The Obituary of Leaf Rake

The Obituary of Leaf Rake 

By John R. Greenwood

Leaf Rake 

October 25,1100 B.C. — November 19, 2020

Saratoga Springs, NY

Leaf Rake, age 3120, passed away this morning on West Ave., Saratoga Springs. Mr. Rake was born in China in 1100 B.C. His first years were spent clearing fields of leaves and plant refuse. His childhood friends described him as being made entirely of wood—wooden tines attached to a wooden head. His facial features remained wrinkle-free and relatively unchanged for his entire 3120 year existence. 

Leaf Rake graduated with honors from Garden State College at the age of 5. His hard work and long hours made him outstanding in his field. He never asked anything of his handler that he wasn’t willing to do himself. After college he spent centuries on farms all over the world. In the 20th century he committed his remaining years to suburban yards across the globe. He was never boisterous or condescending and was always willing to work in the front, side, or backyard at a moments notice. 

At the time of his death Leaf Rake lived in the dark recesses of sheds and garages. During his last days he might be found leaning against the back of the house, rusty and neglected. Leaf met his demise today at the hands of the “Blower Boys.” A posse of masked marauders in hoodies, brandishing gas-fueled death-wands of hurricane force winds. Leaf Rake was doomed. His manually operated handle and tines had zero chance of survival based on the shear numbers of his staggering opposition. 

I witnessed the murderous act in real time. It brought personal sadness and despair. Leaf Rake and I spent most of our lives together. When we were kids we made soda and candy money together. We bonded instantly. We went from elementary school through high school together. When I needed money for the movies or a new bike tire, Leaf was there. He never let me down. When we got older and started families of our own, Leaf and his cousin Garden would show up at my house to help seed the new lawn or fill in the low spots over the septic tank. He let my rambunctious sons play pretend landscaper minutes after they’d used him as a makeshift axe on the old maple out front. He and his cousin were tough cookies right to the end. 

As the scene above unfolded I pulled over to the side of the road. I yelled out in anger but my voice was smothered by the roar of two-stroke horsepower. My efforts were nullified by progress and the unstoppable future. A tear rolled down my cheek, and as it did an oak leaf floated in my truck window as if to say, “Don't worry, Leaf's okay and you will be too. You two had a good run together. You made memories and money. You bent his back, he gave you blisters, but you remained friends until the end. You both paid your dues, let the Blower Boys have their fun. Things always come full circle. Someday you’ll both be remembered fondly for your hard work and low maintenance."

"Most of all be proud of all those mountainous leaf piles of autumn you two made." 

"The Blower Boys can’t do that now, can they?"

RIP Leaf Rake 

Cover-Up (A Greenfield Memory)

Cover-Up (A Greenfield Memory)

By John R. Greenwood 

I want to share a father/son moment that took place in 1968. I was thirteen and had saved enough money for a new bicycle. I bought my Raleigh Rodeo 3+2 at Globe Supply(presently Soave Faire) on Broadway in Saratoga Springs. It was a stingray bike styled like the muscle cars of that era. It had a Hurst-like, 3-speed shifter on the frame in front of the seat. Next to it was a smaller shift knob, which gave you two more pedaling speeds. It was gold in color and my pride and joy. I parked it on its kickstand every night in the garage. Saturday mornings, while dad washed our International Scout, I would wash my Raleigh next to him.

My father instilled the importance of taking care of your things. The better the care, the longer they will last. I came up short a few times because I remember being on the receiving end of "That Look" after I misplaced or broke one of his tools. Parents hope that if a child buys something with their own money, they will take better care of it. Hope is just that. The chances of your child having the conscientious-trait is a crapshoot. Some get it; some don't. Most kids fall somewhere in between. I probably leaned more to the caring side because I feared "That Look" worse than a kick in the shins. 

