Strange Fascination

<p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>    </span></span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5jfK_N4pAWg/YPnxL1x9JyI/AAAAAAAAczE/qSMpRuHFxUcWdlsKwCkGVTXPg4WSVKUGQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/Chatham%2BCounty%2BLine%2Band%2BGS.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="300" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5jfK_N4pAWg/YPnxL1x9JyI/AAAAAAAAczE/qSMpRuHFxUcWdlsKwCkGVTXPg4WSVKUGQCLcBGAsYHQ/w400-h300/Chatham%2BCounty%2BLine%2Band%2BGS.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>    </span>Don't tell me we don't create our own reality. I'll tell you that you don't see what is right before your eyes. My favorite song for the past many months has been <i>Strange Fascination</i> by Chatham County Line. Bluegrass is the soundtrack to life here in Appalachia. I've been playing it over and over, simply slayed by the soft harmony. Orchid petals sift through the tangles of my mind, and I've been drifting in the seductive resonance of <i>I want a lover's kiss, soft and loose.</i> </span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span>    I live a million miles from nowhere, alone, a recluse deep in the forest. A few people come and sit on my front porch now and then, but most people scare me. Or bore me. Seldom anything in between.</span><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span>    I do have a friend who lives over the next ridge, but I don't see her much. She e-mailed me mid-week and told me that Chatham County Line would be playing at their home in the woods on Saturday. Did I want to come? Turns out, neither she nor her husband knew who they were, but she had been trying her hand at throwing small festivals and coming across them, called their manager, inquiring about prices. They had not settled on anything and she didn't have anything scheduled for the weekend, but their manager had written it in their calendar. And the band wanted to play, even without pay. So, there we were, less than two dozen of us and Graham Sharp, one of the best balladeers alive and the lightning bugs and kids chasing bubbles on a magical summer evening in Bath County, Virginia.</span><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><span>    I can't even tell you what happened to me when the stand-up bass player slid into his seat at the pedal steel. And the first few strains of Strange Fascination floated through the velvety night. It felt like air surrounded each one of the molecules that make up what  is me and I was God. Or maybe I was a tiny flower. Or maybe ocean spray. Or everything at once. And nothing.</span><br /></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><span><span>    I remembered acutely what it felt like to be in love. God, it had been so long since I cared. My sigh was a quiet moan as my eyes closed and I melted into the high bar table I'd been leaning against. Unconsciously my hands formed in front of my heart and I gave deep thanks. For everything.</span><br /></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;">    Now <i>I want a lover's touch. </i></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span>    </span>Don't keep me waiting.</i><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>    </i>That's a good song. That will be my mantra on my trip westward.<br /></span></p><p><span style="font-size: medium;"><span><span><br /></span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><br /><p></p>

Viva

Strange Fascination

          Don't tell me we don't create our own reality. I'll tell you that you don't see what is right before your eyes. My...

Five Minutes on the Farm #32 Red Asian Pears

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Five Minutes on the Farm #32 Red Asian Pears

