I brought J$ home to the cabin this weekend and luckily the embarrassing Rachel stories* were minimal, although stories were told.  Such as:

When I was two years old, my mom hired our sweet elderly neighbor Julie’s son-in-law to paint the house.  Terry had long hair and tattoos and a motorcycle.  And a prison record, if I remember correctly.  I took it upon myself to “assist” Terry in his painting duties by constantly being underfoot and attempting to shimmy myself up his ladder every time his back was turned.  He finally dumped me in a pile of clean drop cloths and told me if I wanted to help, I could sit and talk to him.

I looked at Terry very seriously from my perch and asked, “are you a girl?”

“No,” he said.  “Did you think that because I have long hair?”

“No,” I responded.

Good thing I looked like this–



*Including, but not limited to: Rachel as surly teengaer, Rachel as a sassy 2 year old, Rachel as a somewhat bossy older sister.


I discovered a rather large pile of shit under my mom’s bedroom window at the cabin Friday afternoon.  Given it’s close proximity to where we live and eat and sleep, I waved over my mother and J$ for further inspection.  We quickly ruled out dog shit (too small), horse shit (no horses) and then googled bear scat.  A quick comparison and it was confirmed that a brown bear had indeed been tramping around the property.

“Oh,” my mother said, “I did hear lots of heavy breathing the other night.”

Right, good thing it was just a little bear.  And not a serial killer.  Safety first, mom.


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