A Sacred Thunderbird Navel Gaze

For a long time I have talked the talk. But last week I walked the walk. I, Anne Johnson, flew in a plane to Salt Lake City to meet a Sacred Thunderbird named Andy N. Condor.

They say you're not supposed to cross the country to meet someone you've just known online. Well, that certainly holds true for humans, but condors ... totally different story.

Andy N. Condor lives at Tracy Aviary. He is frequently online, where he performs essential ministry on the subject of vultures and their importance to the life of the Earth. I first started seeing his posts about two years ago. Then I found out that he and I both turned 60 this spring.

So I went to see him.

The very patient and understanding Mr. J and I arrived at Tracy Aviary at 9:00 on the dot for our tour. O blessed Sacred Thunderbird! Andy knew I was coming, so I got to take a special private walk with him and pose for photographs. It was a transcendent moment, dear reader.

What a magnificent specimen! I tried to contain my praise and worship so I wouldn't get tossed out. It was hard. Several times I had to ask myself why I put on makeup.

I took this photo myself. We had quite a stroll. I got to talk to Andy's best friend, a lovely Bird Whisperer named Helen, and she told me everything about him that I didn't already know. Which took about 25 seconds.

After my walk and chat with Andy, I perused the rest of the birdies at Tracy Aviary, and then Mr. J and I drove out to Park City. This was just Day One of our sojourn, so stay tuned for further missives about the adventure.

Before signing off, though, I'll have to say that I don't travel much. I hadn't flown in a plane since 2000. I haven't taken a summer off since 2015, and I've never gone anywhere on Spring Break. This brief jaunt made up for some lost time. Those of you who've known me awhile might well imagine what it meant to me to get this up-close and personal with a Sacred Thunderbird.

More soon! I'm not finished with this vulture!

Back from Bay, Found That Beach!

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," home safe and sound after another pleasant week alongside the mighty Chesapeake Bay! Yes, there's nothing quite like watching the sun set behind Kent Island amidst a balmy 97-degree evening. I am not saying it was hot there. It was hell there. When it's too hot to go kayaking, how much hotter can it get?

This is how hot it was. By Friday I was back in search of the elusive Claiborn Beach, bound and determined to find it. And I did! I credit a kindly local lady who told me how to get there -- exactly -- if I promised not to walk on her lawn. She did, I didn't, and -- voila! The public beach.

Claiborn Beach (deliberately misspelled) is a teeny tiny little spit of sand, liberally laden with oyster shells. The shells are hard to walk across in order to get into the water, but once you're in the drink, past the shoreline, you've got a sandy bottom. As in many parts of the Chesapeake, this shallow, sandy strand extends out into the water several hundred yards. You could literally wade two or three football fields in length out into the water before it got even up to your armpits.

You could, that is, except for that evil nemesis of the Chesapeake, the sea nettle.

Sea nettles are white, sheer jellyfish that range in size from a marble to a parasol. Once you've made an acquaintance with a sea nettle, you are no longer inclined to bathe in the mighty Chesapeake ... unless the temperature is a balmy 97 under cloudless skies.

How can I describe the sting of a sea nettle? It hurts. And not in just one little spot, like a wasp sting. It hurts wherever the tentacles touch. During my memorable bout with this vicious spineless Kraken, it got wrapped around my arm and stung me from shoulder to wrist. I yelped like a pup.

When the temperature is about to give you a heat stroke, however, you have to weigh the dangers of the Kraken against the knowledge that your hours are numbered if you don't cool off. So we plunged reluctantly into the surf -- self, Spare, Mr. J -- all three of us keeping vigilant watch for jellyfish.

We never ventured more than 15 feet from shore. Even there, several Krakens chased us back to the beach.

On such a bloody hot day, that little beach should have been filled with people. We were the only fools there. This was a good thing, however, because -- in addition to the much-needed cool-down -- I wanted some sea glass. And the bay gave liberally.

Have you ever seen sea glass? I love it. Let me explain what it is. Sea glass is a piece of a beer bottle, or other glass item, that somehow found itself in the bay. The sand scours the glass, removing all the sharp edges and dulling the sheen.

For some time now, I have felt that sea glass is a metaphor for my life. I once was all sharp edges, and crystal clear, and I could make people bleed by my pointy shards. Now I've been rounded and dulled. I'm calm. I won't hurt you, and my beauty lies in the changes time has wrought on me. Anne Johnson = sea glass.

