturally, so that the droppings could be used by it for fertilization. And if the droppings landed too far from the Sapling, then we could always hire Lon to help out  he understands these things best ya know, what with his mammoth experience in the Circus. Besides, he is the only FRLian that can operate the Giant Pooper Scooper.

Kritter: Wow! Sounds like the same thing happened down at the Shore. Hope my relatives down there are ok. Think Ill give em a call to see how they fared and ask them about the mammoths :)

Field Marshalls A&L: Youve done it! Youve solved the awards problem!!!! I looked through the FRLian Code of Conduct and there is nothing to prohibit me from getting an honorary honor, as opposed to a regular honor honor, or even an irregular honor honor! As long as the honor is honorary I can be honored. Hahahahahaha. Yipee!!!! Now it is back to Tricias original task: Deciding what the name of the honorary honor should be. (Oh, and thanks for reminding me about the socks and ducttape :)

-- (sonofdust@honorary.honor), April 17, 2000.

Wasn't there a lymerick about that?

Ended with

"... for the rest of the night it was .... offer, on 'er, honor offer, you're honor...."?

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), April 17, 2000.

The sun has cast its last rays. Daylight has died behind the hills. The first stars glimmer on the placid surface of the lake, like a reflection in a mirror. A slight movement of the water makes it seem as if they are trembling in the velvet sky. The moon has not yet risen.

The killers will come at night, seeing perfectly, making no perceivable sound, their dark and wet bodies like knots of glistening blackness against the dark night. All is quiet. All is dark. Now is the time.

I check on the children. They are asleep, chests rising and falling in a common rhythm. Marie is also asleep. Only Murphy keeps me company, sensing my tenseness, with eyes wide and alert, tail lashing. Darkness envelops us like a veil that stretches across the floors, up the walls, and through the doorways, masking the rooms furniture and objects. We wait by the window: watching and listening, as silent as the evening.

An hour passes, and then another. Moonlight now streams in the misty night air, through motes of dust inside the room, and dancing insects outside. We wait in silence for the attack: wondering if we will be visited tonight, wondering if the perimeter will hold.

We wait...

-- (sonofdust@watch.wait), April 17, 2000.

Shhhhh. Don't anybody tell him. This is neat...like suddenly unfolding a plate glass mirror inside a elephunt dressing room. (You aren't quite sure what you're gonna see....but will definitely be plenty of it....all up close and personal.)

I want to see how this comes out....see, he's forgotten that mammoth clouds (like stealth gooses) come from above....they will easily evade "de fence of the perimeter defence"...and drop in from above in a sudden blare of trumpets and the clash of breakin' lumbars.

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), April 17, 2000.

I dont know when it happened. Sometime during the night my eyes closed and I slept. I awoke after dawn to find Murphy purring gently and looking out the window. I was dreaming about our defenses: The 4-foot high metals stakes with the light screening wire in between that completely fenced and encircled the Sapling, and, just outside of this and all along the perimeter, the thin layer of fine black pepper laying on top of the ground that would act as a first barrier.

I join Murphy at the window and, rubbing my eyes, wonder if I am still dreaming. The site is a surreal one. The Sapling is there, at least the top and middle are, but below that it is covered in the mystery of a thick, impenetrable fog. I realize that everything is covered, in every direction I look, from the ground up, and that the Sapling is ok, that it must be ok. The fog looks like a foot deep carpet that shrouds all of the ground. The lake is an ethereal delight, with wisps of fog dancing and intertwining all along its surface. I go outside for a closer look. It is strange yet beautiful to wake up and have yourself surrounded by a cloud, to be walking in the cloud itself, and not be able to clearly see your feet!

After an hour or so the fog lifted, revealing the damp earth, revealing the Sapling in its entirety, revealing the two clear and unmistakable set of tracks down by the lakeshore, facing due north, directly towards the Sapling... the tracks of the killers

-- (sonofdust@long.night), April 18, 2000.

thump thump ... thump ... thump
heartbeat, or
the booming underground echo of a big flat tail, pounding, stalking, marking territory, advancing ...
thump ... thump ... thump

-- ears to the ground (allaha@earthlink.net), April 18, 2000.

With appologies to Ogden Nash:

-----------------

THE BEAVER

Upon the beaver let us gaze;

He works all nights, and sleeps all days.

He's the forest Prefect in a forest Prefecture,

Planning his plans of dam-nable archetecture.

He dosen't laugh, he never smirks

But with those teeth, I'm sure he whistles while he works.

So, let us assist him in his tasks,

A tender sapling is all he asks.

You know a dam-builder needs dam-wood;

That new tree in the yard just looks too dam good.

