Horse numbers

Here’s a math problem: 27 + 44 + 46 = 117. Divide that by three and you have 39. Subtract 30 and divide the remainder by nine and you have one. Or, divide the 39 by itself and you also get one. Either way, you can reduce all these numbers to one. Don’t ask me how, it just comes out that way. Math was never my strong suit.

This number, for instance—27. A number that can be arrived at several ways. Three times nine, nine times three, 25 plus 2, and so on.

Here’s 44. What a number! Two 4s next to each other. Why? Who knows? Positively palindromic.

And that brings us to the last number, 46. What an even number! As the entire number or each numeral by itself.

Looked at separately, there are five even numbers, one odd. But if you add five and one, you get six—an even number! What happened to the odd number? It gets absorbed or something. Odd.

As you can see, I am in awe of the mathematical wonders presented by the numerals carved in the new foals. When springtime comes, these numbers will disappear when their winter coats are shed. For awhile, the horses will look really scroungy as loose tufts of hair mar the shiny new coats emerging beneath. No more numbers! Just names, that won’t be carved in their sides either, but exist only in the minds of the humans who give them out. The names will be written in log books we keep about each horse. They will appear on the bills we get from veterinarians as we take care of them throughout their lives. But the numbers? They’ll be forgotten. The math magic will disappear with them. So commit them to memory now, or forever regret your slothful behavior. I know I will.

I’m confused…

On a recent San Francisco Chronicle Web page, this introduction to an article appeared. The story is about Obama, but the picture is of Osama, who is not on trial in this case. Are they confused, or is there a hidden message?

Becoming independent

The “kids” came in for feed this morning without their adopted Mom, Gypsy. This is a first. Until now, they stuck by Gypsy’s side all the time. It’s a good sign that they decided that even if Gypsy wasn’t interested in some supplemental feed, they were and took action on their own behalf.

One thing they keep doing, however, is sticking with each other. They’re inseparable!

Living up to its name

House wrens are engaged in a continual quest for something to eat. When I’m outside, I see them running along the walls chasing bugs. This little bird must have found an entry hole to the house (surprise!), and for at least a week has come in early every morning, fluttering and chirping from room to room. Today it seemed to like where I was sitting at the computer amidst plenty of house flies (do I need another shower? I already took one this month).

It must be getting ready to rain since that’s when flies take shelter in the house. This bird ignores all danger when in pursuit of them, coming as close as a foot away from me. A couple of days ago I trapped the bird against a window, grabbed it, and was showing it to Karla when it tore free and flew off. Karla opened one of the roof windows to let it out. Seems the wren forgot that incident since now I’m about as much of a threat as a piece of furniture.

He’d be welcome if he were housebroken.

“Tom, you’re a Winner!”

I wonder what appropriate mark of recognition could be awarded to someone who wins 3,000 games of solitaire. The Nobel Peace Prize would be inappropriate even though playing solitaire certainly is peaceful, but that prize has been tarnished by being awarded several years ago to a terrorist and most recently to a national leader whose sole achievement so far is being able to fog a mirror. Oscars are given to some who endure and manage to be in hundreds of movies, which I guess is a lifetime achievement. A winning gambler makes his/her own reward by winning consistently, something that just doesn’t happen in solitaire. Each win is torn from the jaws of defeat against disheartening odds. Some might say winning is its own reward, and I can agree to that intellectually, but emotionally I think I really deserve some tangible mark of recognition. After all, Three Thousand is a big number and fourteen percent means one game out of every seven ended in a smashing victory, demolishing the insidious “you can never win” threat implicit in this hopeless game. Wow, I need some counseling. Someone needs to pat my shoulder and say, “Tom, you’re a Winner! (Fourteen percent of the time.)”

A Fall Story

When I took this picture, it reminded me of a story told by Frank Thomas, who with his family had been a guest at our high ranch for many years. Karla and I were invited to their house in Flintridge. He had just retired, and as one of Walt Disney’s original animators had so many stories to tell. One story concerned Walt wanting him to animate a scene in Fantasia (or maybe it was Bambi) that was about the last two leaves remaining on a tree. One of the leaves was fearful of dying and falling to the ground, while the other tried to console her. Frank felt in his heart that there was no way to animate the scene without it being just plain corny. “I couldn’t figure out how to do it in a way that the audience wouldn’t either groan or crack up,” Frank said, so he kept putting it off till finally Walt got the hint and quit his pursuit.

Oh No!

I couldn’t resist using this mud dauber’s nest in a blog. While loading wood in the shed, it stared down in surprise at us. We promised not to hit it with a piece of firewood, and even stacked the wood in a way that it couldn’t fall against it. The nest’s purpose has been served, and there is a story to be told. When the wasp makes the little tubes for its babies to grow in, fills them with paralyzed spiders for food, lays an egg in each and seals the entrance, it then smooths out the entire surface into a nice blob. You can’t see the individual tubes nested against each other.

An unused tube makes up the mouth of our startled face; the mother must have perished before completing her task. The eyes are openings made by the freed babies once they matured and gnawed their way out of the nursery. The bump that makes up the nose marks where there is a baby that didn’t emerge, while the forehead and skull must contain more young’ns that won’t be seeing the light of day.

I have never seen a mud dauber re-use one of these nests, probably because there is the debris left by the baby, consisting of its pupal shell and the skeletons of its eight-legged snacks. After all, who’d want to make a nursery out of a catacomb/dumpster anyway?

A chair is reborn (I hope)

The closer I looked, the more daunting the task seemed to become. Not only was the fabric shot, which was very obvious even at a glance, and the foam cushion totally rotten, but for some odd reason there was a lot of rust. The chair has never been exposed to the elements, so it simply must have gotten nostalgic for its freezing-rain home in Denmark and pulled in some moisture. As the hundreds of upholstery staples were pulled, some were so rusty they broke and had to be removed a piece at a time with pliers.

There is plastic trim that encircles both the seat and backrest, and it’s still in good condition. Now comes the search for appropriate foam for the seat. It has to be firm yet not harsh to sit on. The fabric is already decided on, and is whimsical compared to the original very conservative gray. If I can pull this off, I will have a very comfortable little secretary chair, one that was useful for about five years when we bought it new in Hollywood.

Musical stairs

Do you like musical chairs stairs?

Thanks for the lead, Susan!

Wish list

Starbucks has the bucks to hire competent copywriters.

So here’s my wish: Hire some cup slogan writers who know the language.
It’s it’s, not its.