Archive | July, 2009

Break Time

26 Jul

I would like to say that I’m going on vacation.

I would like to say that I’ll be spending the next two weeks frying on the beach.

I would like to say that I’ll be jet skiing.

I would like to say that I’ll be sleeping till noon.

I would like to say that I’ll be on ‘Holiday’.

I would like like to say that I have a $5,000 Visa card to spend at shops of my choice.

Unfortunately I can’t say any of those things.

In case you’re wondering what I’ll be doing over the next two weeks, I’ll be painting, sanding, pulling out rugs, cleaning windows, mopping, painting, lifting 1/2 the couch, hauling boxes, packing, unpacking, cleaning, painting, moving furniture, making beds, doing laundry…did I say PAINTING?…painting.

I may pop in, but I may not.  I’ll miss you all of course, but I’ll return with lots of words, many stories, and a few pictures.

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Enjoy the next two weeks as much as more than I will!

Kids, Cats, and Cultures

24 Jul

Last week we spent a few days up at our new house working and my kids enjoyed all kinds of fun and excitement.  There are at least eight or nine other children under the age of twelve that live on our street.  Together they comprise a gang reminiscent of The Little Rascals.

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Unanimously they have decided that we are wrecking our house, but instead of viewing this with the guarded disdain of adults, they are excited.  After all, “they like wrecking things.”

My children fit right in.  Together with their popsicle stained faces and mismatched clothes, they played hard and loud.

From my second floor ladder heightened view, I watched as they overtook the street and neighbor’s yards with their dirty feet and loud voices.  It made me smile as I heard them taunt each other with names like fat head and chicken boy, because in our politically correct suburbs that is considered bullying and may, in professional opinions, scar children for life.  To me it is the sound of children allowed and encouraged to be children.  I’m sure every retired neighbor longs for the gloomy days of January when this gaggle of kids are snowbound, but I hope my own two take advantage of every minute the sun shines.

FringeKid even found a cat or as she insists, the cat found her and won’t leave.  I think that’s probably because she fed him a bowl of milk, made a bed for him under the porch stairs, and gave him more loving attention than he’s seen in any of his nine lives.  I’m not a cat lover myself and if this one is still living under my porch the next time I return to work on the house, I will probably have to figure out a way to cage it, bring it to the vet for shots, and buy it a flee collar.  As I watched FringeKid lay her head on the cat, hair cascading down its’ fur, all I envisioned was a house full of flees.

While sitting stuck in traffic on the return trip home, I experienced a proud parenting moment.  From little voices in the backseat, I learned that my children were watching Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer in English, French, and Spanish.  I now  know they will grow up to have culturally broad minds and I breathed a sigh of relief, because all is well in world of children.
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Summer Side Dish – Macaroni & Cottage Cheese

23 Jul

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Have you noticed that I never post any normal recipes?  That’s why I don’t have a cooking blog.  If this were just a cooking blog, you’d only visit to make fun of me.

100_4155I just can’t help but post a recipe every now and then.  I like to eat!  I don’t necessarily like to cook, but it’s a means to the end and this is a family recipe.

FringeMan won’t eat it, look at it, or smell it.  He has that cottage cheese phobia/food intolerance I’ve mentioned before and these macaroni have cottage cheese.

100_4162I know that probably sounds gross to you and you are probably thinking that FringeMan has good reasons not to like my family’s recipes, but hear me out.

You start this recipe by cutting a pound of bacon into bite size pieces.  I know it’s getting better already.

100_4156Now you fry it up in a pan.  I’m that kind of woman.

I can bring home the bacon, fry it up in a pan, and never let him forget he’s a man, because I’m a WOOOOOMAN.

I have faint and very distant memories of a commercial featuring that song.

Ok, I’m getting sidetracked.  Fry the bacon until almost crisp, chop one small/medium onion into fine pieces and throw it in the pan.  Cook till tender and bacon is crisp, because I L.O.V.E. crisp bacon.  Now drain half of the grease, but make sure you keep some in the pan for flavor.

Apparently this is not a low fat recipe, but people in my family tend to live far longer than necessary and don’t get hardened arteries; therefore, I’ve concluded that bacon is good for you.

