It’s Spring vacation time, and so I have sprung. Just in time to escape Minnesota’s oppressive May-in-March loveliness for something hotter and more humid. In my absence, a Congress of Baboons has stepped forward to fill in. Thanks, gang!

Today’s guest posts comes from Aaron.

Hey Baboons,

I know it has been a long while since I was last here, but yes I am still alive and well. I hold no grudges against anyone here I assure you, it was nothing anyone said.

I am working on how not to procrastinate, and this blog entry is a good example. I am writing this early on Tuesday morning, before I get distracted with the hustle and bustle of the day. I am a serial procrastinator. I was the one who would wait until the last minute to do a big project in school (a history day project on Elvis comes to mind, it was fun, it just took a while to get there). Writing letters to relatives is another thing I put off, just because I HATE writing letters, I rather just send an email and be done with it, but recently I put a kind note to my grandma in the good old US mail, and you know what? It felt great to finally send it out.

Maybe that is why I haven’t been on here, I was procrastinating on being a brilliant creative person (I kid, this is not my big ego talking, heck I don’t have that big of a ego, although some of you would beg to differ). I think my method of not procrastinating is thinking about what the end product would do for the greater good, and also when people depend on me to actually follow through on something by a certain date or time (Dale needed this by Friday the 16th, and I didn’t want to find out what the Wrath of Connelly is like). So it’s good to be back here, and hopefully I won’t procrastinate on my Baboon duties (much).

What are some ways you fight the urge to procrastinate?

Today’s guest post comes from Ben.

This just in:  

The chicken / duck / guinea population on our farm has officially spun out of control.
I’m not sure how this happened. Exact numbers are hard to come by, but here’s what I know we have:

14 Ducks of various breeds
20 some-odd Guineas
10 (or 13) pearl (maybe 15!)
4 light gray
11 white
43 Chickens (I think)

That makes roughly Eighty two fowl. Eighty two is too many, that’s for sure.

When birds of a feather get together, there’s often a bully in the group and there is always a disturbance going on. But not this time. They all get along so well, in spite of their different backgrounds and personalities!

The fourteen ducks are a mix of breeds; some mallards, a couple Indian Runner and a few cross-breeding results including the tall brown headed one with the white neck in this picture.

That’s Patrick. He was the duck hatched by a chicken and being all alone I put a Sponge Bob plush toy in the pen with him. (Patrick is Sponge Bob’s best friend in the TV show).

The Mallard ducks I got from the local Tractor Supply Company store this spring. They actually do fly but they know this is home so they don’t migrate. But how neat it must be to hang out on the ground with their other duck friends and then, just every so often, take off and make expanding circles around the farm. And then they circle back in and land and settle down again. Now that’s perspective.

Guineas are native of Africa. I suspect they’re always cold here in the winter. We’ve had guinea fowl for several years; pretty much since we started raising chickens. A neighbor told me if I thought I was going to have trouble with fox or coyotes or raccoons getting my chickens then, I should get guineas because they can fly a bit and get away from varmints. And they eat ticks.

I ordered 30 guinea chicks this spring; a variety of breeds. And for some reason this bunch is just calm and friendly. There were two older ones around and of course at first they had to establish their pecking order, but once that was done, calm all around. And they mix right in with the ducks and chickens. And this group isn’t so psychotic as they are sometimes, so it’s kinda nice.

By the way, guineas are indifferent mothers. They’ll lay a clutch of 20 or 30 eggs, the first 5 or 6 hatch and momma gets up and walks away. And the babies can’t ever keep up. So they’ll only survive if I happen to hear them and intervene. Or find a nest and put the eggs in an incubator. I’ve said it before, the real world is a tough place for baby animals.

About the chickens –  We seemed to have enough chickens last spring so I didn’t order any chicks. Although a momma chicken raised 5 of them in a side pen. And put a bunch of eggs in the incubator so they arrived at the same time as the guinea chicks and we got nine more from that.