<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AEhZwZ4lbHo/YGDAtudfuLI/AAAAAAAAZ9s/M_EvdnXWXiIwq0mYTpgj9NA87E-E76PuACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7258.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-AEhZwZ4lbHo/YGDAtudfuLI/AAAAAAAAZ9s/M_EvdnXWXiIwq0mYTpgj9NA87E-E76PuACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_7258.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">My phone just sent me this photo taken of the Fuchs House just outside Vienna, Austria a few years ago, along with this one,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hmZazIHKn0M/YGDBFrz9YoI/AAAAAAAAZ90/KH89vwqn5gg_OEQsDIxDwOD2kwjzeL_BwCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_7253.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hmZazIHKn0M/YGDBFrz9YoI/AAAAAAAAZ90/KH89vwqn5gg_OEQsDIxDwOD2kwjzeL_BwCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_7253.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">that my niece took of me that day,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">this photo of my train companions earlier that summer on a train ride through Morocco from Tangier to Fes,</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aBPpr3RLSQM/YGDBcesI6fI/AAAAAAAAZ98/8VeqmY2LCVwt-2o40LWWdORJPetaUknjQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_5978.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aBPpr3RLSQM/YGDBcesI6fI/AAAAAAAAZ98/8VeqmY2LCVwt-2o40LWWdORJPetaUknjQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/IMG_5978.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>a random snapshot of street art I took along the Donau Canal which my phone says is the Danube, close enough,<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LkRvPXuhzms/YGDBvzDPWCI/AAAAAAAAZ-E/pI-Z_fw6iTc_E6bib41YMmtUPfR_nhzDQCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_6605.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1956" data-original-width="2048" height="612" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LkRvPXuhzms/YGDBvzDPWCI/AAAAAAAAZ-E/pI-Z_fw6iTc_E6bib41YMmtUPfR_nhzDQCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h612/IMG_6605.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p>and finally this one of the thermal plant in Vienna designed by one of my heroes, Friedensreich Hundertwasser.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OX0Rlo_qMUE/YGDCWPI03TI/AAAAAAAAZ-M/HiN6cOFu_m0fyiZ4UFvqOEqUDjmu3zYKgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_2475.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OX0Rlo_qMUE/YGDCWPI03TI/AAAAAAAAZ-M/HiN6cOFu_m0fyiZ4UFvqOEqUDjmu3zYKgCLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_2475.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Well....these definitely stirred the wanderlust which has been simmering...I keep having to move it to the back burner to settle down a bit as COVID is still rampant so I can't travel, except across the US. Pretty grateful to be quarantined in a large country, but won't travel until I'm vaccinated and my foot heals enough to hike. <div><br /></div><div>The photos also stirred a thirst for COLOR! It's such a grey grey day, with just a splash of gold, a surreal  brilliance - emanating from the daffodils and forsythia - and illuminating my foggy yard. Pushed open the storm door and found that it's warmer out than it appears. Balmy even.  So I wiggled my boots on (over the refusing-to-ever heal sawed-off ankle spur and her splintered tendon) and squished through the soggy leaves on a quest. I know there are tiny resplendent wildflowers if I just look. So here is the next installment of Five Minutes on the Farm taken on that quest, the first capturing some of the woodland music -  the owl's mating calls and the woodpecker's mad racket evaded recording and the wind against the mic is definitely not as romantic and scary as it sounds rushing through the forest, but it's a taste.<div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/LQnJZ2jYM4Q" width="320" youtube-src-id="LQnJZ2jYM4Q"></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div><br /></div>I'm going to start posting contributions from a new project my son David suggested. An SOP (Standard Operating Procedure) for the Farm for the year 2100 AD as that is what I am preparing for. Two black walnuts arriving along with some more blueberry bushes and a weeping cherry tree in the next couple weeks. They are all part of the plan. To be continued... Meanwhile, enjoy Spring!<br /><div><br /></div></div>

Five Minutes on the Farm

  My phone just sent me this photo taken of the Fuchs House just outside Vienna, Austria a few years ago, along with this one, that my niece...

Five Minutes on the Farm #30 Winter in Quarantine

<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">So the question is: where is #29?<span style="text-align: center;"> </span></div></blockquote><p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">Found it!<span style="text-align: center;"> </span></div></blockquote><p> </p><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: justify;">On my youtube channel. It's only a minute and a half showing the destruction of my kindling pile, gnawed to bits under the tarp by chipmunks who truly created an architectural wonder for their cozy winter home. I really should supplement the video with the many imaginative burrows I have found - in the bonfire piles (I have two... just waiting... I was waiting for people to join me, but as COVID drags on, I will probably just wait for my foot to heal enough that I am comfortable that I can run fast enough to the spigot where my hose will be hooked. Sometimes winds whip up here in the mountains with no warning and that can be scary when you've got a huge roaring fire) and in the thickets. I've decided to take cuttings from my rhododendron, azaleas and lilacs and plant them all about to allow for more safe small mammal and bird habitats. The shadows of the hawks soaring overhead can seem ominous. And a beautiful red tail often sits on one of my fenceposts watching. An owl nest is nearby and of course there are fox and bear. The ground hogs have several deep and safe burrows already - a couple I am not pleased with... and it's not like I want them in my garden. Or the rabbits... but still, homo sapiens have slaughtered too many species to extinction and more nearly so. Biodiversity is my mantra for this Spring's plantings.</div></blockquote></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oeBIdnXxDwY/YEDyocu6QxI/AAAAAAAAZ7o/kQDjuwDzsBA2hUrkt1JCGW6nqDlA8_DkACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_4591.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="328" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-oeBIdnXxDwY/YEDyocu6QxI/AAAAAAAAZ7o/kQDjuwDzsBA2hUrkt1JCGW6nqDlA8_DkACLcBGAsYHQ/w524-h328/IMG_4591.jpg" width="524" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/67-2cXwZtbI" width="320" youtube-src-id="67-2cXwZtbI"></iframe></div><br /> <p></p>

Five Minutes on the Farm

Five Minutes on the Farm #30 Winter in Quarantine

So the question is: where is #29?     Found it!     On my youtube channel. It's only a minute and a half showing the destruction of my k...