100_4157Please ignore the crumbs on my stove.  I wasn’t planning on taking pictures while I was cooking, but then I remembered I have a blog and there are lots of people that would love to hate this recipe.

I forgot to tell you that before you begin cutting the bacon, you should put a large pot of water on to boil and let the pasta cook (according to the directions on the box) while the bacon is frying.  You can use any kind of small pasta you’d like.

I purchase pasta solely on looks and I happen to adore the little ruffles on Campanelle.  If you prefer elbows, go ahead and use those.  I’ve never been an elbow woman myself.

Recap:  You cooked the pasta and drained it. You fried the bacon, added onion, and removed some excess grease.  Now dump your drained pasta into the bacon and onions.

100_4159Add lots of salt & pepper to taste, unless you’re on a diet that limits salt.  If you can’t have salt, you’re missing out on one of life’s greatest pleasures, especially if you’re a woman.

Now add your large container of cottage cheese.  I prefer the large curd.  If you’re going to eat it, you may as well be able to see it.

100_4163Mix thoroughly and serve.

[my daughter is hanging over my shoulder and pretending she's barfing, sounds and all]

Although my children have been corrupted by FringeMan’s aversion to all good cheeses, this actually tastes good.  I promise!  I brought it to a BBQ the other day and all my neighbor’s loved it, even the children.

100_4165It’s perfect with hot dogs, hamburgers, chicken, sausage, pork chops…whatever!

Easy and delicious…don’t listen to my daughter.

This post is linked to This Blessed Nest’s Picnic Party. Go visit for more great summer recipes!

This is free information for you.  I always thought ‘maccaroni’ was spelled with two c’s, but apparently they stopped spelling it that way in the 1600′s.  HUH?  Can I be that far behind society as a whole?  I guess I’m an old soul.

Wordless Wednesday – No Lightning

22 Jul

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The Stairs

21 Jul

100_4018After I decided that I just could not squat to paint one more baseboard, I got the unfortunate notion to pull up the rug on our staircase.  Now it doesn’t look so bad in this picture, but I’m positive the previous tenants of this house (it was rented our for a while) did not own a vacuum.  It was gross and smelled like an old man’s feet.  For the record, I think my mom’s feet have any old man’s beat, but I didn’t want to write that my carpet smelled worse than my mom’s feet.  She may not forgive me for such a thing.

I must give the carpet people credit because they did a fantastic job of laying this rug.  There wasn’t even a little corner coming loose and that made it all the more difficult to get out.  Thankfully I ate my can of spinach, donned a pair of leather work gloves, and used ever muscle in my upper body.  All two.

Do you know what happens when you sweat and then rip out nasty carpeting?

Let me tell you.

You get clumps of nasty foul smelling, old man’s foot dust stuck to you.  You really, really need a shower, but can’t take one because FringeMan has the entire bathroom gutted and is fighting with the plumbing that you fear may never work again.

That’s what happens.

100_4178This was the end result.

Now I could use a few suggestions here.  I’m definitely not replacing the carpeting.  I have an aversion to wall-to-wall carpet.  Call me crazy, but I hate it.  Thankfully there are hard wood floors lurking under every rug in the house.  I’m thinking about sanding these steps smooth and paiting them, but I’m just not sure what color a person paints stair streads.  Any ideas?

Please don’t suggest that I strip this lovely staircase and unearth its’ natural wood tones because I’d rather pluck my toe nails out one by one.

I was thinking black with a white railing.  All these old houses in the north seem to have that Boston Baked Bean color on the stairs.  I just don’t like it.  FringeMan is more than fine with that color, but he also enjoys a bowl of Boston Baked Beans, so his opinion is jaded.

I once painted a stair case white, treads and all.  I know you probably think that’s insane, but it didn’t get as dirty as I expected.  It just wore.  While others called it ugly, I called it Shabby Chic.

100_4179So what would you do with these stairs, besides burn them to the ground?

The Rose of Romance

19 Jul

FringeMan took me to a Christmas party for our first “date”.  We had been to the lighting of Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center the week after I returned from Florida, but our first official, just the two of us date, was a Christmas party.  As far as first dates go, it was slightly more than typical.