In the 1960s, it was popular to ride your friends on the handlebars. They would rest their feet precariously on the small bit of threaded axle sticking out from the front tire. The other option was to let your legs swing free, which was much more difficult for both rider and the one pedaling the bike. It was also an excellent way to get run over by a car. My father was adamant that I do not try this with my bike or with anyone else's. I was a compliant son, and I was also much too afraid of my father to break that rule—that is until Glen came along. Glen was older, bigger, and wanted to get from point A to point B one day. He insisted that I provide a taxi service from the Greenfield General store to his friend Tom's house at the bottom of Cemetery Hill about a quarter-mile away. Glen was the Eddy Haskell of our neighborhood. He was an instigator and possessed a larger than life personality. He was the type of kid that could get you in trouble quicker than a wink, but at the same time, his presence helped you remember those events with overwhelming fondness. On this particular summer day in 1968, everything above fell into place.

Because Glen was too big to ride on my handlebars, he strong-armed me into the role of hood ornament. Boys at thirteen are about as coordinated as a giraffe on skates, and I was no exception. A few hundred feet up the road, my sneakers slipped off the axle bolts, and my toes got caught in the spokes. Glen, the Raleigh Rodeo, and I went ass over tea kettle. When the dust settled, a friendship and a brand new bike were in a bit of a pickle. I remember having to push my bike a mile back to my house, the whole time thinking about how mad my father was going to be. He would be upset about the bike, but even more so because I disobeyed him. The front wheel was a bent mess. The spokes had a pretzel quality to them. 

What do I do? 

You do what any red-blooded thirteen-year-old would do—cover it up! This virtual cover-up included an old blanket. Like a reprieve from the governor, it would buy me time to devise a brilliant scheme. The words "brilliant scheme" and "teenager" mix like oil and water. It did take a couple of days for my father to decipher why I was walking the mile up the road to the village versus riding my brand new $70 bike. Fathers are more observant than we think. My teenage sons learned this factoid about the same time their father did. 

"Why is there a blanket over your bicycle?"

Here's where you begin to weigh your options heavily. I didn't have enough time to concoct a viable lie. Even if I had (my wife will confirm this), I'm a terrible liar—especially if she or my father are involved. It was time to plead for mercy. 

"Um, I, I, well, uh, I messed up." (add tears here) 

Here's where parenthood takes a moment of silence. It's a silence that doesn't pay dividends until your grown children recognize the honesty you instilled in them. In my case, it took a couple of days and an eagle-eyed father to bring it to the surface, but it proved that honesty is the best policy no matter what the outcome. 

The following Saturday, dad loaded my Raleigh Rodeo, with the crumpled front wheel, into the back of our Scout. The two of us took it down to Globe Supply and dropped it off for repair. A week later, after putting several miles on my Converse, we returned to pick it up. I'm not sure who paid the bill, but my parental guts tell me it was the man whose "look" is all I ever needed. It was all that was necessary. 

Stories like this filled my teens and my life. 

Man, I miss my father. 

Dad, I Finally Fixed The Switch

Dad, I Finally Fixed The Switch 
By John R. Greenwood

New switch on the lower left

This bandsaw is the first power tool my father taught me how to use. He used a lot of different tools to make a living, but when he was in his own garage/workshop, he enjoyed this *1945 Delta/Milwaukee 14 inch bandsaw. I was around ten when he first let me flip the switch and go solo. My father was firm when teaching me the dos and don'ts of anything with death or injury potential. Whether he was giving me instructions on the handling of a 30/30 Winchester or a 1940s bandsaw, I knew when he meant business. The word 'firm' may not be strong enough to describe dad's safety speeches. 



My first lessons on the Delta consisted of dad reaching over my shoulders and guiding my kid-hands with his heavily callused, blue-collar hands. Two fingers on his left hand held deep scars from a saw accident he'd had before I was born. He admitted that they were the result of carelessness. The apple didn't fall far because, in my early twenties, I earned the nickname, "Nine Fingers." We'll table that story for another episode. At first, I was only allowed to use the saw when dad was in the shop. My first build was probably a birdhouse. Once I proved I could be "fairly" responsible in the shop, I was shown where the key was, and as long as I asked, I could use it without supervision. I really enjoyed those quiet times building things. I loved using the bench vise and all the different hand tools. 

