A novel idea (one of many)

A boxy, light blue 1968 Datsun coasted to a stop on a shoulder-less gravel road, extinguished its headlamps and was immediately swallowed by the darkness. Two twelve gage shotguns were removed from the trunk; one to be carried over the shoulder, the other at arm's length, but remain pointed at the sky and the woods for safety. The two boys walked, marched, raced and then walked again rationalizing known and unknown dangers. The warm summer's night was filled with the aromas of pine and birch, and produced swells of cool air, which fanned their faces and seeped through their cotton work shirts. Overhead the rustling of leaves muffled the scattering and crunching of pebbles under foot. Anxious, often-beaming faces were not seen but were known by the lack of conversation.

For several minutes total darkness forced them to follow a preconceived direction. Then ahead on the road loomed a light growing in size and intensity. This marker quickened their pace. But just as it was within their grasp, they stepped from the roadway into a shallow depression then burst onto an open pasture studded with the silhouettes of dusk's after-burn. Haunting images sustained by the glowing resolution of a full moon.

On their left lay the ruins of an early farm. Grassy knolls festering around a large open stone wound; maybe the foundation of an early barn. Feet were placed in the grass covered truck track that ran past the bare bones of what might have been a log cabin. This passage through the ruins led to a break in a nearly submerged stone fence. Here a solitary wild apple tree stood sentry. The moonlit trek continued in a sweeping arc across the adjacent field to a wooden gate; the entrance to a wire fenced compound and fifty beehives. Earlier that afternoon a tall, menacing, sleek black bull with a chain hanging hanging from his nose had stood in the distance watching these boys as they drove to the gate in a two-ton truck.

They didn't have the safety of a truck cab now.

"He isn't here ... I hope," says Harry.

"Can't see him," replies John. "Doesn't mean he isn't there," He takes a look around to improve the drama. "Campbell said, he would to take him home tonight... a lot of bull.

Acknowledgement of this feeble attempt at humour was to change the topic, quickly.

"Let's get there... I don't see it," Harry was looking around, then straight up. "Oh shit do we have to....."

That afternoon the boys had build a platform high in a Dutch elm tree, higher than Harry liked. Climbing to this altar with shot guns in the dark was going to test of their abilities and youth. John was juiced: Harry was bouncing. Preparation had been made. It was time for the final act.

Great expectations or what the Dickens

Tis the best of times and the worst of times. Ho-hum, I don't think March will ever end.

There has been one major melt followed by a half-a-foot of snow and it didn't melt, right away...probably all very normal, but very depressing. T'is time to build more bee equipment for the coming season. Lids, bottoms, supers frames a virtual smor-gus-borg for a rough carpenter.

And we pound, pound, pound, pound...bang, bang, bang, bang all the live-long day. Did some one say sun or son? They must be discussing Easter, after all it is still March..still March.

Sometimes there is just times and they will pass. Next time spring will be here.