FringeMan didn’t believe in taking things slowly.  On the way to the Christmas party, he told me that we were stopping by his mom’s house.  Meeting his parents was way more than I bargained for on a first date.  Thankfully his mother was kind and didn’t bring up any ghosts of girlfriend’s past like one of his uncles did at our first meeting.

GrammyFringe & Me

GrammyFringe & Me

It was at a funeral that I got to meet the bulk of FringeMan’s family for the first time.  His uncle, a man of stature, took my hand in his big one, greeting me with a smile that warmed his eyes and my heart.  A moment later he looked at FringeMan and said, “Is she the same girl as last time?”

I certainly was not!

The warmth in my heart quickly faded as ice-daggers flew from my eyes to FringeMan’s soul.

But that wasn’t our first date.  Our first date was the Christmas party with the quick stop to meet FringeMan’s parents.  When we left his mom’s house I suspected that dating FringeMan would be anything but ordinary.  Little did I know how quickly I should expect the unforeseen.  The Christmas party proved normal unless you consider the fact we were seated at a table that included FringeMan’s ex-girlfriend.  In fact, I sat right next her.  Making small talk was as much fun as being bitten by a swarm of mosquitoes.

Is it any wonder that while sipping a diet coke at the Red Robin, a placed we stopped to “talk” on the way back to my house, I told FringeMan that I really didn’t want to date him right then.  I wasn’t ready to be serious.  Besides talking to him over a cheeseburger was like being at an inquisition and I was on trial.  He played both the good cop and the bad cop trying to get me to ‘open up’, reveal my future plans, and unwrap my past from birth to present.

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Equipped with too many useless facts from my psychology minor, I tried to unravel FringeMan’s thoughts, dissect his words, and peek into his heart.  I left more confused than ever.

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After our ill-fated first date, a day FringeMan still does not think was inappropriate, we only saw each other in church and in a few group functions; however, it was the holiday season.  There were parties including a Christmas party thrown by me.  I subjected FringeMan to Kenny G’s Christmas CD and then made him watch “White Christmas”.  I guess you could say that I was getting even.

On New Year’s Eve FringeMan invited a whole bunch of people to his house for a little party.  It wasn’t the first time I had been to his house.  He once cooked venison for my cousin Jenn and I.  It was my first deer.  The venison was certainly easier to digest than FringeMan’s bachelor pad.  He had black curtains hanging in the windows that were draped with spider web designs and his once white couch was covered in six inches of dog hair.  I would later, clean for him.  Actually it was more for myself than for him.  If I was going to eat from his kitchen and sit on his couch, soap and a vacuum were a must.

He did clean for his New Year’s party.  He actually painted the inside of his shower in case anybody peeked into it.  I don’t think he’d been introduced to Scrubbing Bubbles yet.  I was actually looking forward to New Year’s Eve, but I had spent the previous two days with a stomach virus, so I wasn’t in great shape and I couldn’t eat anything.  I didn’t want to spend the night in the bathroom, fresh paint or not.  I even had my mom bake me a pineapple dream cake to bring.  Unfortunately FringeMan has a food allergy/intolerance/psychiatric disorder towards cream cheese, sour cream, and mayonnaise.  The cake was laced with cream cheese and so he spent the next two days in the bathroom.

My friend Nat innocently wandered into FringeMan’s bedroom, picked up a rose sitting in a vase on his dresser and exclaimed to everyone in the house, “Oh, it’s so nice, somebody gave you a rose!”

FringeMan turned 5 shades of red and a few shades of pink.  The rose was for me.

to be continued…

I know, I  know, the story just won’t end.  Thanks for putting up with me.  For more love stories, visit Musings of a Future Pastor’s Wife.

Another Year, Another Candle, Another Age Spot

18 Jul

Yesterday was FringeMan’s forty-second birthday, poor fellow.

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Because he was in a plumbing battle this week and the pipes almost won, I think he’s feeling every day his age.  He makes an excellent plumber, however, he says that he’s not ready for another career change.  He’s going to stick to saving houses from electrical fires and souls from hell’s fires.

goofy glassesI embarrassed him for his 40th and threw him a little surprise party, complete with those dorky glasses.  Who could resist?  By the time my 40th rolls around, I’m counting on the fact that he’ll have memory loss.