So, one night, when it disappears,

Calm your anger, shed no tears.

And let us not berate the beaver,

He's just Mother Nature's over-achiever!

--------------------------------------------------------------------

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), April 18, 2000.

There can be no doubt. They know for sure it has arrived, and where it stands - alone and seemingly so vulnerable, too irresistible to ignore. They will be back tonight for the kill. I must be ready.

I apply the rest of the 5lbs worth of black pepper liberally around the outside perimeter, check the wire-screening fence for the third time, and then go inside to eat dinner. There is nothing else to do. They will either get it like the last time, or they will somehow be defeated.

At night we will find out.

This very night.

In hours.

-- (sonofdust@mustbe.ready), April 18, 2000.

How did a name the medal thread become an ongoing saga of beavers vs sapling?

Never mind, it makes me feel more like I'm at home in the old FRL than ever!

.

I've got some great news! Our keeper of the count is back The great S.O.Bob!

.

Our count is now updated :-)

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), April 18, 2000.

The deep and penetrating hoot of a Barred Owl shatters the still night air, reverberating through the trees, over the cold stones, and inside the dam. It is as if the signal to begin has been given.

They depart together, paddling noiselessly through the cold water. They know just where to go, and the quickest way to get there. Coming to a bank of their stream, they climb up and onto the narrow strip of land which separates it from the lake. It is only a minute or so before they are across it and enter the lake. Their sleek forms glide effortlessly through the water towards a destination at the far shore.

Their bodies are mostly visible above the water. But no eyes see them. The house is dark, the people all asleep. They continue their approach without hesitation. All is still. There is no light except for that of the stars and moon. A minute passes. Then another. They are now close enough to see what it is they have come for. They paddle a bit more quickly in anticipation. It wont be long now.

Not long at all.

-- (sonofdust@not.longnow), April 18, 2000.

Horned Beavis!
Honorary Beaversion sworded to ChiefTin. Hear here!

-- Ashton & Leska in Cascadia (allaha@earthlink.net), April 18, 2000.

It was the noise that woke us: a loud metallic crash out in the yard. Marie, who had been sleeping soundly, stirred and mumbled something unintelligible and then turned onto her side. Best to just let her keep sleeping

Completely awake and instantly alert, I get out of bed and go downstairs. Murphy is standing expectantly at the door that leads to the deck and yard, a low menacing growl emanating from his throat as he begins to pace back and forth. I squint at the clock: 10:35 p.m.

Show Time.

I turn on the outside light and look. The Sapling is still there, standing with branches raised towards heaven as if in invocation, or perhaps in gratitude. Nothing is around it, at least that I can see from this distance. I look over towards the woodshed, which is the nearest thing to it. There! The lid on the metal garbage can fell off and the can is resting on its side on the ground, still rocking slightly. That is what made the sound that woke us.

Out of the corner of my eye I see an indistinct shape scurrying away into the woods from the far side of the shed. The killers wouldnt be going that way. No, not that way at all. Its a coon or skunk most likely. This has happened before from time to time. And it is the same garbage can that I use for depositing Murphys daily offerings, since it holds the smell much better than the plastic cans. I better get dressed, go out, and look around.

Outside now. Quiet. I begin walking towards the woodshed. Yes, there can be no doubt now: it is the pungent odor of a skunks fresh spray. I go over towards the Sapling. It is too dark to look for tracks. The odoriferous smell is even stronger here. Much stronger. The skunk was obviously foraging between the Sapling and lakeshore when it unexpectedly encountered another animal... one it considered a threat... one that it felt it needed to defend itself against...

An animal not intent on the skunk at all, but on its way somewhere else entirely...

-- (sonofdust@skunk.spray), April 18, 2000.

Sorry Tricia. Guess I went a bit around the bend this time :( Please except my apoplexy. Ill stop now, ok?

BTW, I saw our Official Counters post on the previous thread, but no count! Maybe Im just tired since I havent been getting much sleep lately...

BFN, Rob

-- (sonofdust@lights.out), April 18, 2000.

Noooooooooooooo.

I wanna find out what happened to the skunk in the tent......with the beaver's horn and the mammouth's trumpet.

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), April 19, 2000.

Good Sir Cook: I told Tricia I would cease and desist, and I must do as I said. After all, she is the Starter of the Thread and it needs to get back to its original mission :) But I am weak and resist to desist, just this once. I hope Tricia doesnt get mad at me. Here is what happened next, in the wee hours earlier this morning:

Rob, wake up! Whats that sound? Wake Up! I groggily become aware that Marie is shaking me awake. What the hell is that noise? she demands. We both lie quiet, listening intently, when we come to the same realization. We are hearing something that neither one of us has ever heard before, something that we will never forget hearing, something that has forced us both completely awake, something that, after we finally recognize what it is, has caused us to look at each other and smile: The sound of beavers... loudly sneezing :)

-- (sonofdust@resist.desist), April 19, 2000.