My father owned every tool imaginable. He also built a wall of shelves filled with Gerber Baby Food jars. The ones with the metal half-twist lids. Each jar was neatly marked and filled with every size nut, bolt, or screw ever made. If you needed it, it was there—somewhere. It wasn't a fancy shop, but it was functional.

Made in Milwaukee USA

With a year of retirement under my belt, I now have more time to tackle home improvement projects that have been neglected for years. Having the ability to visit places like Home Depot or my local hardware store during the week is a DIY'er's dream. Weekend visits are worse than Walmart on Black Friday. Now that Mrs. G. and I are at the tail end of our big projects, we have time to take on a few of those on the way, way, way back-burner. Today as I was rummaging around the cellar, I walked by dad's beloved bandsaw sitting neglected and cobweb-covered. I could hear my father preaching to me about taking care of my tools. It struck a chord. I decided to clean up the 75 year-old and take her for a spin.

I took my $30 Sears handcart and pulled the 300lb cast iron saw up out of the cellar, one cement step at a time. I'm not sure how I did it alone, but something tells me I wasn't. The old girl looked great in the June sunlight, but she needed a little sprucing up. She hadn't been out on a date in decades, so I grabbed a whiskbroom and some 3-In-One oil and got to work. The lead cord seemed okay, so I plugged her in. When I first flipped the switch, there was nothing but silence. I gave the belt a few turns by hand and wiggled the switch again. Suddenly like Rip Van Winkle (Goggle it kids) waking from his slumber, the electric motor began to moan and groan back to life. Another few hand-spins of the belt and the old Delta was singing once more. The sound of that old motor and spinning saw blade brought me back to dad's shop and the 1960s in an instant. The smell of pine sawdust, and that old musty shop filled the air. Best of all, I could hear my father breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe the kid finally gets it? It took a lifetime to grasp the impact of his lessons, but they all came flooding back like a tsunami. Cleaning up dad's old bandsaw had become a Father's Day gift I wasn't expecting. 

 

Work Light with old GE Bulb 

Once I had the saw cleaned up, it was time to try it out. I found an old piece of trim and flipped on the switch—nothing. I wiggled it a little, and as it snapped back to life, I suddenly remembered something. It had always been bad. It was 1968, and I could hear my father as clear as day saying, "I have to fix that switch someday." Well, dad, it's June 2020, today's the day! I ran back into the cellar and found a new one. It took less than five minutes to take something off a fifty-year to-do list. I'm sure I could detect a smile on the Delta/Milwaukee when I flipped her on this time. I'm guessing dad was smiling down too. It felt so good I even replaced the lead to the work light dad had mounted on the saw years ago.

Time to make a new key rack

I did leave the vintage socket and 60W GE light bulb intact as a reminder of days gone by. Bringing that 1945 saw back to life gave me more than good memories; it gave me the inspiration to tackle more long-overdue projects. I think the first one will be to use an old wooden pattern I saved from dad's shop. It's the cutout of a large key. You add hooks to it to hang your various keys on. My parents had one hanging in the kitchen for as long as I can remember. Dad had all the hooks marked with those plastic Label-Maker labels you made one letter, one squeeze at a time. The hook I remember most clearly was the one labeled "Shop." 

Happy Father's Day! 

Love,
John 


* Founded in 1919, DELTA Power Equipment Corporation is still in existance and making bandsaws. The 2020 version of this saw is not all that different than the 1945 version I own. I was able to verify the year of manufacture by calling Delta Machinery's 1-800 number with the serial number. I was surprised to learn it was 10 years older than I thought. 

Average

Average 
By John R. Greenwood 

Photo by the author.
Location: at the corner or Rt#9 and Waller Rd.