Spare and I combed the beach and, in 30 minutes, found two handfuls of pretty sea glass. Oh! I wish I could go there every day, and then learn how to wrap the beautiful sea glass in wire for necklaces! Every person of a certain age should own a piece of sea glass, just to remind them that it's good when the sharp edges get erased by the sands of time.

Claiborn Beach is notable for sea glass, so whenever I can get down to the Chesapeake again, I'm going to search for more. I would like to be able to offer you a piece, reader, when I get a stable supply.

In the meantime, beware the "sea glass" sold at craft stores. It's factory made. Real sea glass is the color of ... well ... of glass. Most of it is milky white, or semi-clear, or the dark bronze so coveted by beer drinkers.

I'm glad I found some sea glass without getting stung in the process. I'm glad I found that beach. The prettiest places are hidden just at the edge of obscurity. You almost need to be sea glass to find it.

The Chesapeake Bay Can Bite Me

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," from the fine lands sacred to the Nanticoke Peoples! We are long-distance blogging from the shores of the Chesapeake Bay.

The word "Chesapeake" derives from a Native American tongue. Roughly translated, it means "Water filled with stuff that bites and stings."

Mr. Johnson was born and raised in these parts, and it's no wonder he's a reluctant swimmer. He can drive a boat, but he's pretty ungainly in the water. His grandmother, who lives right on the water, never learned to swim at all.

Water, water everywhere, but don't go in the drink!

There is a swimming pier here at the pretty B&B where we stay. This morning I went to take a look-see on the pesky issue of sea nettles.

For those of you who live inland, let me describe sea nettles. They float like jellyfish (which they are) and sting like a hoard of rabid wasps. You just don't want to see one of those things being tossed your way on a balmy wave. Trust me on this. I had an intimate conversation with one two years ago, and it's still fresh in my mind.

Today, gazing from the pier, I didn't see a single sea nettle. "Oh, good!" thinks I. "Time for a dip!"

Alas, just as I turned away with a refreshing swim on my mind, I caught a glimpse of another nemesis of the bay, the common blue crab. A sea nettle can sting you, but a blue crab can rip a hole in your flesh. This is why I have no compunction about eating big heaps of them, steamed and spiced.

Upon further investigation, I noticed that someone had sunk a single crab trap about 30 feet from the ladder off the swimming pier. It's open invitation for crabs today in the old swimming hole.

Gotta face facts. This waterway bites. Even the minnows gnaw on you.

Nevertheless, the vista is swell, and there's a breeze, and plenty of shady hemlocks to sit under, and cheerful sailboats dotting the waves. And inland ... ah, sweet flat inland ... there are plenty of buzzards who will gratefully consume anything one buys for them and flings into the field.

Wherever there are vultures, life is good.

Can't Beat Dick

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," waiting for our invitation to open a session of the U.S. Senate with a prayer to Chonganda!

Chonganda has a praise and worship team of ONE (that being me), but I'm an American, and I have the right to hear my deity get his day in Congress. Fair is fair, as long as we're praying in ... PRAYING IN THE SENATE????? For the love of fruit flies, when did they start doing that? Was the ink dry on the Establishment Clause?

Tomorrow the Johnson family leaves for its annual vacation, an ambitious trek to St. Michaels, Maryland (less than 3 hour drive). None of this jetting off to Namibia to see Griffon Vultures or anything like that for us! Oh no. We just lick our chops over breathing the same air as Dick Cheney, Donnie Rumsfeld, and the newest neighbor in search of quality waterfront ... Michael Jackson.

The Spare lobbied relentlessly for this vacation destination because there are two cute dudes living near the B&B where we stay. That would be the B&B with all of Bill O'Reilly's books in its reading room and the Washington Times in the breakfast nook. And the photo of Dubya in the kitchen. Bibles on every nightstand.

It gets worse. I thought the new Harry Potter came out today. Nope, it's next week, when I'll be back from vacation! I've already slurped up this year's Carl Hiaasen novel. So this throws me back on yet another dreary Dan Brown rip-off that I bought at the flea market today.

The good news is that there's so little to do in St. Michaels that I'll beg to spend an hour every day at the local library, blogging my lungs out. So tune in, because you'll want to know what flavor of pie I heave at Dickie or Mikey or Rummy if my kayak strays into their protected waters.

There's also bound to be a few copies of Christian Male (or whatever that magazine was called), lying scattered around the breakfast nook. Those things are cotton candy to "The Gods Are Bored" when it comes to blog topics. Brings a whole new meaning to "Can't Beat Dick," if you get my drift.

Imagine a vacation where the high point is reading stuff you hate so you can blog about it. Actually I am just weird enough to be cool with that.