Must have read those haiku's you left out near the mammouth trap.

Hey, don't giggle. They always make me sneeze.....

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), April 19, 2000.

Stealthly avoiding mammouth cloud traps
Stealing middle section
He ducttapes the remaining ends together


Shorter sapling appears come morn
Oddly metallic looking
Woodpecker taps out morse code


"The beaver" he taps outloud
No one listens
They think he seeks mates


-- kritter (kritter@adelphia.net), April 19, 2000.

After finishing my work outside, I start back towards the house. Murphy is standing in the doorway looking up at me, purring, with something small in his mouth thats still twitching slightly. He drops the field mouse at my feet, extremely pleased with himself. I wince, yet am thankful that today the body-count is only one victim. I quickly dispose of the corpse, making sure the lid of the metal garbage can is on tightly. It is the most unpleasant daily job that I have to do. Glad to be done with it, I go inside and wash up. We will be having dinner soon, and after that, an early start on a long-overdue, peaceful nights sleep.

Less than two miles away in their dam, the killers are feeling anything but peaceful. Their noses still burn from the pepper. The skunks spray still clings to their bodies, having proven to be quite impossible to wash off. Indeed, they are really pissed off. Both clearly remember how easy it was two years ago, how tasty the prize was. They did not forget that. Neither will they forget the lessons they have painfully and recently learned. No, they will not make the same mistakes next time they will not make those same mistakes later tonight...

I smile to myself as I think about those sounds last night. Man, that was really something! The Sapling has been saved twice now from the clutches of the killers razor teeth. Both times it was a naval, uh, I mean nasal assault. I feel confident that they will cease and desist now. Shirley their little nosy nostrils are sore, right? Theyll probably never come back here after whats happened! Time now for ketchuping on my sleep.

-- (sonofdust@good.nite), April 19, 2000.

This time they are cautious. After coming onto the shore they pause: each sniffing the air for any sign of the skunk. There is none. They can see the Sapling in front of them now and also the house further in the distance. Moving stealthily under the shroud of darkness, they reach their target. Neither is inclined to sniff the ground here again. Never. Instead they move downwind, by instinct, and then sniff the air. Still all clear. They walk unconcerned over the black powdery stuff that forced them to leave last night, and bump right up against the wire fencing.

In the house all is quiet and dark. Only Murphy is awake. The window in the room he is in is open slightly, a cool breeze coming into it from the direction of the woods. He stretches out on the floor, yawns, and starts licking his front paws. First one, then the other. Idly, he looks up towards the window as another light breeze comes into the room. No interesting smells or sounds tonight. He lies full out on the floor, blinks heavily, and closes his eyes.

They walk all around the perimeter, looking for a way in, and end up exactly where they started; directly at the edge of the fence surrounding the prize, and facing the woods. The bigger of the two begins to dig at the dirt lying along the bottom of the fence. It comes away easily, with nothing more than a soft scraping sound. Seeing this, and becoming excited, the other joins in. Within a minute there is a hole under the fence big enough to allow them to go through. First one, and then the other are past the final barrier. The same breeze that has Murphy looking up at the window sends a shiver through the Sapling, almost as if it sensed its imminent fate. It stands alone before its murderers, completely unaware of its precarious situation, and completely unprotected.

-- (sonofdust@zzz.zzzz), April 19, 2000.

Uh-oh. Just when you thought it was safe to snore again ...

-- Ashton & Leska in Cascadia (allaha@earthlink.net), April 19, 2000.

The same breeze that brought a shiver to the Sapling also brought something else: the scent of another animal; one that is close by, hidden in the woods, one that, until recently, was hibernating in its den.

Murphy caught the scent first. In an instant he remembered the first time he had smelled that scent, many years ago, and what it was he saw at the edge of the woods. He jumped up onto all four legs, as only cats can do, and ran quickly up the stairs, a blur of orange fur. The bedroom was dark, but there was enough light to see the two sleeping people, and just enough space for him to climb in between them. He lay there trembling with terror as they slept obliviously on.

The bigger one has just begun digging the Sapling out of its hole, when the smaller one catches the scent coming from the woods. It freezes. Now the other also smells it and, turning together, they go back under the fence and make a beeline for the lakeshore. Like the cat, they also remember what that scent means, what it belongs to, and instinctively feel an almost manic need to get away. All thoughts of their prize are forgotten as they use their webbed hind feet and broad flat tails to propel them from the danger as fast as possible.