Everyone seems to be comfortable with their status and company they keep. High scores all around for sociability and variety, but there’s one thing missing.

Productivity.

Sixty some chickens I’m getting 8 eggs a day.  Hmmmm, what’s wrong with this ratio?? I think it’s costing me $5 per egg when you factor in feed, water, electricity and heat lamps. Maybe they’ve forgotten there’s work to do.

What’s the secret to getting along with your neighbors?

Today’s guest post comes from Steve.

I’m not sure why my parents sent me to confirmation classes. Ours was not a very religious family. While my parents rarely felt moved to attend church services themselves, they had a fuzzy notion that it would be good for my sister and me to go, and so they sent us.

I have vivid memories of all the ways I conspired to avoid going to church. I learned to fake a fever (if you spin a thermometer fast enough in your mouth, the temperature goes up). I would always lie in bed deep into Sunday morning, hoping my mother would forget me, emerging when it was too late for her to order me to church.

My best ploy involved my “Sunday go to meeting pants,” the formal trousers that I only wore to church. One day my grandmother gave me a discarded library dictionary, a musty, leather-bound monster so heavy I barely could pick it up with two arms. I arranged my Sunday pants in a pile on top of the radiator in my room and put the dictionary on them. If Mom ever caught me on a Sunday morning and insisted that I go to church, I’d disappear into my room and come out with pants so horribly wrinkled that no homeless guy would wear them. “Look, Mom!” I’d cry, my voice ringing with disappointment, “I can’t go to church in THESE!” My mother purely hated ironing. This gimmick always worked.

But I didn’t need to dress up for Confirmation Class, so the pants couldn’t save me. I think I was 14 the year they taught that class. That was a bad time, a time when I was convinced I was one of life’s big losers. Since I didn’t think much of myself I could hardly expect anyone else to respect me. Worse, I was beginning to resent what seemed like arbitrary edicts from my parents. I’d always been a sweet and compliant child—you could call me a disgusting little apple polisher around all authority—but now I was beginning to see the world with my own eyes.

Confirmation class was not intellectually demanding, and I didn’t mind it much. We mostly chased each other around the big old brick church in noisy games of tag. When the teachers caught us and sat us down for bible lessons, I found those lessons curious but innocuous.

To celebrate our impending graduation from Confirmation class, our minister—who shall remain nameless here, although I am tempted—joined our class one evening as a sort of visiting celebrity. The minister was in a genial mood, entertaining us with funny stories. He was a dry old Scotsman who was mostly famous for interminable Sunday sermons so boring that the statue of Jesus sometimes went to sleep.

The first started with a question. “Catholic nuns wear those big cloaks that have their heads hidden under a cowl,” he said. “But did you ever wonder what a Catholic nun looks like underneath that cowl?” I never had given a moment’s thought to what nuns wore, and I was beginning to find this story creepy. “One night I visited a nun who wasn’t expecting company, and I caught her without her cowl. And guess what? She was bald as a billiard ball underneath! Bald as a billiard ball!”

I felt like the wind had been knocked out of me. This was the first time in my life I had encountered naked bigotry. I was shocked that this nasty, gossiping old man was the minister of my church.

The minister next plunged into the evolution controversy. “You probably have heard of this man Darwin and his screwball ideas,” said the minister. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I am not related to any monkey!”

That was totally confusing. Related to a monkey? Once again I felt disgust for the minister, but this time it felt better. Apparently there were people who thought differently from him. Somewhere in the world there was a guy named Darwin who said things that outraged my minister. Cool! I had an ally. I looked forward to learning more about this Darwin.

Here is a picture of the Confirmation Class of 1956. I’m the chubby dweeb just behind and to the left of the minister. What a smile! You’d never guess that I was at this moment struggling to hide my contempt for the first authority figure to spark rebellion in my heart. That ember of independent thinking would glow quietly for several years before it burst into flame, but it all started here.

Was there ever a time when you suddenly realized that you needed to rebel from authority?

Today’s guest post comes from Steve.

