Sometimes, nature throws a little entertainment our way. When you live "out," it doesn't take much, as they say. In the good old city days, we never traipsed around the house looking for living oddities. Goodness no, we had zoos for that. Nor did we have show times that involved vultures fighting over dead turtles or deceased cats. (Yes, revolting, but that's life in the country, really). Goodbye, theater; hello reality.

While our IO moth had to be turned upside down to get the full impact of its silly face, in real life, this is excellent protection from predators. The "eye spots" make it appear larger and other critters generally leave it alone, if they're in doubt. This species also sports spines that cause intense irritation to human skin. The colors are stunning, aren't they? I won't bother to give it the dignity of turning it around. This is way too much fun.

One of our local Mexican markets is just off the town square. Here, we get cheap, cheap dried peppers and you can even find piloncillo (brown sugar) straight from Mexico (if you dare).

In the early days of our visits, we pretty much had to know what we wanted - and what it looked like. Otherwise, we were lost in a sea of Spanish that our limited vocabulary could not handle. We'd hold up a dollar, or two, or three and point. The staff would smile (smirk?) and scoop items into plastic bags, take our money, and we'd be on our way.

On our most recent trip in search of guajillo peppers, we got lucky - the little market has gone upscale. Now, there are crudely printed cardboard signs in front of each box or basket. No more guesswork and a very exciting progression for us gringos. Of course, we stick out like sore thumbs and we still get the same smiles.

Amazing how the sight of snow turns the world into black and white photos. After spending years in Boston, some winter time in Scotland, and then in the ice storm capital of Tulsa, we've been glad to get away from it - to return to a Texas base where you just don't see much of the white stuff. We're more likely to get the aftermath of a hurricane. But when the first six inches arrived mid-February, it was a beautiful sight. Big old wet flakes came down for nearly two days while the roads stayed reasonably clear (always a plus).

Now, the first day of spring has brought us yet another round. This one is pretty as it comes down, but it won't be sticking around. We can laugh over past memories - a now-unused snow shovel, a snowplow that ran me off the road, cutting donuts at Edinburgh Castle before a private social gathering with the new Finance Minister of Scotland.

Even better, we won't be looking at big ugly dirty piles of the stuff as the melting begins. No huge icicles breaking tree limbs and no injury to our own life or limbs if we step outdoors. Yes, indeedy, it's a great way to greet the first day of spring!

After a couple of earlier incidents that involved blood (fish hook) and more blood + stitches (baguette slicing), the aftermath of treatment depleted our medical supplies. I had put together a small first aid kit during the house-building phase and it had some heavy duty gauze pads and a host of other emergency goodies. None of those, as it turned out, were of much use when a rather large hand-operated machine caused some pretty serious burns across a couple of forearms. Nonetheless, I've always been one to be prepared. Solarcaine in the kitchen is a lifesaver, by the way - especially if you're a klutz around hot items.

As we took inventory, we realized the need for quite a few bandaging items. They don't come cheap, either, so my husband started looking around. The local Fred's store won our business with a bounty of off-brand band-aids, gauze wraps, tape, and more. It was exciting - sort of like a January white sale for the accident-prone. Fred's is one of those places that is kind of a jumble of things, but you find a few gems and can't resist checking them out once in a while. Thanks, Fred's, for being a jewel in the middle of nowhere.

My husband loaded up a small carry basket with boxes; large, small, in-between sizes plus multiple rolls. At checkout, the young female clerk stared down at nothing but piles of emergency supplies. She paused a moment, before touching anything, then looked up.

"Are you planning something?"

Yeah, as if.

No matter where we are, Thanksgiving is a very Big Deal. Each year, we name the bird and give it such a fanfare. Friends and family start calling and e-mailing a few days before, eager to hear what our bird's name will be. One year, we switched to Cornish Hens (Gertrude and Heathcliffe) and that didn't go over well at all. Back to our regularly scheduled official turkey. Past favorites have included Valerie Bird-inelli, Engel-bird Humperdinck, Vince Lombirdi and so on. Some years we strive to sound a little sophisticated with names such as Johannes Gutenbird and Alexis de Turk-ville. Yes, indeedy.

Not that we eat much of it on the Big Day, it's just there to look pretty. We save it for later and concentrate on all the side dishes. This year, we got lucky down at the local (where we're held captive because there's no place else within miles) Wal-Mart. They had a special on turkeys at 40 cents a pound. After digging through the bin and straining back muscles tossing aside the bigger birds, we found it - our 10 pounder - our "Four Buck Bird." Perfect.

In honor of the past, here's our 2009 turkey. His carcass has already been reduced to stock and his white parts are in the freezer.

In fond memory of:

Duesen-bird

Even though we moved to a lake in the middle-of-nowhere, we didn't technically become a vacation destination right away. It took some time to "develop a following" so to speak. In fact, the turning point might have been purchasing a pontoon-style fishing barge complete with port-a-potty compartment and sink. Not to mention the fact that it could hold up to 13 people (yet to be determined). We were warned about that.

