learning more about “steering” the writing craft

In her book on writing, Steering The Craft, Ursula Le Guin says:

The chief duty of a narrative sentence is to lead to the next sentence. Beyond this basic, invisible job, the narrative sentence can do an infinite number of beautiful, surprising, powerful, audible, visible things. But the basic function of the narrative sentence is to keep the story going and keep the reader going with it.

If you aren’t interested in the craft of writing, then today’s post will definitely leave you disappointed. As for me, there’s no longer any pressure to publish after I decided I should only write for myself because I like doing it (most of the time). It’s become a fun but  sometimes challenging hobby and I’d like to think I’m in the driver’s seat and steering the best I can. I’ve just come from a meeting with my some of my writing friends who enjoy working together, though I must admit sometimes it feels more like an afternoon party since we have too much fun to call what we’re doing “work.” Once again I’m all revved up with new vigor to keep on trying sharpen my own writing skills.

The advantage of assigned writing exercises, which our group decided to do using Ms. Le Guin’s book, is that I’m constantly being challenged to try different writing techniques that I probably would never have tried on my own. I confess that for some of them, I groaned inwardly–at first. My thinking was that it would be too easy, or I’d already tried something like that. But each time I’d buckle down whether I thought I’d like it or not. Some of the work it produced turned out better than others. But I always learned something. Overall, I’m left feeling pretty psyched. Especially when/if I get a positive reaction from others in the group when I read. It’s also interesting to see the many different approaches there are within the group using with the same instructions.

Today’s exercise, in two parts, was coined the SHORT and LONG of it. It involved writing a paragraph or narrative of ~100-150 words in sentences limited to seven words–no sentence fragments–each with a subject and verb. Here’s a paragraph I constructed from a longer story I wrote long ago. To set it up, you should know the protagonist is J.J. McMahon, a 50-something grandmother who’s car-napped in her Honda (named Fenry) waiting at a traffic light. She’s just dropped her grandson off at nursery school and is sitting there contemplating how she really ought to have gone to the bathroom at the school, while there are valid reasons why she didn’t, and she’s praying she can make it in time to the bathroom in her office in.

I’m in the restroom at last! Relief is just a button and zipper away. Thank God for McDonald’s on Kingston Pike. But I am I shaking so. Not a single other person here today. I decide I’ll write on the mirror. Please help me! I’ve been kidnapped! My kidnapper’s that teenager with angel eyes. I poke around my purse for a lipstick. Nothing that marks is in my purse. I hear a voice through the door. “Are you all right, Mother?” It’s him! I can’t believe it. Disconcerted, my body stiffens and shifts. The toilet flushes. Damn those automatic flushers anyway! What nerve this kid has. Does he really have a gun? He’s invading the women’s room  after me! I hear him explaining. “She wasn’t feeling well. I was worried.” The woman behind him smiles. I know what she’s thinking. “What a wonderful son.” No, oh no, my mind screams. He’s NOT my son, he’s my kidnapper!” Too soon we’re back on Kingston Pike. I grip Fenry’s steering wheel tightly. I-40 is so close. “So where are we going,” I ask. “Do I keep driving?” “East,” he says. Take I-40, then north on 75.

In Part two, we were to presented a half-page to a page of narrative, up to ~350 words, all written in one sentence. I hoped this narrative serves sufficiently–as Flash Fiction perhaps–so as not to need no set-up for the reader to interpret or understand the plot.

They tricked her into going to the funeral so it’s no wonder the first thing she notices is the tiny rip in the netting draped over Meemaw’s face in the coffin and I am reminded how we always planned to go back fishing for minnows one day, and all of a sudden I feel my stomach pitch; my heart swells up like it will bust out of my body when the McFadden sisters who sing at all the funerals around here stand around the pulpit in their hats and high heels to sing sadly about gathering at the river where angels’ feet have trod, all while Reverend Martin’s weepy voice rises to a deafening pitch in order to be heard over the singing and the drone of the electric fan and the muffled sounds of sobbing, and I’m trying so hard not to cry myself that I’m not sure if I actually saw but I’m pretty sure I did see a soft fluttering of Meemaw’s pale eyelids and then her blinking like she has just spent a long night in somebody else’s bed and can’t at first recognize where she is, that I almost miss the miracle him–the preacher–and all the brethren have talked about so many times before at so many other funerals: verily I say unto you, the hour is coming…and now is…when he that heareth my word and believeth in Him that sent me…have everlasting life…and shall not come into condemnation…but is passed from death into life,” and just like that, and that quick, Meemaw rises, turns to look right at me and it’s like nobody else can see or hear her but me, but I hear as plain as day, “come on baby Junebug, while these people sit here crying and blubbering, let’s you and me go fishing for minnows, and in a flash she’s gone and quick as lightning I run and grab the white netting that separated her from me and then I follow her out of the side door of the dark church as quick as I can into the waiting sunshine.