40bdaypicHappy Birthday my love.  You’ll always be young and spry in my eyes.

Let’s hope my eyes don’t age as quickly as my skin!

I went to the dermatologist yesterday.  It was a quick trip to check on two spots that have formed over the last year.  Now you may be wondering how I would notice two new spots when I look like I’m holding the spots for all 101 Dalmatians; however, I know my freckles, moles, and other assorted brown blotches.

I have them counted, 5,823.

Of course I don’t count them.  That would be like counting stretch marks and I might be institutionalized for that.

Anyway, I have a mark on my face that is larger than my freckles and is accompanied by a rough patch of skin.  I can feel it even if I can’t see it.  The other mark is on my arm.  It’s red and brown and about the size of an eraser head.  I’ve been sporting it for about a year.  Now I never thought twice about my spots until I was pregnant with FringeKid.  I had a mole on my belly that grew and distorted throughout my pregnancy.  To me it made perfect sense and if you’d seen the size of my belly, you’d agree.  My OBGYN was not impressed with the transformation of my belly or mole.  She thought both were too big.

She made me have it removed.  I say made, but threats and minor acts of violence are all it took.  Turns out it did have a few less than stellar cells, so now I’m paranoid over my spots.  Period.  It doesn’t help that, while snuggling next to me on the couch, FringeBoy pointed out the Milky Way on my arm.  My spots are not for constellation gazing.

This story is turning into a melodrama and all I want to say is that after gazing into my face with a little light gadget, the Doctor looks at me and names my spot.  A name I cannot repeat.  Obviously my face belied my ignorance because he then said with a smirk, it’s a wisdom spot.

“An AGE spot!”  I vehemently yelled aghast.   Each word stung my lips as it passed.

With defensiveness and mock shock, he assured me that in my case it not age spot, but a sun spot.  He was laughing at me because I think he was actually younger than me.  A fact that disturbs me as much as spending a $50 copay to find out I’m getting old.  My gray hair does that for free!

The other spot had another name and was most definitely not an age or sun spot, but benign just the same.  Thank God.  I couldn’t handle any more bad news.

FringeMan may be the one who is 42, but I’m the one that’s over the hill.

Do share your anti-aging secrets.  Please.

Workin’ Like A Man

16 Jul

I’ve been workin’ like a man.  I don’t mean any offense to women by that comment.  We all know that women NEVER stop working; however, I’ve been acting like Bob The Builder this week and I don’t much care for it.  My muscles are sore, my toe-polish is chipped, and I am speckled with paint.

FringeMan told me that I wasn’t being paid by the hour to paint so I should speed things up.  He also says that I have a Michelangelo complex and teased that Michelangelo painted the Sistene Chapel faster than I painted the second floor of our house.  Good things take time and the wordwork on the second floor took three coats of paints and 672 squats.  I can barely walk today.  I’m burning my late eighties ‘Legs of Steel’ video and getting a job as a painting contractor.  I’ll have better thighs than Kentucky Fried Chicken.

100_4176Please ignore the lumpiness of my bedroom walls.  They are much like my thighs before the 672 squats.  If we waited until we got every wall in our house smooth, we wouldn’t be able to move in until my children turned 48 and 50.  I’m really happy with this color.  It’s a Martha color called sand, an original name for a color that looks just like, um, sand.

100_4173FringeKid chose her own color which happens to be lemon twist.  You don’t even need the light from that single bulb hanging from the ceiling.  It’s daylight 24/7 when you paint with lemon twist.  The color card should come with a UV warning.

I think that light fixture may be original to the house which is well over 100 years old.  My nostalgic side gets a little sad to think that I’m going to remove it and replace it with a ceiling fan.  I would keep it, but FringeMan’s two greatest loves in life, aside from The Dairy Queen herself, are ceiling fans and recessed lights.  Every room gets them whether I like it or not.  I’ll just be happy when we get more outlets.  Each room has one light and one outlet.  No extravagance in the days of early electricity.  In fact, the living room doesn’t even have a light.