Marie stirs in her sleep, feeling the cat next to her. Half awake, half dreaming, she briefly wonders why he is shivering so. It isnt that cold a night. Within seconds the dream returns, and she is sleeping soundly again.

It lumbers freely though the woods, afraid of nothing, for it has no natural enemy. Its two cubs follow closely behind. They are all foraging for food. The mother has marked out an almost 20 mile radius that is her territory, and hers alone. She has not been to this part of her territory, the westernmost edge, in a long time. She weighs only about 500 pounds now, after her long hibernation, but has claws like steel and teeth like nails - and she is hungry.

Very hungry.

-- (sonofdust@zzz.zzzz), April 19, 2000.

Keep it up ROBBIE!

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), April 20, 2000.

The Sapling stands like a sentinel in the pre-dawn light. Even as I approach it, I can see that something is not quite right. It isnt straight. Instead, it is leaning to one side. I quicken my pace until I am almost running. I am just about at the perimeter. Suddenly my right foot catches something, a thin exposed root on the ground. As I fall down, a cracking sound tells me that I have busted my ankle. I lie sprawled flat on the ground for a long moment, the pain already starting. My face is in what appears to be a depression or hole right by the fence: a hole that was not there when I went to sleep last night. I wonder if there is any connection between what happened here with the beavers and the strange way that Murphy has been acting all morning.

We spent much of the afternoon talking about it. Neither of us can figure out why the killers went without their prize, since they had found a way past our last defense. After a while, we remembered that they have attacked each of the last three nights. The Sapling is still here. They will come again. Tonight. We must come up with a plan soon

Before it gets dark.

-- (sonofdust@they'll.beback), April 20, 2000.

You know, if you need a splint for that there busted leg......you can always get a conventient pair of beavers to cut the nearest sapling down and use your belt to chinch in down real tight.....

Otherwise, you might be spending the night outsde laying down helpless and wounded as the closest sabre-toothed wooly mammoth comes flying by.....softly trumpeting in the dark as it tries to fly into the nearest porch light.

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), April 20, 2000.

I sit at the window, ice packed around my swelling ankle, and watch Marie dig the trench. We had decided to sink the fence down into the earth a bit to prevent them from going under it again. By early evening, the job is done. Once again, all we can do now is wait, and hope. I take another dose of the painkiller and am sleeping within minutes. Marie, who is not used to digging ditches, collapses on the bed, totally exhausted, and falls into a deep sleep almost immediately.

Two miles away the killers are almost ready. The smell from the skunk has mostly worn off, and their noses have also recovered. It is somewhat ironic that it was their nose that defeated them the first two times, but then saved them last night. The last rays of daylight fade away. It is time.

They are on their way.

-- (sonofdust@zzzz.zzzz), April 20, 2000.

The killers arrive early, the people in the house having fallen asleep only an hour ago. They cautiously go over to where they were last night, smell the cold air, and then begin to dig. With each passing second they become even more frustrated, even more angry. They cant get through like they did last night, nor can they find any other way past the fence. The bigger one continues to dig furiously in a futile effort, while the other looks around, sniffs, and then wanders away to the edge of the woods only a dozen feet from the Sapling. Something has caught its attention. It has an idea.

The smaller one has seen the way that the moonlight is casting the shadow of the small tree under which it now stands. Its rodent eyes see that the shadow of this particular tree reaches directly towards, over, and past what they seek. The killer begins to do what it does best: gnaw. The bigger one hears the sounds of the other and comes over to join in. This will take a while, but the night is young.

A short distance away, the people in the house are all asleep. Sound asleep. Even Murphy has seen, heard, and smelled nothing, though tonight all of the windows are closed tightly. He finally drifts off and joins them. Once again he is between the two adults, but tonight he is not shivering at all  even though it is colder. Much colder.

Eventually the small tree succumbs to their razor teeth. They have angled it just right. It topples with a surprisingly soft cracking sound that ends with a whoooosh  right over the fence  partially collapsing the nearer end.

This is the part they like. This is what they have waited for. They climb onto the felled tree and scamper up it until they reach the point that is just past the fence. Excitedly, they jump down. They are inside the perimeter. There are no scents tonight to disturb them. The house, and everything around, is dark and still. They begin their work immediately. Nothing can stop them now...

-- (sonofdust@zzz.zzz), April 20, 2000.

Poor (((((Rob)))))! How is your ankle? Do you really want a new tree that badly? I mean, I like trees and all, but my goodness! All of that suffering just for a tree?

