My Neighbor's Security

I know most of the people who live on my street - which is only somewhat true.  I know most of the people's vehicles who live on my street.
The people who live about a quarter mile away on a back lot just sold their house and moved recently.  I had never actually talked to them, but they drove a PT Cruiser.  From what I could see as they drove by, usually while I was walking one of the dogs, they were older - meaning they may have been around my age or maybe older.  They always smiled and waved.  But even people who probably would not like me smile and wave as they go by.

I don't remember the last time I woke up after the sun had risen, or even as the sun was rising.  I generally find that once I wake up, the best thing for me to do is just to get up - regardless of the time.  As much as it may pain the 16-year-old-me who has long since gone extinct, I am a morning person.
The first thing I do after I get up is put the dogs out.  My younger dog always hear me walking toward the dog room.  My older dog, deaf for years now, usually needs to be woken up.

At one time, we were the new neighbors on this street.  Now there are new neighbors at the house that just sold.  And three doors down in the other direction, new constructions is building another house.  It was early December when I moved into this house.  Coming from an old Victorian house down in the holler that is Main Street of the township, SO and I were enamored with the sunrises and sunsets.  A house out to the west - quite a ways away - has a floodlight of some kind.  This looks like a yellow sodium vapor light that is old enough that it may be starting to dim.  I can only see this light in the late fall through spring.  The house sits low, near the horizon so trees (and probably hateful honeysuckle) blocks the light from view at other times.
I've grown accustomed to that yellow light, but on first moving in, I hated it.  It spoiled otherwise stunning sunsets.  Looking to the west after dark, that yellow light remains defiling the sun's canvas.

I'm really not sure how old my older dog is as she was a rescue dog.  I was told that she was around 4 when I got her, but she was already starting to show some significant grey in the face.  When I told the vet the assumed age, he hesitated, raised an eyebrow, "Um, maybe.  Maybe five, or six."
She is the most aloof, yet affectionate dog I've ever had.  She can no longer go on anything but the shortest walks.  At times she can still jump on the furniture; other times she just puts her front paws up and looks at me.  She tends to look annoyed when I lift her onto the couch.  Aloof but affectionate.  I suspect I'll have the same level of obstinateness when I can no longer metaphorically jump on the couch.

When I let the dogs out first thing in the morning, I often pause to look up in the sky on clear mornings.  Living in a rural area, the stars shine brightly.  Even though I still want to visit an area with very low light pollution - I've never been able to see the painted swath of the Milky Way.  I have been lucky enough to have seen some fantastic meteors first thing in the morning.

The new people on the street have put up a shockingly bright security light that remains lit through the night.  Unlike the house to the west, this is not a dimming sodium vapor light, but appears to be some new-fangled bright white LED.  I have very quickly grown to detest that light.  I'm fearful if I ever meet these new neighbors, I'll instantly say something like, "Ah, the sons-a-bitches with that bright-ass light?"
I'm curious about the intentions and level of fear that necessitated such a bright light to be lit all night.  I suspect a similar reaction as to when someone new immigrant to this rural area complains about getting behind a trundling combine in the fall - what did you move to a rural area for?  Shouldn't darkness be a virtue of a rural area, just like farm equipment or cow poop is celebrated?  Or dogs barking?  Or sassafras trees being destroyed by whitetail bucks overcome with aggression in the fall?  Did these new neighbors come from a suburb, and bring with them the primordial fear of darkness that led primitive Homo Habilis to huddle by the safety of a fire at night?

I worry about my older dog.  She has been diagnosed with cancer and is approaching borrowed time.  Along with her hearing, her sense of smell is diminished to the point it is difficult at times to get her to eat.  But it doesn't take much to keep her happy.  Make sure she has water.  Give her a few treats per day.  Help her on the couch even if she groans about it.  And let her out every few hours.  The neighbor's lights don't seem to bother her at all.

The Fall Scramble

Fall, and more specifically October, is usually a busy time.  I own too many things with internal combustion engines and many of them are not used in the winter - so all of them get maintenance and get cleaned up before putting to bed.  This takes time and the timing is dependent on their last use.

The lawn always needs a final mow.

Outside and inside cleaning must be done.

The house often needs a bit of attention before Brother North Wind begins to blow.

And I need to get ready for hunting.

My recent trip west made all this winter preparation seem even more of a scramble this year.  I needed to finish most of it before leaving, then complete the rest after returning.

But the local deer season started less than two weeks after I got home.

Deer hunting around home has a lot of variability.  I've had years where the deer seem to constantly saunter around me, and years where they seem to know exactly where I am.  During the latter, they plan travels to keep miles away from me.  It was only a few years ago when I had a 2-year dry spell with no venison in the freezer - the dry spell broken with a doe taken late on a Thanksgiving afternoon.

This year, the weather on opening day was not conducive to deer hunting.  There were high winds all day with a threat for heavy rain.  The weather ended up being only bad, not terrible.  Still, I probably heard less shooting on opening day than I had in years; the only year that I can recall that produced less gunfire was 2008, when there was an all-day constant cold rain.  I always hunt opening day, but I much prefer the quiet of later in the season - even if there is less deer movement.

I shot a buck on opening morning, around the time I started to get concerned about the predicted rain.  The real work of hunting starts after the shot - not before it.

