Oops! (On the truck.) and At the Bolt Hole

Okay.... So it appears there was nothing wrong with the windshield at all. The winds of Wyoming didn't blow a gasket/molding off the top of the windshield because...well, there never was one there to begin with. It just looked like there should have been a gasket/molding there. I would feel foolish about that except:
1) The servicemen at the dealership didn't catch it either even after A) telling me that they couldn't find that part in the parts manual because B) they seldom have to replace it (How about never?! 'Cause it doesn't exist!
2) The people they spoke to in California (the designers?) didn't catch it either.
3) I got a new windshield gratis. (Terry swears there was a little ding in the old one. Probably right at her eye level. I thought it was tree sap.)

I stopped at the dealer's today on my way to the Bolt Hole and had the fella at the service desk with whom I have been dealing come out to the lot and check the gap at the top of the windshield. We then went over to a new Tundra on the lot and found it had ta-da! the exact same gap. Oh well. Live and learn.
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Meanwhile, I drove east on Route 17 (the new I-86) to Binghamton, NY and then north on Route 12 to Utica and then on to the Bolt Hole from there. This is an older route that I used to take when I came up from NJ and didn't want to deal with the NY Thruway. It's actually shorter than taking either Route 14 up past Seneca Lake or Route 13 through Ithaca and is just as scenic.

Today I saw (and was stopped at the crossing) a positively huge freight train as it crossed Route 12 just south of Chenango Forks. It was easily one of the longest I've seen in the middle of the day here on the east coast. I'd estimate 100-120 cars of carious shapes and sizes. I got there just after the engines cleared (and disappeared around the bend) and sat for about 15 minutes or so.

I managed to just get through Sherburne, NY before they started their Cavalcade of Bands parade. The first Saturday of June they have lots of marching bands compete as they march along a mile or more of Route 12 that runs through town. All kinds of folks were already lining the sides of the highway and I felt like practicing my "parade wave" as I drove by. I did, however, manage to avoid the huge detour/delay that the parade would have presented.

I did see many, many cars suddenly dive for the shoulder of the road (some even made it all the way) when the driver or passenger saw something interesting at one of the many yard/garage sales along the way.

I saw a sign along the way that had me thinking. It said "Night Walkers for Sale." Now, I don't know about your area of the country but I grew up calling the worm used for fish bait a "Night Crawler" and this sign just seemed wrong. That is, unless they were selling zombies. But I didn't see any indication of that.

(I also didn't see Gov. Palin, Rev. Paul. Sorry.)
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Once I refueled the truck and picked up some groceries, I was at the Bolt Hole by just after noon. Bright and sunny, with a fair breeze blowing and grass nearly up to my knees in spots. So I knew what my second task would be. (First was unloading the truck, groceries in the fridge and turning on the water.)

Oh-oh! No gas for the mower! All the cans in the garage were empty--which was a good thing.This ethanol-mix fuel doesn't do well when it sits. Even when you put Sta-Bil in it. So it was back down to the gas Stewards to get some gas. Luckily it's only a 30 mile round trip. /sarc
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Back at the Bolt Hole, I fueled the mower, pushed the primer a couple of times and pulled the cord. There is no sweeter sound than the sound of a Briggs and Straton engine turning over on the first pull after the machine to which it is attached has been sitting idle in the shed since last November.

Then it was back and forth at a very slow walk to cut the thick, tall grass. I call it grass because some of it is. It's really more of a pasture mixture of plantain, wild strawberries, clover, hawkweed, daisies, mint, and--heck--even chives left over from a former attempt at gardening. Mixed in the grass were lots of pine cones that kept getting chunked out of the mower's shute and even whapped my shins from under the cowling of the mower a time or two. Twigs got chopped up as well. I avoided killing the one garter snake I saw. A woeful creature that was extremely lethargic and looked like it needed to shed its skin. I also missed the one wood frog that jumpedout of the thickest patch of true grass right in the middle of the vast expanse of the lawn.

Luckily the blackflies were kept at bay by the breeze. Not so the deer flies. All my mowing was done while squashing deer flies. I was usually too late in this action to prevent bodily harm--to me. My reaction was more a response to the stinging bite of blood lapping creatures. Every time I would even come close to a shrub or an over hanging branch, I would attract two or three of them. Working in shortsleeves, even with a liberal application of Deep Woods Off, was not a wise move. My elbows, knuckles and wrists became prime targets. By the time I was through--it took thre hours--I had probably killed a score of deer flies. I say "probably" because I've seen flies that have been pretty well smashed and flung to the ground right themselves, shake their wings and take off for another assault. My arms were dotted with little droplets of blood along with a few smears from flies that were not going to return. If I had any worries about high blood pressure, I would be safe for a couple of days--longer if I venture outside again.

And all the while my Phoebe tenants just sat off to the side and watched. They made no effort at all to come to my aid. Ingrates! Heh, they were probably sated on flies anyway.

Thank goodness that one of the allergy shots I got for four or five years, desensitized me to the bite of these pests. If I hadn't gotten those shots, my forearms would probably swollen enough to be comparable to Popeye's.