While taking a break from painting, I finally managed to muster enough courage to head down to the basement.  I’ve learned that unless a house was built after 1950, I don’t even want to see the basement.  This basement didn’t change my mind, but I was pleasantly surprised by a fabulous find.

A sink.  This is not just any sink, but an old and wonderful sink.

100_4180Isn’t she a gem?  I know you’re jealous.  She’s going to find herself a new home in my kitchen, get a faucet update, and a skirt.  I can’t wait.  This sink was well worth buying the house.  I realize she needs a good scrubbing and will probably need to be reglazed,  especially on the bottom of the sinks.  Anyone know to restore one of these old gals?

That’s it for today.  I need to put my feet up for an evening.  More tales to come, but tomorrow is FringeMan’s birthday, so I’m off to bake a Jello cake.  It’s his favorite.

Love Notes

12 Jul

For part one of Meeting, Marriage, and Memories, click HERE.

After our extra inning bickering, FringeMan and I seemed to often find ourselves thrown together.  We didn’t immediately begin dating, but we played in the same social group and found ourselves gravitating to one another.  In reality, I couldn’t escape him.  He’ll tell you that I didn’t want to escape, but I’m not letting him tell this story.

He had decided to marry me early on and although he kept that decision to himself for a short time, he was on the hunt.  I may as well have been covered in long brown fur with honey dripping from my mouth.  He may not have gotten a bear on his hunting trip that fall, but he was determined to capture my heart.

I was hesitant.  I planned to fall in love with a suit and tie a few years down the road and FringeMan was anything but a suit a tie.  He was rough, slightly reckless, and very exciting.  I never quite knew what to expect from him.  Being seven years my senior, he preyed on my youth.  At least that’s what I tell him.  He said he needed to find a young wife so she could bare him many babies.  Obviously he hadn’t yet experienced 2 am feedings.

siete-baby

After church one Sunday a group of us single and desperate adults decided to meet at a Chinese restaurant (this was before my chinese food aversion) and FringeMan quickly offered to give my cousin and I a ride home.  FringeMan, Jenn, and I squished into the front seat of his work truck and he toted us 45 minutes out of his way.  I must have been shot with one of Cupid’s arrows, because for some reason unknown to me, I told him to drop Jenn off at her house first, giving FringeMan and I an extra 10 minutes alone.  He took that as a good sign.

I wasn’t sure I could ever ride his truck again.  It was filthy, but I had yet to see his apartment.  My first mistake is that I was wearing a winter white skirt and navy blazer.  It made me afraid to sit anywhere.  The local dry cleaners got rich after I began dating FringeMan.  I didn’t realize electrician’s could get so dirty and that they transferred half their dirt to their trucks.

I don’t remember what my fortune was that day, but it should have said, “You will find love while wearing washable fabrics and hiking boots.”

Me,Jeff, & Tricia

Time was moving quickly.  The world series game was October 26 and I had tickets to spend a long Thanksgiving weekend in Florida.  I had attended college in Florida and was returning to visit friends.  FringeMan was as convinced that I was returning to see a guy as he was convinced that I should stay in New York for Thanksgiving.  He tried everything short of water torture to get me to spill this imaginary guy’s name, but I was having too much fun keeping him guessing.

The one thing he managed to squeeze from me was a promise to write him from Florida.  It didn’t matter that I was only going to be away for 5 days and would probably beat my letter home.

A quick note sounded easy enough, but it was a decision almost as momentous as choosing a name for my firstborn.  What would be appropriate?  I didn’t want to write him an actual letter, surely not a love letter!  Would a postcard convey wary interest?  I flipped through ‘thinking of you’ cards, blank cards, postcards, notecards, and out of desperation, birthday cards.  My friend convinced me the stationary from the hotel she worked at would hit the perfect note.

I was more than speechless, for once in my life, I was wordless.  I don’t remember what I wrote in that note, but FringeMan still has it squirreled away.

john&mesepia

I had hoped some time away from New York and FringeMan would help clear my head and I’d make a decision to date or not date FringeMan.  It was a tough decision because I knew that casual dating wasn’t an option.  It would be my whole heart or nothing.  After all, I considered FringeMan an ‘older man’.  Although he didn’t say it, I was certain he  had marriage on the mind.