In the interest of candor, I must admit that Liam’s four-day trip to visit his grandfather has not been all pleasant. Liam, just two years old, was terrified by the airplane that flew him from Portland to Minnesota. For complicated reasons, my daughter Molly stayed at a nearby motel rather than camping out in my home. Liam hated the motel. He sobbed at night, unable to sleep in strange surroundings, partly because he had an ear infection that flowed openly. All of Molly’s love and patience could not console him. We learned a difficult lesson. Liam, at this age anyway, is not a confident traveler.

Molly would show up at my home each morning with hollow eyes. Liam’s eyes were red and puffy from another bad night. “Hello Grampa,” he’d say softly, running to give me a big hug.

That’s when the Baboon angels—those Trail Baboon women who loaned us toys—would appear on hushed wings to work their magic.

I’d say, “Liam, you know this is a funny house, a real funny house. The Toy Fairy flies here to leave surprises for you. I happen to know that the Toy Fairy came again last night. If you walk around, you might find some new toys!”

Liam would disappear, walking gingerly as if he were concerned about spooking the toys and causing them to flee. He would reappear toting or pushing some new toy, perhaps a rolling musical popper, a dump truck or a kid-sized plastic shopping cart.

All the toys loaned to us were chosen with the wisdom of an experienced mother. All got played with and enjoyed. I can’t name them all and wouldn’t try, but every single toy was a hit. Liam is enthusiastic about transportation at the moment, so cars, planes and trains all triggered a strong response.

If things ever got a little slow and Liam became restless, I would call him to me. “Liam, I can’t be sure, but I think I just saw that goofy Toy Fairy again! Do you suppose she left you more toys?”

The toys saved the trip. Molly had expected that we would need to drive from museum to zoo to library to aquarium in order to entertain Liam. Instead, he spent all his hours gleefully pushing little cars on my coffee table, putting the baby doll down “nighty-night” and herding plastic animals in and out of a red plastic barn. We didn’t waste precious time driving around, and this arrangement maximized the contact between Liam and his doting grampa (who got to develop a great many distinctive sound effects for internal combustion engines, to say nothing of all the different animal sounds).

The highlight of the four-day trip was a birthday party at my nephew’s home in Saint Louis Park. The party included 16 people. Liam is a party animal. He adores people, the more the better. He went about interacting with everyone, offering toys to them and occasionally running back to Molly or me to give us monster hugs, his head laid affectionately on our laps.

When my nephew brought out a bag of foam blocks, Liam delighted in making stacks of them so he could knock them down. Soon the bag was empty and 100 foam blocks were strewn all over the living room floor.

At Liam’s daycare in Portland, they teach kids to take care of their own messes. They sing a little song (“Clean up! Clean up!”) while teachers and kids put each toy back where it belongs. One of the teachers occasionally shouts “Hel-LOOOOO?” at the kids to get their attention so they will get stay on-task. Liam has embraced the clean-up ethic. He cheerfully put toys away at my home.

At the party, adults were laughing at the chaos Liam had made of the blocks when we were startled to hear someone singing in a pure, sweet, high voice. Liam was picking up foam blocks to chuck them into the big plastic bag they came in. He carried on singing and chucking until all 100 blocks were back home.

Clean up! Clean up!
Everybody! Everywhere!
Clean up! Clean up!
Everybody do your share!

And occasionally, in a voice that was clearly not his own, Liam would bark out: Hel-LOOOO?” To him, it was part of the song!

Life isn’t perfect, and there were difficult moments in this trip that Molly and I had dreamed about for over a year. But life gives us flashes of unanticipated joy to balance out the challenges. On this visit, any time little negatives cropped up we would hear the gentle flutter of angel wings and another collection of toys would magically appear.

Have you been involved in an enterprise that was unexpectedly saved by an angel?

Today’s guest post is by Anna.

