Single Malts - and other odd Musings
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Thank You
Visiting Countries this moment
United States
Germany
Algeria
France
Pakistan
Russia
Valenzuela
Thank you -
At this instant there are viewers from the U/S.,..Germany, Canada and Ireland
and I am sipping a nice wee dram of The Quiet Man (an eight year old Irish single malt that is smooth, tasty, and easy on the brow) as I make the same soup I always make - but one that like life is always different - what I sometimes call Steve's Pretty Good Vegetable Soup that contains as many vegetables as we might have on hand but always onion, potato, carrot, green pepper (but today red), broccoli, lima beans, peas, two kinds of potato by the way, garlic, small bottle of beer, various spices but in particular lots of basil, a bit of hot sauce, mushrooms, green beans, and etc -
Down River - Lower Town of North East Along The Bank
the lower photograph shows the upper center of the first photo, emphasizing the church and other visible buildings
Eagle Walk in the sun
the eagles nest is in the very center of the photo
there is something keeping one of the eagles there - and I think it is the small hatchlings
Eagle Returning To Nest -
The returning eagle landed on a limb (perhaps to eye-ball my lumbering approach) and seemingly watched his/her mate at the nest whom to me seemed to be feeding a young hatch-ling (supposition as I did not distinctly see a young bird)
Library Tree
- well technically it is probably a line tree (status obscure) but I admire it every trip in for wi-fi
Vagabond's House - with thanks to poet Don Blanding
......
For I’ll have good friends who can sit and chat
Or simply sit, when it comes to that,
By the fireplace where the fir logs blaze
And the smoke rolls up in a weaving haze.
I’ll want a wood box, scarred and rough
For leaves and bark and odorous stuff,
Like resinous knots and cones and gums,
To toss on the flames when winter comes.
And I hope a cricket will stay around,
For I love it’s creaky lonesome sound.
Or simply sit, when it comes to that,
By the fireplace where the fir logs blaze
And the smoke rolls up in a weaving haze.
I’ll want a wood box, scarred and rough
For leaves and bark and odorous stuff,
Like resinous knots and cones and gums,
To toss on the flames when winter comes.
And I hope a cricket will stay around,
For I love it’s creaky lonesome sound.