A Wee Nip

<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kgls6pXMGkA/X_HecNsbPAI/AAAAAAAAZ2w/fxyDUGIjI-0YM2ED-Ir0B_DlbdF8D5h0ACLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/IMG_6980.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="640" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kgls6pXMGkA/X_HecNsbPAI/AAAAAAAAZ2w/fxyDUGIjI-0YM2ED-Ir0B_DlbdF8D5h0ACLcBGAsYHQ/w480-h640/IMG_6980.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">How does one choose where to go? A world so diverse, each territory a unique jewel, glistening among handfuls and handfuls? Wherever you land, you will find adventure! The trick is to quickly toss down your luggage, pull on clean traveling clothes, load up your light knapsack with provisions for the next five hours or so, and venture out. You are now ready to soak up every moment of our compressed novel of days for all it is worth. Don't bother planning. Just follow your feet. Wonders will appear.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">An example. Roaming the streets of old Edinburgh, I paused to rad a poster in a shop window, lured by the alliteration of whiskey and waterfalls. I thought a moment. Why would I <i>not </i>take advantage of learning about scotch whiskeys from master distillers? </div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Surely the warm peaty liquid would flow silkily down a parched traveler's throat. And just as surely the cobalt sky would begin to bleed its blue into itself, blending my dreams into the very afternoon. I pushed open the door and spotted the sixty euros for the bus trip.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I heard grumblings over dry waterfalls in the waiting room, but didn't give a wooden nickel. Naturally the tour operator was going to hold onto that name, no matter the drama or dearth of falls on any given day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Besides, I'd never seen the legendary bonny hills of heather. I'd never seen the damp, grey castles worth their heavy chained drawbridges over moats. Those sights alone would be worth an afternoon traveling through the countryside.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And doubtless, the inevitable quirky narrative of the tour bus driver would yield an inescapable sideshow. In the case of our driver, what began as an animated presentation of mildly amusing facts about castles quickly escalated to an intense diatribe against the government of Great Britain, leaving no doubt that our driver would be voting for secession in the net few days. We all had front seats to the legendary volatile Scotch temper. Judging from the grimaces, a few of my fellow passengers also found it unsettling that his tone revealed little sympathy for the bloodied victims of the gruesome rebellions. He displayed an especially ghoulish relish for the more macabre and diabolical coups. You could see his mind working over the details. By the time we arrived at the first distillery, I was more than ready for a wee dram.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Filled with admirations for the distillers, the process, the craftsmanship of the barrels and staves, we returned to a war, fragrant showroom and sampled whiskeys, listening carefully to the nuances of discerning flavors. The salesmen were generous with samples and we all made it worth their while with our purchases which could be nipped en route to the next distillery.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We stopped at a waterfall which was indeed a mere trickle. But as I mentioned, I had no expectations of rushing or cascading waterfalls. It hardly mattered. I knew myself well enough to know that after a couple of tastings, I would simply laugh if the waterfalls were merely a faltering splash here and there. Haha! Wasn't that life? And that's exactly what happened.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It wasn't like I was going to undress, and flex around like a beautiful goddess, letting the water flow over me... while the group stood there eying me suspiciously lest I failed to return to the bus in our allotted eight minutes.</div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I seldom choose to go on tours, but I didn't have a car. I do not at all regret taking this tour. I had a darn good time. The only other tour I booked on that four-month excursion was a ride on the Glacier Express, though that may not qualify as a tour as there was no tour guide. Nor when I think back, did anyone announce anything other than railway stops. Or it's possible that I just didn't notice announcements while under the spell of the Alps: the breathtaking splendor of dark green firs, shimmering rivers and crystalline snowy peaks. My train car was mostly glass, its windows arching deep down each side from a glass ceiling. Perhaps it was that the destination was limited, blocked as it was on the south by even more formidable alps or maybe its billing as a scenic route, the architecture of the route transforming a mere excursion into a mystical trip that made it feel like a designed tour. My train wound around steep cliffs, slid into the darkness of mountain tunnels and skimmed the edges of gorges before crossing high above rushing rivers, passing tiny hamlet after hamlet, smoke curling from chimneys of fairy-tale homes, chalet roofs hanging over to almost touch the ground. Springtime flowers bloomed from baskets hung outside Tyrolian-paned windows.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Or maybe I was left with the impression of having been on a tour because I was stuck in a confined space over many hours with the same people. A few of them quite annoying, which is precisely why I avoid tours. Options for escaping are generally limited and in this case would have required trudging up and down steep snowy slopes where homes are scattered kilometers apart to seek shelter in a tiny dorf, where I was likely to find residents wearing Robin Hood hats and suspenders, or dirndls and braids, and speaking in a language only barely resembling German. It never fails to amaze when I travel to find that people truly are as they are in storybooks. Rural Austrians actually do don their finest lederhosen and suspenders for a trip into Vienna!</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But back to the bus tour in Scotland.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Large white clouds hung low across the dochs we passed. A periwinkle sky backlit dales of purple heather and violet thistle, and the many deep pools we passed reflected clouds rippling in shimmering pastels. The lochs appeared a perfect home for monsters, with lines of shiny hedges bordering trails from the lakes to nearby moss-blanketed caves.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Was the landscape so pristine because no one dared approach?</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Truthfully, the countryside we drove through was unblemished by man's debris, making it most pleasing to the eye. Edinburgh as a city is quite sincere in implementing Scotland's zero waste program, collecting plastics, cans and paper for recycling, food waste for renewable electricity and fertilizer, garden waste for compost, glass for recycling into containers and fiberglass, textiles for reuse in developing nations. Materials are recovered from batteries and small electricals, and non-recyclable waste is processed into electricity rather than being landfilled. They may not show a propensity to respect their leaders, but the citizenry here does embrace stewardship of the earth. And if not provoked, they come off as a pleasant and cheery folk. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">In the few weeks I was there, I heard more superlatives: Quit lovely! Brilliant! Perfect! Cheerio chap! and more Sorrys and Thank Yous than in my life cumulatively. And it welcome contrast to the more stoic German populations, I was met with smiles on the streets more often than not. I went about smiling myself, an especially large grin spreading wide when I tallied a "Viking spotting," my assessment when among the wiry dark crowd of midling stature, rose a much larger fellow with fiery hair.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">On my whiskey tour, I learned that the Famous Grouse, Scotland's most popular whiskey for the past thirty years is actually a bend of one hundred whiskeys, a bit about malting barley and distilling whiskey and consequently, a bit about the differences among Scotch whiskeys. I tried Dalwhinnie, Macallan, the Famous Grouse, Naked Grouse, Laphroaig and Highland Park. The barley of the Highland Park, which I continued to alternately sip and swig on the bus ride is dried by smoking peat (versus hot air dryers) and aged in sherry oak casks fro Spain (versus bourbon oak casks from America) for twelve years, differentiating it from the others. The colors of the wildflowers literally waving from the fields, of the ancient lichens stretching across stone walls, and the hues dancing across the glimmering surfaces of the lochs all grew more vibrant on the way home. The glens were sunnier, the billowing white clouds moved closer and more intensely dominated the landscape, and the water that did spill down the falls sparkled with an ethereal beauty. My ability to discriminate among the scotches I had procured however was decidedly less. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Each was even better than the last.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>