While you can't get here easily by air and certainly need good directions by vehicle, the past couple of years have picked up as far as relatives, friends, and combinations thereof go. In our big city life, we were always ready to throw a party at the drop of a hat. In fact, all we needed was enough notice to wash our stash of party plates, dessert/appetizer plates and various wine/highball/margarita glasses. Those days intermingled frequently with relocations to faraway destinations where there was no need for - or room for - partyware. Great adventures, all, but, really, there's no place like home.

Cousins, dogs, nieces, nephews, brothers, and all those married to them - all are a true treasure as they pass through our little lake house in the middle of nowhere. Such a treat.

I won't go into the great grammar issues of small town newspapers here. It seems to be so common that one local owner/editor was prompted to say "it gives you grammar folks something to look forward to." How's that for pride? (OK, so here I must insert a comment about one lengthy article that repeatedly wrote about a "house for sell." That was just one of many irritations.)

When we first signed up for the paper, we only wanted it on Sunday. My husband went into town and stopped by the newspaper office. Signed up, wrote a check, and left.

It wasn't until the lady carrier tracked us down a few days later to tell us that if we wanted the Sunday only paper, it would have to be mailed. 'Scuse me? In addition, it was cheaper to just go ahead and order for the entire week. Ahem.

Yes, we must ask: Why didn't they tell us this at the newspaper office? One more thing to ponder about life in the middle-of-nowhere.

Throw a whole cooked pig into the mix and you have a natural guy magnet. That's how I (a cousin) was fortunate enough to head out to a baby shower/family "do" with husband in tow last weekend. Multitudes of plotting to not attend among family members ended with the mention of "pig." It was a grand centerpiece that will long be remembered by many, for sure. That and the Jagermeister machine. We had great fun watching women in their sixties studying that honker machine, debating whether to take a shot - or not.

Adults circled the pig in awe; forget the mother-to-be and the cake. This porker came lovingly attended to by Matt the master butcher. And he came courtesy (well, paid for) of the most appropriately named Hoggs Meat Market in North Little Rock. If you want to "call the Hoggs," their number is 501-758-7700 or drop by their web site at hoggsmeatmarket.com. Somehow, they know just what size pig to pick for a certain number of people. As for diving in, Matt discreetly worked from one side so as not to offend anyone's sensitivities.

Of course, the visiting was great and even some of the more reluctant males wandered in and out for the gift opening. That's probably because there was still a large pan of pig sitting on the counter. Not to mention ice-cold beer and a host of other amenities that make baby showers just that much better for some of us.

The end (how could I resist?)

Check out all our past goings-on through the link "more of our daily adventures" in the upper left box.

We're so spoiled - we leisurely pick out fresh tomatoes at the store and get to sort through the best ones. On the other hand, you can't get them while they're green that way. If you're a fan of fried green tomatoes, you probably get a hankering for finding someone with a garden. And for a real good price, you can head over to the far eastern border of Arkansas and do some picking.

Not in the fields, exactly, although these are fresh off the vine. And it's real handy to have family around those parts, because then you can stay awhile, get great food and talk about what you're going to do with all those tomatoes.

We were not so lucky making our own trip out to the field setup. The good ones are picked off first at the top conveyor level and boxed for shipping. It's hot and laborious work and we won't go into green cards and all that stuff. We get the seconds, and that's not a bad deal - a few blemishes but that's about it. Unless you're behind a couple of hairy-armed guys who are there loading up the back of their trucks. With a helper running back and forth, they were able to grab a good load. Even worse, they had a fondness for the green ones.

Back home, we spent days blanching, peeling and freezing tomatoes. At one point, we just washed them and threw them into freezer bags. There is literally no more room at the inn. It'll be nice having homemade spaghetti and hot sauce. They'll go in chili, sloppy joe's and a host of other dishes.

Three dollars for 20-plus pounds of tomatoes is such a good deal, it's easy to get carried away. That's how we ended up coming home with 4400 boxes. Not really, but it smelled that way.

These are surely two things that don't go together - baguettes and bandages. Except when you're cutting into one that's still frozen. And when you use the wrong knife to do it with. Those darn little chunks of delicious bread can turn on you in a hurry. Cooking late on a weeknight, my husband sliced wide and deep into the tip of his left index finger. (As a cousin researched this issue later, we learned that this is also called the "trigger" finger. I guess that depends on which hand you shoot with.)

A bit more blood was flowing than with the fishhook incident. We gave it a good 20 minutes before heading off to emergency. It was all a cheerful ordeal, especially since it followed our daily Happy Hour on the deck. Our terrific emergency folks remembered us from the fish hook/tetanus shot visit. Six stitches and a full hand bandage later, we headed home with the warning to "not use anything sharp." A kindly neighbor suggested that housework would surely cause it to go gangrene.

For the next few days, everyone wanted to know about it. We spent more time explaining what a baguette was than talking about the gore itself. As a last resort, we just started telling folks it was "French bread."