I left Florida undecided…must’ve been a hanging chad, but I think my actions betrayed my heart.  Despite FringeMan’s fears, I didn’t go to Florida to see ANY guy; however, there was one guy I secretly hoped to see at least one more time.  I got a message saying he wanted to see me and to give him a call before I left for New York.  As I made the decision not to see him, I think I also made the decision to see FringeMan.  I just didn’t realize it at the time.

to be continued…

This post is part of a Meetings, Marriage, and Memories carnival at Musings of a Future Pastor’s Wife.  Go visit for more love stories!

A Goat Fetish

10 Jul

100_4090It all began after being on Long Island for about two months.  Our school district is probably one of last holdouts in the country to have 1/2 day kindergarten.  It’s not that moms don’t want their five year-olds in school all day, but there just isn’t room for them.  We have space issues.  Better than spacey kid issues, I suppose.

100_4092My daughter, home for the day before lunch, was bouncing on the couch and spying on the neighbors through the giant picture window in our living room.  I’ve taught her well.

100_4093When she suddenly spied a goat on the run.

100_4049Flailing her arms and body in excitement, she screamed “I found a goat!  I found a goat!”

100_4048I thought she was crazy of course.  She is my offspring and I did mistake a goat for a baby cow once.

Besides, you don’t just find a goat on Long Island or so I thought.  I’ll have to consult my book of Snapple facts to determine the exact number of rogue goats found on the island last year.

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Turns out my baby girl can distinguish a goat from a dog, from a cow, from a pig, from a baby horse, etc.

You get my point.

100_4082It was indeed a goat.

Thankfully FringeMan was home in his downstairs office awaiting lunch.  He came to save the day and wrestle the goat onto my neighbor’s porch before he was struck by one of seven thousand cars that speed past my house each day.

We tied her up in the backyard.  While FringeKid busied herself with feeding the goat a caesar salad fresh from my fridge, I contemplated not only the fate of the goat, but also the fate of our small family.  FringeKid fell in love with a bleating, horned creature.

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I knew to call 911 in case of an emergency, my mother in case of a cold, and my nurse friend in case of a fever, but I had no idea who to call in case of an escapee goat.  I knew this wasn’t my neighbor’s goat.  My neighbor’s didn’t have goats!

So I called the police.

Don’t judge me, it was an emergency.  This goat was sure to start pooping up a storm after the caesar salad and I wanted to find her a new home before things got messy.

The officer said they had never been called for a goat before and she actually sounded excited at the prospect of handling this case.  About 15 minutes later, two (always a good idea to have backup) uniformed officers arrived at my door.  Folks, I’m not the only ignorant New Yorker who doesn’t know what to do with a goat when it shows up on your doorstep.  They had no clue!  You see the local animal rescue only takes domesticated animals and the goat, bless her heart (I learned that saying from my Southern readers), wasn’t considered domesticated.  I wasn’t considered domesticated at one time either, but we can always change.

100_4064FringeKid begged to keep the goat, but those officers were accustomed to little criminals begging for special rights and they stood their ground.  Goats are outlawed in this town.

After a few hours of goatish bonding which left poop pebbles all over my back deck, the animal rescue lady came to snatch our little critter away.

100_4088After many tearful goodbyes and kisses (I refrained), the goat was loaded into a van with promises of a barn and farm life awaiting her.  I was just about to start mopping Fringekid’s face when a car flew into my front yard and planted itself on the lawn.  At first I feared a goat snatcher, but he turned out to be a reporter for the New York Newsday.

He left a homicide to come get our goat story.  That’s the truth and nothing but the truth.  I told you we don’t find goats everyday.  FringeKid and her goat made it to the papers.  There was an online video segment of me explaining how my daughter found the goat, and local radio stations repeated the story throughout the following day.

A renegade goat catapulted my daughter into the spotlight.  She has never been the same.

The goat now resides at a petting zoo and is enjoying a simpler life.

You just never know what a day might bring forth.

My models are courtesy of the Holtsville Ecology Center.

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