Besides traveling far and wide and writing about it for the Chicago Sun-Times, I've been working on a book about our newlywed life on Mazurka, and publicizing the live aboard life.
Some very creative editors have come up with some stellar headlines:
Trawler Scrawler in the River Cities Reader.
-and-
Hull House in Lake Magazine.
20080414
Cheney Update 2008
March was a busy month for us live aboards - mainly because we were everywhere but living aboard Mazurka. Two weekends in Iowa...then California, Texas, and Duluth, Minnesota. The captain's in Arizona right now, leaving me to defend our homestead against wild animals.
In between our trips, we would venture back to Mazurka, leery of what the Cheneys might have been up to. For the last two years, they have nested by the second week of March and commenced their full-force attack on anyone who dared venture within twenty feet of their eggs.
Just before D-Day, Mark built the contraption to end all nest-building:
It seemed to do the trick. The Cheneys would wander around aimlessly, unable to get under the chicken wire. We thought the problem was solved and they would find a new place to build their nest - somewhere far, far away. Until one night I came home and found this:
That's right; in the narrow strip of free land between concrete and chicken wire, Mrs. Cheney built her nest. And laid an egg in it. But on the night I traipsed by, she and her husband were nowhere to be found.
This did not bode well for us, as the new nest was now even closer than nests of previous years. So we got out the umbrellas and succumbed to another spring of relentless attacks.
Except Mr. Cheney had disappeared. Mrs. Cheney would hiss and fuss when we passed by, but she seemed to be on her own, except for a few younger-looking geese, second-rate stand-ins for the pater familias.
We wondered if something had happened to the old fella. Mark and I would approach with our umbrellas hoisted, ready to defend, but when the stand-ins merely waddled by, we would sigh, "Nope, not Cheney." We theorized that perhaps he thought one measely egg wasn't worth guarding, that he had abandoned his wife.
And then four more eggs appeared in the nest, and Cheney returned in rare form, wrecking umbrellas and attacking us and our guests with his usual gusto. Our brother-in-law Ken, surviving an attack while protecting his own small children, observed the slingshots, whips, and umbrellas decorating our saloon and said, "You know it's goose season when you're surrounded by protection."
But the ultimate protection was yet to come...when one of our neighbors called to say he had a BB gun we could borrow. Mark practiced on some new geese who nested just north of our bow - aiming carefully at the tail end, just enough to make them uncomfortable without causing any real harm. Just a few times is enough to train any Pavlovian creature.
So now Cheney guards his wife and his new nest, and when we walk by, he reluctantly lets us pass with hardly a sneer.
I still raise my umbrella, just in case.
In between our trips, we would venture back to Mazurka, leery of what the Cheneys might have been up to. For the last two years, they have nested by the second week of March and commenced their full-force attack on anyone who dared venture within twenty feet of their eggs.
Just before D-Day, Mark built the contraption to end all nest-building:
It seemed to do the trick. The Cheneys would wander around aimlessly, unable to get under the chicken wire. We thought the problem was solved and they would find a new place to build their nest - somewhere far, far away. Until one night I came home and found this:
That's right; in the narrow strip of free land between concrete and chicken wire, Mrs. Cheney built her nest. And laid an egg in it. But on the night I traipsed by, she and her husband were nowhere to be found.
This did not bode well for us, as the new nest was now even closer than nests of previous years. So we got out the umbrellas and succumbed to another spring of relentless attacks.
Except Mr. Cheney had disappeared. Mrs. Cheney would hiss and fuss when we passed by, but she seemed to be on her own, except for a few younger-looking geese, second-rate stand-ins for the pater familias.
We wondered if something had happened to the old fella. Mark and I would approach with our umbrellas hoisted, ready to defend, but when the stand-ins merely waddled by, we would sigh, "Nope, not Cheney." We theorized that perhaps he thought one measely egg wasn't worth guarding, that he had abandoned his wife.
And then four more eggs appeared in the nest, and Cheney returned in rare form, wrecking umbrellas and attacking us and our guests with his usual gusto. Our brother-in-law Ken, surviving an attack while protecting his own small children, observed the slingshots, whips, and umbrellas decorating our saloon and said, "You know it's goose season when you're surrounded by protection."
But the ultimate protection was yet to come...when one of our neighbors called to say he had a BB gun we could borrow. Mark practiced on some new geese who nested just north of our bow - aiming carefully at the tail end, just enough to make them uncomfortable without causing any real harm. Just a few times is enough to train any Pavlovian creature.
So now Cheney guards his wife and his new nest, and when we walk by, he reluctantly lets us pass with hardly a sneer.
I still raise my umbrella, just in case.
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