Marching

Our brothers and sisters made a huge impact marching on Washington and New York and San Diego and Stonington and Alpine and Parkland and Hartford and LA and Anchorage and St. Paul and Chicago and Albuquerque and Austin and Portland and Atlanta and I wish I could just steal all of the New York Times' photos and post them because MY GOD. What a powerful day.

#enough. Enough already. For the love of humanity. Enough.

We didn't march. We hiked, though, and it was wonderful and lovely and inspiring and tune in next week for that.

And on Sunday we finally wrapped up this endless St. Patrick's Day season in good ol' SouthEastern Connecticut with the SECT-famous Mystic Irish Day Parade.

We ran into the lovely Elizabeth . . .

. . . and onward we watched, while the rest of them marched.


. . . the New London High School ROTC? Oh, they can march.

The bands were out . . .

. . . the military* was out . . .

(*apparently they were state cops)

. . . the bagpipes were out . . . 

. . . adorable children were out and about . . .

. . . even grown up adorable children were out and about.

The town was packed and despite the freezing degrees and the sub-arctic wind factor, the peeps loved it . . .

. . . including the bar denizens . . .

. . . and including us.

And then . . .

. . . here they came. What everybody was waiting for . . .

. . . the Clydesdales.

They were big and they were strong and powerful and lovely and onward they went.

Marching on.

albuquerque was a turquey

When my 19 year old man/child was in 1st grade, he performed in a Thanksgiving pageant kind of thing, something about Squanto and fry bread, it was confusing. But the finale was a rousing rendition of a song about a turkey named Albuquerque who did not get eaten for Thanksgiving dinner. Naturally,  I heard that song in my head ad nauseum during all preparations to visit that fair city last week for a conference. 

Word hard, play hard!

I found Albuquerque to be a pretty city, but a bit odd. It might have been the area where we stayed, which was Old Town.

Pretty

a bit odd

I'd been to Sante Fe before, I distinctly remember taking shelter in a campground bathroom with Ellie during a freezing winter storm in November of 1988. But Albuquerque, while endlessly fun to spell, had not been on our itinerary. Had it, Ellie? CRS

Pretty, yet odd. In this case the oddness was in the smell. We nicknamed these pretty things 'crotch trees'

Pretty

Odd

Squanto?

 The city's most profitable claim to fame seems to be that it's where Breaking Bad was based

souvenirs

Pretty odd

It was St. Patrick's Day eve!

So, a bunch of random photos from a random city. I never really found the soul of the place. We didn't find great food, and everything closed at 10pm. Big fun was had, though, and you'll never hear me complain about a hotel room all to myself on the 11th floor. I rocked the stairs multiple times daily, and am still sore.

I'm glad that Albuquerque the Turkey survived his song, and that I now have newer associations to put with the city. I missed a chance to go to the aerial tramway, which looked spectacular, because I was 3 seconds late for the bus. They are a prompt people, those Albequirkies.

Next year it's back to Hilton Head :)

Like A Hawk

We get the occasional hawk around here. Of course we do: lots of good eatin' between the mice and the other baby birds.

Hey, hawks don't care about eating their brethren; it's luncheon, baby.

But we don't usually get to see hawks this up close and personal . . . personally. Sorry, can't help myself.

Ohmygod a hawk! That's me on the right, looking out.

. . . but I have to leave *now* to get to work on time . . .

. . . oh but he turned his head . . .

. . . wait, he's taking off! . . .

I don't know why I call a hawk a "he". Maybe she's a "she". Or maybe who cares about the fluidity of avian gender for the love of pete's sake.

What I do know is I was late for work.

But then the ding-dong hawk flew up onto the streetlight.

And there hawk sat . . .

. . . checking out hawk's surroundings . . .

I said, "Mistah, I have got to go . . ."

And Mistah said, "okay, I'm ready with the camera. I'll tell you when to open the door. One . . . two . . . three . . . "

". . . Go!"

Bam.

This one's my fave.

And this one looks like Jacquie's friend gave it his own personal magical touch . . .

See what I mean??

Hawk a la Mike . . .  

And this one . . . ?

This one is Mistah's fave . . .

Boom. 

I Love A Parade . . . I Just Really Do.

Everybody doesn't love a parade . . .

But I sure do.

Especially New London's own St. Patrick's Day Parade a week early, godbless.

Because of our local goddess Marshall, Donna O'Sullivan? . . .

. . . because of our pipers? . . .

. . . because of our Coasties? . . .

. . . because of our adorable friends? . . .

. . . because of the Whalers? . . .

. . . because of the Scouts? . . .

. . . because Mistah is a family match-maker? . . .

. . . because of Mister Dibble *and* Saint Francis?

. . . because the Firefighters have the Best Job In America? Especially the guy who gets to drive the back of the truck.

. . . because we are passionate and enthusiastic spectators?

. . . Seriously passionate. And seriously enthusiastic. Plus? Cabbage.

Because we have the best spot for a refreshing Guinness? . . .

. . . Yes. Yes, because of all that.

That is exactly why I Love A Parade. I Just Really Do.