The buck I shot was a pretty nice eight-point.  In most other years, I would have been ecstatic.  For the area I hunt, he was probably better than average.  But my 2016 deer was an absolute monster.  And a recent trip out West also resulted in a phenomenal bucket-list deer.  With time for reflection, it is sad how our expectations can get reset, even if only temporarily.  I fully realize that within a year or so, expectations will be returned back to normal - and I'll be thrilled with a doe and probably much later in the season.

Something else ended with the shot on that eight-point buck.  The fall scramble ended.  After a day spent processing the deer - gosh I am slow at that - I realized my time horizon has opened up considerably.  I had scheduled lots of vacation time for hunting, and I have too much vacation to burn before the end of the year.  But the fall scramble is over.  The fall scramble ended abruptly with the report of a .243 Winchester.  Cabin fever may be next.

It is Thanksgiving.  I took my dog for a long walk at first light.  Temperatures were significantly below freezing.  The wind was putting just a small bite in the air.  I heard gunfire off to the west - almost a certainty it was someone deer hunting.  It was the kind of morning that begs for hunting, if one has the right gear for it.  For now, the freezer is full of venison.  I am very thankful.  I am very fortunate.

The Billionaire's Vinegar (and the thousandaire's giclee)

"And you drove there?" my manager asked me.  My manager couldn't seem to fathom that I drove to Wyoming.

While definitely not the same as going cross country on my motorcycle, I actually enjoy the expeditions in my four-wheeled vehicle.  The trip out allows me some time to mentally prepare by shedding thoughts about work and home.  It allows me an opportunity to mentally prepare for what I'm traveling for.  The trip home gives me time to reflect - to replay events in my mind and begin to see what will stick in my memory, and what I'll be glad I've written down as I'll be sure to forget it otherwise.

These trips also allow me to read/listen to audiobooks.  I often ponder if reading a physical book is the same as listening to it.  I've decided it isn't; it is only a close facsimile.  I won't claim to be able to explain this, but I see reading a book on a Kindle or Nook to be more similar to audiobooks than the physical book.  Paper books have a tactile, almost sensualness to them that any form of digital media just doesn't have - the difference between the plastic house plant and the real one.  Both can look good, but they are not equivalent.
One of the books I listened to on my westward direction was The Billionaire's Vinegar by Benjamin Wallace.  I don't remember where I originally heard about this book, but I found it utterly fascinating.  It recounts the tale of a 1787 Lafite bordeaux supposedly owned by Thomas Jefferson, and delves into the cosmos of ultra-rare wine collecting.  Like any niche-world, this is not an arena to enter into without knowing what one is getting into; it would appear to be a world where trivial differences can be the split between something outrageously valuable and something of no value except as decoration or a conversation piece.  Fraud can be rampant, with profits to be made if one is discreet (google Rudy Kurniawan...).  Arguably, many of these rare, old wines taste good only because they are rare and old.
The Billionaire's Vinegar was so good, I started to listen to it on the return trip, but got home before the second read was done.

Ultra rare wine collecting sounds like a sister to fine art collecting.  I've never really understood art - where the value of something is so dependent, not on the thing itself, but on the person who created it.  A dusty painting from hundreds of years ago may be worth nothing, even if it appears to be a really good painting, if the artist is an unknown.  A painting of similar aesthetic value from Matisse or Steen could be priceless.
I enjoy watching Antiques Roadshow, and it isn't unusual for a participant to bring in a work of art they see as "ugly" only to say something to the effect of, "I'm starting to really like this now!" when the appraiser tells them it is worth thousands of dollars.  (Just how often are Antiques Roadshow appraisals grossly wrong?)  It seems if a painting has aesthetic value, it should be worth something.  And if it is ugly, it shouldn't?  Perhaps I am just a philistine when it comes to these things.  I am...

A relative gave me a "painting" of a leopard a few years ago.  Except it isn't a painting at all, but a "giclee" - which is an expensive way of saying an ink-jet printing on canvas, possibly touched in a few places by a brush and maybe even a penned signature.  It came with a Certificate of Authenticity and an "appraisal" which put its value at hundreds of dollars.  I can find other giclees - or seriolithographs - of this image online for even more, approaching several thousands of dollars from "fine art" websites.  Or I can find it on Ebay for a few few tens of dollars.  How much is the used car worth?  My former boss used to tell customers that it is worth what someone will pay for it.
A web search of the art seller, who also happens to be the appraiser, quickly shows the value of their certificate and what their valued opinion is worth.

• "... as well as a giclée of leopards by Andrew Bone to a man wearing a Yankees T-shirt for $1,025. (When I spoke to the Yankees fan later, he referred to the purchase as a “painting on canvas,” and I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise.)"

I'm not sure what the relative paid for the image, but I suspect the frame it is in could actually be of similar value.  In the back of my mind, I can't help wonder what Andrew Bone, the artist, thinks about this racket.  Probably like Thomas Kinkade - he thinks about his bank account.  Bubble gum can be fun to chew for a few minutes.

I originally felt somewhat obligated to hang the leopard giclee up in the house, but even if it has some aesthetic value, it just doesn't look right anywhere in the house.  An African leopard in a house filled with North American taxidermy looks more than a little out of place.  Many would question my choice for decoration and I understand that.  But I'm also very aware that any offense aside, my art choice has value to me and me alone - an aesthetic reminder of my experiences rather than intrinsic worth.

The leopard print is relegated to the basement, and if the market for seriolithographs ever takes off and I end up on Antiques Roadshow, I'm not sure I'll be able to say I like it more.