Click Here:  Author's Voice Recording of "Average"

My head feels like a telephone pole filled with sharp pointed objects. The pain is not from illness or fear. The hurt I feel comes from trying to understand the minds of people around me. How can we all be so far apart in how we look at the world? How can so many justify the moral vacuum that has sucked common courtesy from our society? I consider myself an average man with average abilities and an average view of life. I don’t expect more out of it than I put in. I am comfortable with you having yours as long as you are comfortable with others having theirs. Where did the train go off the rails? Listening to people taking judgmental potshots at each other has worn my optimism to the nubs. Then, just as I give up on “please” and “thank you,” I read a story about the unselfish heroism of Mr. or Mrs. Average putting their lives at risk for a total stranger. I can’t understand why we don’t drop the tug-of-war rope, tie it to the problem and start pulling it in the same direction. Wouldn’t life work better that way? It seems so simple to me. Its time to add the word compromise back into Webster’s book with all the other nice words. 

We’ve gone askew trying to convince each other our view is the only one that counts. We look in that magic mirror and see perfection. No one thinks they might be the problem. We need to make average more acceptable. Stop trying to make me—you. I’ll stop trying to make you—me. The frustrating part is listening to the fray and not getting pulled in to it. Restraint is hard. Acceptance is hard. Finding contentment in the middle of a shit-storm is like metal detecting a concrete driveway. The average among us want calm. We want our disagreements to be limited to Colgate or Crest, mayonnaise or mustard, Ford or Chevy. It’s not fear of confrontation; it’s a desire to get along with the neighbors. Why does every push need a pull? Sometimes we need to set down the remote and watch whatever shows up next. Maybe we’ll learn something we never knew—something we never understood before today. 

I’m not promoting rolling over like a lab puppy who just wants his belly rubbed. I understand the need to bark at a stranger from time to time. Barking doesn’t have to include a bite. Even dogs have Calico friends. 

Don’t interpret this as a soapy cry for soft and fuzzy. We have children and grandchildren who need us to set an example. Watch kids play. They don’t care one cheese-puff who’s political sign in the front yard. All kids want is two full teams so they can have a fair game. We shouldn’t fear diversity; we should embrace it and treat it as a gift. We don’t have to look over our shoulders too far to see how we got here.

What do I want to see tomorrow? 

Something average. 

Making Stuff

Making Stuff

By John  R. Greenwood

The last several weeks have been a strain on everyone. I'd like to express my gratitude and admiration to those whose job puts them on the front lines of the war on COVID-19. I'm fortunate and have little to complain about in comparison. My first priority is in the next room safe and sound. Although spurts of fear and uncertainty have caused some tears and a nightmare or two, my wife and I are trying to remain positive and productive. In that light, I've been spending some time making stuff. This week I made some stuff so I could make more stuff. 

My garage is only large enough for a Toyota, a motorcycle, a bicycle, and a vast assortment of yard tools. A cellar is not the ideal place to build stuff. I'm much happier building stuff out in the fresh air. Not only can I hear the birds, but the view better. It's also easier to clean up the sawdust. For the last forty-plus years, all my building projects have been squeezed in between work and other responsibilities. Now that I have more time to spend on projects, my impatience is more manageable, and the quality of my circular saw cuts are vastly improved. 

I started the week building a work table. I added casters for mobility. I didn't use any specific set of plans, although I did watch hours and hours of workbench building videos on YouTube. I'm not sure if that made the end result any better, but it did kill a lot of time. Watching DIY videos on YouTube also makes your morning coffee taste better. It's a scientific fact.The table came out better than expected. It also used up some scrap material that had been lying around. It's a good thing I added casters because the table weighs more than a Buick. When the weather warms up, I'll add some stain. 