For critiquing, and I’m inviting any reader to do so if so inclined, it is important–to me–that the short or long sentences fit the story being told. That’s the criteria of assignments like these. In spite of breaking all the rules of grammar, does it still work? Do the short sentences in Part one read naturally? Would it hold a reader’s attention? Is the language of the longer piece (Part two) clear enough so the reader doesn’t get lost or have to go back and start over for clarification.

If you like to write, either seriously or as a hobby like me, and you also author a blog, I hope you’ll let me know, or better yet, give me a link and I’ll try to come ’round to see what you’ve done.


springing back to wintersong musings

We had our final class Thursday, and now that our brains are all wrinkled with new knowledge on the economy, the latest in scientific research, and the uppity women in ancient Egypt who deigned to be “kings” instead of queens, we go forward to see what the rest of the season will bring before it all starts over again in the fall. Spring has finally sprung here in a “maybe, sorta, hopefully but “don’t bank the family fortune on it” kind of way. The local weatherman told us last week that we should go ahead and get our gardens going–which Hubby and I have been doing this week between classes.

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day and my birthday, and if you dropped by our house to chat, this is what you’d see as you climb to ring the doorbell. It’s my birthday present–also Mother’s Day, wedding anniversary, and Christmas and all other occasions this year according to Hubby. They don’t look like much right now unless you have a good imagination, but as summer approaches they should thicken and bloom abundantly.

my birthday presentI’ve never had much of a green thumb, but like Molly Brown from Hanni- bal Mis- souri said as she was going down on the Titanic, “I ain’t down yet.” What does all this have to do with Molly Brown? I have no earthly idea, the image just popped into my mind and I went with it. I just read a book (Let’s Pretend This Never Happened by blogger Jenny Lawson), who seems to have hit the publishing jackpot writing in that style (it’s terrific by the way), so, my recent writing efforts have been an attempt to let myself go more in writing, give up some control and write whatever pops into mind. I did that here, and there she was–Molly Brown! Maybe her spirit was trying to merge with my “muse” and get me back into blogging mode.

Speaking of the supernatural, I have a couple of links for those of you who–like me–may be skeptical (controlled) but nonetheless interested in ghost stories. Who can resist a really good one?! Last week a new blogger friend posted a story on a not so camera-shy Rebel soldier from a major civil war battle, including images he captured on his camera. Stop by and take a look and tell us what you think. I don’t think Mr. Davids would pull our legs about this.Then–should your appetite for ghost stories remain unsatisfied–I refer you to 10 more ghost photographs and stories here. Finally, now that summer’s almost here and the livin’ (supposedly) easier, I hope to be back on a more regular basis to attend to Wintersong musing.

honing the writing: figuring out what to write

Let’s not regard this as a real post; let’s regard it as homework, since that’s what it is. That way, anyone who reads it is helping with my homework.

Our new season of classes began yesterday, and my first one–chosen specifically to unlock my mental writing block–is called “honing your writing,” or something like that. Just to be clear, Osher classes usually don’t require homework, but some Greek smartass a long time ago said If you wish to be a writer, then write!” and that’s more or less what the writing prof said too. So all of us promised to try to write a few words EVERY DAY for the six-week duration of the class. So here I go, with the idea of combining the two blocked areas of my life–writing/blogging–to see if I can overcome both.

Yesterday’s class included an in-class exercise of finding our stories by Bubbling. I remembered doing it long ago, but with the prof  standing over us with a bullwhip (I jest a little) I began with the note page you see below. (That’s my handwriting–lousy, huh?) For years I’ve wanted to do a long piece on the place where I grew up. Some of the people there, my family too, were real characters to say the least. And my life growing up on a farm in the 40’s and 50’s was so different from the lives of my children and grandchildren, I want to leave it as a legacy. That way, should they lean too heavily to self-importance, it will remind them my humble beginnings. Maybe someday they’ll be happy to have it. So here’s my first bubble. From there I bubbled whatever came to mind. I found I didn’t run out of ideas, but I did run out of time. Does this bubble look like a best seller to you?

bubbleWhat makes a book a best seller anyway? I suspect it happens when a book begins to sell well enough that suddenly everybody wants to be in on whatever the latest cool read is and goes out to buy the same book, especially if it has lots of explicit sex (Think: Fifty Shades Of Grey and Lady Chatterley’s Lover of my day).  I’m sure I’ve acquired books in that guise myself. If you can’t produce the cool stuff yourself, then be one of the first to read it. I think that’s how it works. Then there are the others that don’t need explanation (Think: The Book Thief and To Kill A Mockingbird). Anyhow, I’ve come to a good place in my writerly life. I still want to learn to write the very best that I can even if I’m too old, too lazy, or not smart or talented enough, because the older I get the harder it gets to organize my ideas.

So where do I begin? Nothing in class was new, I admit, though it’s good to be reminded. I know the best place to begin is not necessarily at the beginning, but in the middle of something. I think of it as putting the reader right there in the scene as an unseen observer. But I did learn a new Latin phrase In medias res! In the middle! Our next in-class exercise was to write without editing–for five minutes–a scene that begins in the middle, and see where it would take us. Here’s mine.