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), April 21, 2000.

Rob, are you *sure* there's no stopping them now??

It sounds to me like you need a dog to protect your tree - is that the whole point of the exercise? You want a dog, so you get Marie a tree?

Did you really injure your ankle? Does that mean no fishing for awhile? :-(

BTW, I don't mind having the thread hi-jacked; it wouldn't be the FRL if we actually stayed *on* topic!! ;-)

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), April 21, 2000.

Having just finished breakfast, we all go outside again. We stand together, looking down despondently into the empty hole where it stood. The Sapling is gone, the only remnants being the roots and soil that are still clinging to their burlap container. We still cant believe they actually got it, and how they did it. At least this time we put up a fight. Its Beavers 2, Michaels 0  and they say everything comes in threes!

About the only good news is that my ankle is not broken or fractured, just badly sprained. It must have been the root I tripped over that broke and made the cracking sound when I fell. I think about these last few days as we make our way back to the house. Ill have a bit more time on my hands than usual, about three or four weeks before I can kick anything :) according to the doctor.

I stop walking. Marie asks me if anything is wrong. She didnt hear it. Nobody did. I hear myself saying "No Dear, nothing is wrong." She continues on. But I heard it, and as I gaze up I see them, much as before: mammoth clouds on the horizon, and the distant sound of a trumpet coming from them, or is it coming from somewhere else  from deep in the woods...

Moving a bit slower than the others, who are already inside, I see a small bird dart past me and light on the branch of a nearby red oak. Its Woody! And this time he is followed by a second bird: another woodpecker.

A female :)

It is springtime at the Michaels, and it has ended.

-- (sonofdust@The.End), April 21, 2000.

Whew! What a saga. Only the fearless leader of the FRL could sustain such interest in a beaver tale, or is it tail, or tell (lak we'ens would say hyar in Oklahoma.)

Might I make a suggestion? Fashion a tree of rebar (you know, those iron bars that they put in cement to strengthen it?), wrap it with burlap to simulate bark, glue on a few leaves and voila, a beaver tooth breaker! Once their chompers have all been broken off, they will no longer be able to assail Mrs. Michaels' trees. That is, unless they learn to gum their food like my old Nanny did. Nanny could "chew" steak if she wanted!

Or, you could spread slow drying glue liberally over the trunk of your rebar tree and you could find the beavers with their mouths stuck on the pseudo tree! Ou know ow ard it his to tak wif somefing ptuck in oor teef?!

Just a thought on this fine April morning! Hope your ankle is better! (I have planted a tree myself this year, in memory of Dad...a redbud that is in no danger of being chomped by beavers but may be denuded by school children passing by.) Linda

-- Linda Mc (jcm@telepath.com), April 21, 2000.

But what happens if the bare black bear gets to the burley rebar tree? If the wrapping is torn in places, does it become a bare burlapped rebar tree? If the bear runs around it several times, how many times does he have go around to re-bear lap the burlapped rebar tree?

If the rebar tree grows, an splits the burlap covering, does it become a bare re-rebared rebar tree?

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), April 21, 2000.

Gang: The story was based on a real incident that happened two Springs ago. Yes, we got a tree, and yes, the beavers ripped it out of the ground and dragged it to the shore of the lake, and yes I sprained my ankle then. I even tried replanting it but they came back the next night and nobody ever saw the tree again!

Last Spring Marie started making noise about replacing it. I give in to her most times but didnt on this. Same thing this year. Spring rolls around and she starts up again about getting a replacement. I say no and I mean it.

It was this that got me imagining what it might be like if we did, and so I began the story, which sort of took on a life of its own and just kept going! (Lon: Now I know what you meant when you wrote something similar after finishing your story :) Anyway, I dont intend to quit my day job, it was just something fun to do that I never did before, and some of youz guyz seemed to enjoy it too, and many of your comments had me LOL!

-- Rob Michaels (sonofdust@the.story), April 21, 2000.

Linda .. Let's hope that redbud tree grows strong, straight, and true...like the kids your dad raised.

-- Robert A. Cook, PE (Marietta, GA) (cook.r@csaatl.com), April 22, 2000.

Quick note... gotta run!

HAPPY EARTH DAY FRL!!!

Diane

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(Hope I didn't blow the HTML!)

BTW... getting started again...

Sustainable Business & Living iForum
http://greenspun.com/ bboard/q-and-a.tcl?topic= Sustainable%20Business%20%26%20Living%20iForum

-- Diane J. Squire (sacredspaces@yahoo.com), April 22, 2000.