The second project I'd wanted to do is to build a new set of saw horses. I made a set for my son for Christmas. I experimented with a simpler version for those. Although they looked great and were much easier to make, I'm not sure they will hold up as well. For the one pictured here, I dug out an old set of plans I'd used before. This version takes a little longer to make but will last longer. I'd probably still be using the originals if I'd maintained them better. I used pressure-treated lumber and exterior grade fasteners on my new set. If I take better care of them, they should outlast me. I'm planning to repaint my garage this summer. These puppies are strong enough to use for scaffolding. 

Three new pieces will help make my other building projects more enjoyable this summer. Having heavy-duty, portable work surfaces makes any DIY project go smoother. If we're going to be yard-bound this spring, we might as well be building, fixing, cleaning, or improving something while we're at it. 

For all of you who still have to drive a truck, tend to the ill or injured, keep retail afloat, protect us from fire and crime, I can't thank you enough. To stay engaged, I will try to post here more often. I will do my best to keep it light and entertaining. We get enough drama with the morning news to last all day. The best advice I can give right now is to keep moving. Building stuff is a good start. 

Be safe out there. 

Be sure to wear your safety glasses, earplugs, face mask, sunscreen, gloves, steel-toed boots, and hardhat. Don't forget to wash your hands, eat your vegetables, take your vitamins, and drink your juice. Be sure to get plenty of rest. Always warm up and stretch before any strenuous activity. 

Most importantly, "Have Fun!" 


See you on election day! 

This is one of the pair I made as a Christmas gift.
I used a technique called Shou Sugi Ban to finish it 

Bare-knuckle Snow-blowing

Bare-knuckle Snow-blowing 

By John R. Greenwood 

It’s a good day when you can snow blow your driveway with bare knuckles. There is a huge discrepancy between snow-blowing on November 24th and snow-blowing on March 24th. Knowing there is green grass in your near future feels good. The attitude gap is immeasurable. If it wasn’t for the half-dozen Amazon packages headed our way I might have left the snow to fend for itself. There is nothing more rewarding than clearing snow when the thermometer is hovering in the forties and the lawn was already raked and fertilized the week before. Knowing its Toro’s last hurrah puts a smile on your face and a skip in your boots. It did give me a chance to thank Old Faithful for getting me through the winter without a hitch. 

In my last post I vowed to stay positive and productive while this virus turns our lives upside down. My wife and I are doing our part to keep ourselves healthy and safe. We’re not ready to be sacrificed to keep stock earnings healthier. 

With that thought I’m going to make an effort to pump a little life into Raining Iguanas. I owe it to all those who have supported the blog and encouraged me to continue writing. Life got real over the last several months and priorities sometimes require recalibration. 

Yesterday while I was pretending to dig out from a pretend blizzard I snapped a few pictures to help get my mojo back. If you haven’t visited here in a while I want to thank you for stopping by. 

ALREADY!

Frozen Tundra 

Dazed and Confused 

Snow Bunnies

Table Talk Pie 

Be Kind.
We're All In This Together

Jetson's To The Flintstone's

Jetson's To The Flintstone's
By John R. Greenwood

We've gone from the Jetson's to the Flintstone's in just a few weeks. Life as we have grown accustom, has come to a screeching halt. It was like watching Fred bury his heels in the dirt to avoid t-boning a runaway Brontosaurus. Our lives have gone from sixty to zero overnight. We may have turned the clocks ahead to save daylight, but our lives have been rolled back to save lives. And it's just the beginning. The severity of our predicament came abruptly, and put our Charmin' lives in the outhouse. 

I have always tried to flaunt my optimism. Some might argue that point, but I do my best to lean more Anne Lamott than Denis Leary. That theory was tested the other day when I exercised my social distancing skills by going for a walk down my road. I wrote about that walk in the previous post. My walk turned into a road adoption, and instead of my glass being half full, I came home 45 minutes later with an overflowing bag of empty liquor bottles and a diminished view of my fellow man. I found myself in a pessimistic pickle. 