Oliver's Travels

A Wee Nip

How does one choose where to go? A world so diverse, each territory a unique jewel, glistening among handfuls and handfuls? Wherever you lan...

The Eco Subaru or Revenge of the Kingdom of Mice

<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YerXu4JLzQQ/X--BjeNiWqI/AAAAAAAAZ2U/fVE9t0uNsVc9A0dxbDQaTwfUIniY2RuTgCLcBGAsYHQ/s2048/prayer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" height="480" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YerXu4JLzQQ/X--BjeNiWqI/AAAAAAAAZ2U/fVE9t0uNsVc9A0dxbDQaTwfUIniY2RuTgCLcBGAsYHQ/w640-h480/prayer.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><p><br /></p>Tell me that I did not hear that correctly. Tell me that the service manager at the Subaru dealership did not just tell me that the wiring harness the mice ate through was an inviting meal because the wires are soy-based.<p></p><p>Bad enough that the firewall, little more than wool and cotton to the amateur eye, was crated away shred by shred from under the hood to the jumper cable compartment in the rear of the vehicle, the only part of the car <i>not </i>eco. A nice private, cozy styrofoam compartment that will retain and exude the godawful smell of mouse nesting, a deluxe fluffy nest replete with copious amount of mooshy poop, yes that styrofoam will outgas the rank odor of mouse urine and excrement through eternity, and definitely as long as I own the car. </p><p>Bad enough that the firewall screamed to the entire forest surrounding my house: <i>ideal nesting material here! </i>I wish the jumper cables had been where they should have been in his cozy little bungalow. Sharp wires to gnaw on and digest. Or better yet, that they were in the engine compartment hooked up to the battery with the electricity from my other more powerful vehicle flowing through when he was in the mood for another gourmet meal - chew through that motherfucker! </p><p>Yes, that was me, sad and guilty about murdering baby mice not so very long ago.</p><p>They got their revenge.  </p><p>I can only shake my head and swipe my credit card to pay for the extensive damage. My fantasy of them frying while dining on live jumper cables was utterly unrealistic. There was no powerful electrical flow to start my car. They had chewed the tasty wiring leading to the starting sensor. That's why I had to have the car towed an hour away to the dealership.</p><p>But back to my point. Are these components a good idea for a car that is marketed for use in the Great Outdoors? I fear that I will return to the trailhead one early evening after a hike and find my car completely gone. A bear snack.<br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><p></p>

Viva

The Eco Subaru or Revenge of the Kingdom of Mice

Tell me that I did not hear that correctly. Tell me that the service manager at the Subaru dealership did not just tell me that the wiring h...