I am unimpressed with this year’s so-called “winter.” It has been a disappointment. While I can appreciate that some folks like the nice snow-free sidewalks and warmer temperatures, I am a Minnesota kid, and I miss my snow and ice and cold. I tried to go out ice skating one afternoon and instead of the chsss chsss chsss of skate blades on the neighborhood rink I heard chuh chuh chuh as I tried to maneuver myself across the slushy mess. Sure it was sunny, but without any glide in my step, not even the warmth on my face or the extra vitamin D was working for me.

Still, there was one day when it was real winter. One day when it had just snowed enough to do something outdoors besides walk the dog. Daughter really wanted to go sledding. I was feeling more in a “stay inside by the fire” kind of mood, since we were in the “cold after the snow” part of the snow, but was willing to put on my snow pants to appease the seven-year-old and ensure that my Minnesota native cred was still good. So, find the boots that had not yet been needed (in the basement), pull the snow pants out from the closet (yikes, these got smaller in the last 12 months), hat (goofy looking), mittens (the warm ones), out we go to find the sleds. Crunch crunch through the quiet neighborhood – with the exception of a few folks out with their dogs, we are the only ones out. And yikes, that wind is biting; a fierce blast that I was not expecting, especially given the mild weather of the season thus far (should have added the scarf). A few blocks from home I hear myself whine like a three-year-old, “are you sure you want to do this? We could go home and have cocoa…” No. We are going. There is snow to be sledded on, this is not an opportunity to be missed.

Once at the hill, the seven-year-old races to the top with her sled in hand. I find a sunny spot to try to gather some warmth and watch. Ssssshhhhhoooo, down the hill she comes and then runs back up the hill. “You gotta try this. It’s so much fun!” I am not convinced, but trudge up with the other sled. Wedging the extra sled into a nearby stand of tall weeds so it won’t blow away, I plunk myself down into the purple plastic embrace of the sled with Daughter in front of me. Sssssshhhhhhooooo, down the hill we go together, across the path, almost to the creek. And it was fun. A few more times together, a few times each on our own sleds, timing our runs so we don’t mow down the walkers (and one biker) using the path at the bottom of the hill. Laughing as we fall over or spin backwards on our descent. Even with the exertion of going up and down the hill, eventually my face gets cold enough that I convince Daughter it’s time to go home. Bump bump bump the sleds follow us home to cocoa (and marshmallows and a fire). But I was glad I tried it, ssssssshhhhhhooooo, it was so much fun.

When have you been convinced to do something that was more fun than you expected?

Today’s guest post comes from Clyde.

I am not the man I used to be. My doctor told me so.

Well, it was her nurse who told me that I have become a lesser man. The way she said it was, “Your height is 5 feet 10 inches.”

I said, “Really?”

She said, “I’ll check it again. You’re 5 feet 10 AND 1/8 inches.” Ah, me! Phew! That 1/8 made me feel better.

Since my height for most of my life was 5 feet 11 7/8 inches, it is not a stretch, pun intended, to say I have lost two inches in height. Because I always claimed a height of 6 feet, it is only fair that I now claim a height of 5-10. I lost most of that height in a short time, less than a year. Ah, me! I think I’ll call myself a Settler. Maybe gravity suddenly became stronger in Mankato. Maybe my load of care is getting me down. Now I really am in depression. It has to be something the Republicans did. “They’re turning me into a Newt!”

Don’t you think I would have noticed? That it would have been harder to get things down from shelves, for instance. Harder to reach light bulbs. I am a typical male: I don’t see the thing right in front of my face unless you point at it. Wait a minute, it was harder to reach light bulbs. It should now be easier to reach down to the floor, but it’s not. Ah, me! Go figure.

Another bad thing is that I am now ten more pounds overweight, even though I have lost weight. Ah me!

Then I noticed that the cuffs of my pants and pajamas are getting frayed. One could say I’m dressed in drag. I told the launderer he should have spotted it and told me, but he has lint for brains. Now I really have a problem; I cannot buy off-the-rack anymore. I have a rather odd body. Despite having once been 6 feet tall, I had a 30 inch inseam, which is the bottom end of rack-sizes for my waist. I seem to have a 29-inch inseam or closer to 28 perhaps. Ah me! I could take up sewing.