Jump ahead two days. After reading dozens of stories about people pulling up bootstraps and grabbing tigers by the tail, I decided to see a doctor. I didn't need to make an appointment. I have a physician friend who makes house calls. All it takes to see her is a mouse-click and her expertise will come to your doorstep. Her name is Jen and you can find her blog Pound of Prevention here. I first met Jen as a member of a writing group. We were a small group of like-minded, beginning writers with hopes of learning more about the craft of sharing our thoughts with the rest of the world. Our group turned into something much more than that. It became an oasis of support and positivity. The residual effect has lasted for years and continues today. The piece she had posted was titled "Containing Coronavirus (Fears)." Who better to explain the current situation than a practicing physician with a compassionate heart. She did just that. Her thoughts were personal. Her advice comes from the soul of a physician/mother/wife/citizen/friend/writer. Her opinions and guidance have been mirrored by many across the internet. On the flip-side, there is no shortage of negative, judgmental, and whining commentary. I'm trying to avoid those as much as the virus itself. The best advice I heard came from the governor. He said it's vital that in all this turmoil, we stay, "productive." That can come in many forms and interpretations. That's the point, what's best for you may not be best for me. Find a comfort zone. Know there is light at the end, but we need the support of each other along the way. 

My goal is to stay positive and productive. Ranting about a littered roadside today is neither. I don't want to be Walter Matthau in Grumpy Old Men, I'm more comfortable in Fred Roger's shoes. I was going to delete my trash-rant post from the other day. But on second thought, I think I'll keep it there as a reminder—a sort of Turning Point of the American Revolution of Attitude and Productivity. 

Take a minute to visit the doctor on her website. She gives sound advice. 

Oh, one last thought! 

Who do you think was happier, George Jetson in Orbit City, working at Spacely Space Sprockets? Or, Fred living in Bedrock, working at the Slate Rock and Gravel Company? 

I'll give you a clue.

 "Yabba Dabba..."

Trash Talk

Trash Talk 

By John R. Greenwood 

It’s the second day of Spring 2020 and I needed to un-Covid-19 myself. The stress of the last few weeks had grabbed me by the throat and threatened to choke me. Whenever this happens I go running to my mother. Mother Nature has taken the place of mom’s attentive ear. Because mom is now busy tending to dad high above, she sometimes delegates her co-mother to fill in when she knows fresh air and the smell of pine needles is what I need most. So like a good son, I grabbed a hoodie and headed out the backdoor. A walk up the road is always a good starting point. I was just fifty feet from the end of my driveway when I spotted two empty beer cans, a soggy cigarette pack, and McDonald’s soda cup. I turned in my tracks and went back to the garage to grab a large shopping bag to collect road trash in. It was one of those gigantic plastic ones with handles. I thought it would be easier to carry than a trash bag and it would hold plenty. Wrong! I was still close enough to hit my garage with a rock and the bag was already half full. I figured if I did end up filling it I would leave it and pick it up on the return trip. My relaxing hike turned uglier the further I went. By the time I got to a grove of pines halfway down my road I was looking at dozens and dozens of single serve plastic wine bottles strewn as far as I could see. You can read my fall 2018 rant about this issue here: I'll Drive You To Drink

My relaxing walk had turned Covid-like. The vision of someone winging their drinking problem out the window and on to the roadside cranked me up like a BJ’s shopper watching someone buy (2) 32-Pack’s of Charmin during a pandemic. 

WTF! 

I regained my composure and filled my liquor-bag to the brim. By now I was drenched in perspiration and wine fumes, so instead of continuing my walk, I turned around and headed home. I’d gotten my exercise even if Mother Nature ended up getting the better end of the deal. She was a little cleaner. I burned a few calories, more by anger than effort, but in the end I did feel better that my walk wasn’t in vain. I’m sure the wine sommelier that knocks down these bottles of swill has no moral conscience and would consider me the problem with the world. Although my anger will probably fall on deaf ears, I needed to get this off my chest. There’s probably two or three more bags of trash to pick up around my 1.5 mile block. I will attempt another walk tomorrow. Maybe by the time Covid-19 is a fading memory my drunk friend will loose their license and have to start drinking at home. 

