A couple months ago I received a jury duty summons and immediately panic set in. Now don’t get me wrong; I don’t advocate shirking our civic duty. I actually think I’d be a good juror, open-minded and fair. Except, that is, if you’re charged with abusing an animal. In that case, my friend, I’d be the last one you’d want on your jury.
In my 64 1/2 years, I’ve only been summoned 4 times. I have no idea why and hopefully I didn’t just jinx my run of luck. Hey, life is busy and finding time to sit on a 2-week jury would be difficult. There are ferals to be trapped and sterilized, others to be re-homed. But I’m guessing that wouldn’t exactly sway the judge.
Today I was thinking about my late business partner, Susan, while I trapped feral cats on a 50 acre water buffalo farm where they produce mozzarella in rural Marin County. Talk about farm fresh. As you’ve probably guessed, it’s uniqueness is evident. I mean, seriously, it’s where the buffalo roam. (And, I’m guessing, where the deer and the antelope play.)
Anywhere rural is bound to have feral cats. Like being in one of those revolving doors at fancy hotels, they tend to come and go. But not before we ensure they stop having kittens. Still, that’s a tall order to fill when, if we miss 2 cats of the opposite sex, well, there ya go.
I went on a 3-hour, 80 mile ride Thursday with Mario. Unless you count the hour we got lost. Then it’s more like 4-hours and 100 miles. Now don’t get me wrong; before you get all excited thinking I have a boyfriend, Mario is my scooter (as you may know if you read my blog, Just Gotta Scoot).
Mario and I took the back road trip from my home in San Rafael to the scooter shop for a tune-up in Santa Rosa. Turns out I learned a few things since our last extended journey. (There goes that live and learn lesson again.) Anyway, I thought I’d share my findings in case you also one day find yourself riding on the same gorgeous back roads through beautiful Marin and Sonoma Counties, which I also blogged about in My Slice of Paradise. (Yes, I’m shamelessly self-promoting.)
When I was in Texas, everyone was so darn friendly I couldn’t believe it. Was this real? Where I visited, in The Woodlands, people still have block parties and new neighbors are welcomed with hot casseroles and freshly baked cookies. Southern hospitality, I’m told.
While jogging in Savannah, Georgia, I noticed just about every person coming my way said hello or waved. It happened so often I started to feel guilty if I ran past someone without acknowledging them in some way — eye contact or perhaps a nod.
That’s not to say I reside in Tahiti or Kauai. No, my paradise is in Marin County, Northern California. Pretty much everything is within reach here, including my family and friends. Now that’s my definition of paradise. Continue reading →