Wait! A friend just sent a picture of fourth graders in the Two Harbors of my youth. All the boys had the cuffs of their jeans turned up three to four inches. Could we bring back that style, please?

What style do you want to bring back?

Today’s guest post comes from Dan in Woodbury.

While driving to my local health club in Woodbury last Saturday morning around 7:00 AM, I saw a small SUV pulled over to the right shoulder on a side street. In addition to the couple getting out of the vehicle, I noticed a blue barrel in the middle of the street, and standing next to the barrel was a Wessex Saddleback.

OK, I didn’t know it was a Wessex Saddleback at the time. But I did recognize it as a pig! About 250 pounds worth!

I thought “Now there’s something you don’t see every day!”

I was baffled by the sight of an animal so clearly out of its element, so like anyone suddenly faced with an unexpected and incomprehensible sight, I proceeded to go about my business.

(I am now reminded a scene from The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It is the monologue of a poor sperm whale, called into existence against all probability several miles above an alien planet, trying to come to terms with its existence as it falls. “Ahhh! Whoa! What’s happening? Who am I? Why am I here? What’s my purpose in life? What do I mean by ‘who am I’? Okay, okay, calm down, calm down, get a grip now…” The philosophical whales last thought was “Hello Ground!”)

I pulled a U turn and returned to the scene of the porcine puzzle to find the couple snapping pictures of the dazed pig standing in the middle of the road next its transport. They told me they had called 911, and as we waited for the authorities to arrive, a neighbor from across the street joined the three of us in collectively corralling the pig to a grassy strip of land in front of a group of townhomes. After locating some rope in my truck to use as a leash, the neighbor (I’ll call him Joe) and I lassoed the pig. Which it didn’t care for at all! Having not been raised on a farm, I now know the full meaning of “squealed like a pig”. The struggling creature managed to squirm thru the noose until the rope was firmly cinched around it waist. Thankfully the pig calmed down after I slipped the rope off the hind quarters. It was at this time Joe and I noticed the couple had driven away, leaving the two of us on pig duty.

Another 10 minutes past before a Woodbury Community Service Officer (CSO) pulled up alongside us. I believe his first words were “Is this your pig?” Joe informed the CSO that he had heard a clunk and looked up to see a small red pickup with a loud exhaust driving away. He surmised the barrel had just fallen out of the back of the pickup when he noticed the pig exit the barrel. After supplying what facts we could, Joe and I paused for the CSO to make the next move. We both could tell the young man was not prepared for this job, so after sufficient time for the CSO to take the lead, Joe hatched a plan for him.

The CSO would use his catch pole to direct the pig into the barrel, door held open by Joe, while I pushed. It took a little effort on everyone’s part, but we were able to walk the pig in and then stand the barrel upright, thus preventing the ham from escaping. After using some rope to secure the door once again, we asked the CSO to go get his truck. With three of us lifting, we were able to “load ‘er up” and secure the barrel in the back of the CSO’s pickup. Joe and I then returned to our lives, as the CSO and pig headed into whatever process suburban Woodbury has for handling stray farm animals.

It wasn’t until I was in the health club locker room that my nose detected a considerable amount of “substance” smeared up and down my left leg. Yup, I smelled like a pig farm. I would have some explaining to do when I got home.

After relaying the story to a friend, he forwarded this article from the Woodbury Patch, which did a pretty good job reporting the event. I was pleased to be credited for my work as one half of the famed public service duo “two citizens”. The Pioneer Press account, however, mysteriously shifted the event four hours into the future and erased my act of good samaritanship entirely, nullifying not only the time spent and ingenuity employed, but completely missing the repulsive sacrifice of my trouser leg.

That is why I have decided to tell my story. It is exactly this kind of slight that propels a shy person to step into the light, forcing him to become a bit of a publicity hog.

What the strangest thing you’ve found on the side of the road?