Rant over. 

Why "Raining Iguanas"

Why "Raining Iguanas" 

By John R. Greenwood

A recent 2020 cold snap in South Florida has resulted in several news articles
regarding the lizard phenomenon called raining iguanas. It also initiated a slew of messages from friends of this blog of the same name. Since there may be new visitors here I thought it would be good to write a fresh explanation and also repost a link to the first piece I wrote about how the name “Raining Iguanas” became the title of my blog. Having never visited Florida in my life and with little affection for lizards, in general, it makes sharing this story even more interesting. The vision of iguanas raining down comes from their inability to survive in frigid temperatures. Because they reside in trees where they can absorb the warmth of the sun when that sun disappears and the mercury drops to the low 30’s they lose their grip and drop to the ground. If the sun and warmer temperatures don’t come quickly enough, the iguanas die. Conversely, if the sun and temperature rise, so do the iguanas. 

I adopted that phenomenon as a metaphor for my life several years ago after my parents had both passed away, and several years of caregiving were now in my rearview mirror. The realization that my life had just made a drastic turn weighed heavily on my ability to function. Job and family obligations would change by default. Grieving and breathing were now intertwined in a confusing cocktail. It was twelve years ago that I sat at my dining room table and read a random article about ashen colored lizards being warmed back to life by the simple rays of the sun when something clicked. It was a crossroad moment where you must make a life-changing decision to take one path or another. Do I choose to mope and feel sorry for myself? Or, do I celebrate the life that my parents provided me and leap forward. I chose the latter. My parents weren’t perfect but they always wanted what was best for me. I was fortunate to have grown up in a rural environment where hard work and solid friendships provided a foundation for what would be a fulfilling and rewarding life. On that day where I connected with the idea of a second wind and a renewed outlook on my life, the name “Raining Iguanas” was born. The name stands for revival and survival. It stands for stepping out and stepping up. It stands for glasses half full and embracing the best life has to offer. It understands there are days when the temperature hovers near freezing and things appear bleak, but it is the “raining iguana’ mantra that there is always something better just around the corner that fuels this author. When you hear “raining iguanas,” think of a new foal circling the field kicking its back legs high and galloping for all he’s worth. Picture a grey-haired retiree neck-deep in local history uncovering old stories that yearn for the light of day. There are days when the chore of mowing the lawn needs a boost of “RI” (Raining Iguana). These are the days when the focus becomes the smell of fresh-cut grass and the memory it evokes. That memory might be the time you caught hell from dad because the lawn wasn't done when he got home, or the day you mowed over a nest of ground bees and had to run for dear life, it’s a gift worth saving and replaying in the years that follow. 

From the day the Raining Iguanas Blog was conceived I have embraced all that is supportive of the positive and accepting of the negative. The knowledge that there is no perfect answer has become clear during the iguana years. Friends and family of differing opinions and varying solutions seem destined to collide. My choice is to weigh with action, not words. “RI” is not about confrontation its about contemplation. You choose your path—I’ll choose mine—no judgment necessary. 

If any of this makes sense, then you will enjoy the ride. If it doesn’t today, it might tomorrow when your hair and tolerance of intolerant people thins. Sometimes you are better off letting the sun warm you back to life in any way you can. That ashen grey look is unbecoming and deadly. 

Here are two links to posts I wrote explaining the name of my blog "Raining Iguanas." 
Click Here: What's in a name"
Click Here: The Name?


Here is another link. This one is to the very first post of this blog. It's a poem I wrote before I had the courage to start this blog and begin sharing my stories with the outside world. 
Click Here: Post Number One: Raining Iguanas Poem

Here’s to the best of days—past, present, and future. 

Raining Iguanas