Look at her! Eighteen years old and she had never been to the circus, never done much of anything to tell the truth. Now she had a boyfriend who called her “Princess,” so when Barnum & Bailey came to town she asked him if he would take her. Now here they were, sitting in the bleachers up high enough to see all three rings at one time. The ring in the middle was empty, but in the first one she watched a man dressed in fancy britches coaxing a tiger through a series of hoops. But it was the high-flying trapeze artists that were lining up to enter the mid ring that intrigued her the most.

In my mind as I wrote I was seeing the net stockings the tired-looking performer was wearing, especially the hole in the back, on the thigh, that I was pretty sure she didn’t know was there. Suddenly the circus I’d always thought of as so glamorous looked a whole lot different than it did in my dreams. Did this circus portend her future, her life as an adult?  But five minutes didn’t allow me time to include those images.

There! That’s enough for one day!  I’ve done slightly less than 700 words already. Tomorrow, or should I say “next time,” I’m not sure where the muse will take me. Perhaps I’ll write about a few of the other questions a writer faces, such as a beginning hook (to snare the reader from the get-go). Or maybe I’ll write about things that bug me in general, like grey-haired 0ld men with flat-top haircuts.

Meanwhile, if anyone reading this aspires to be a writer themselves, then I refer them back to the opening paragraph and that Greek guy’s words: If you wish to be a writer, then write! Feel free to use the prompts that I’ve shared from my class.  And then let me read it.



parent’s worst nightmare…revisited

I received the following message in a forwarded email in April 1993 when my daughters were both in college–one at OWU (Delaware, Ohio) and the other at Stanford (Palo Alto, California). The message was “I thought you might like to see what your other daughter has been up to lately.” My lips are sealed as to which one was guilty, but the perpetrators both know the scoop. email dated 4/1/93; subject: last night

Well, I don’t have much time to explain because I am in jail. Yes, you read correctly, I am in jail. They are allowing me one email message. Lucky for me, one message reaches like 7 people. Somebody please call my ‘rents for me . . .

Here’s the scoop. Last night after I went to this party and got Smashed off my ass, I got really hungry so I tried to walk to UDF for a milkshake. To make a very long story short, I couldn’t walk very well. I guess some guy helped me cross the street, but when I crashed at the corner, he didn’t help me any further. Needless to say, I was sprawling on the sidewalk yelling “chocolate malt . . . chocolate malt!” meanwhile wearing nothing but boots and a Sigma Chi flag.

Just my luck there’s a donut shop next to UDF, so all these cops came out and I’m rolling around like a damn bleached osteichthes. I am terribly ashamed, but I’ll admit it anyway–I got picked up for PROSTITUTION. Just call me “Vivian,” only it didn’t quite work out like “Pretty Woman” . . . more like “Drunk Girl.”

Anyway, this is my last email, and they told me to make it quick, so I’d better go. You should see the shit they gave me to wear–it just does not flatter. Especially with my boots. Well, I’ll see you guys when I dig myself out.

Postscript: So what would YOU think if you received a similar one from one of your own? At first I was very alarmed. I just couldn’t believe either of my really intelligent daughters–the babies that I had raised to be such ladies much like myself–could have gotten herself into such a mess. Then I read and re-read the subject line (last night) and date (April 1) trying to figure out where I’d gone wrong. Too slowly it finally dawned on me what it meant.

APRIL FOOL’S DAY !!!!  I’d been had–big time! I don’t know when I ever felt soooooooooooo relieved. And proud of the sense of humor obviously passed on. (Btw, you probably already know what “osteichthes” means but I had to look it up. It’s a bony fish.)

I thought this one was good enuf for a re-run. HAVE FUN TODAY!


is nature a cure for technology overload?

I often wonder, and I’ve heard others express the same sentiment, what did I ever do without computers?! I can’t imagine my life without them. My grandchildren have never known what life was like without all this technology. Thomas loves computer games. Vimmy loves music videos and recently discovered Google, which led to an interesting discussion with her mother after a typical 7-year-old meltdown: Visiby upset, she shouted with all the venom she had in her, You’re not my mother! Her mother of course, who for the record really is her mother, wanted to know how she came up with that idea?  I know because I googled it! And it said you weren’t my real mother! Interesting. As I said, you can find just about anything by Googling, whether it’s in support of or against your argument.

When you see the lips of the person in the cars beside you in traffic are moving, in the old days you would have assumed they were singing along with the radio. These days, they’re more likely talking on their cell phones, sometimes dialing before they’ve left their parking spots.

We acquired our first computer in 1985, while our two daughters were still in the middle and high school. We still relied on the networks for TV entertainment, and we didn’t have internet service until years later after the girls were both in college. It was the antiquated dial-up and we were thrilled. Without web service, that first computer really amounted only to a glorified word processor, but it was handy for typing legible homework assignments without developing writer’s cramp, and it was faster. I was taking University courses myself at the time, trying to learn how to write my own stories, so that first computer got a fair amount of workout. All this without constant erasing and applying whiteout paint.

Nowadays I feel  as though I’m glued to the chair in front of my PC monitor too much of the time. I seem to need it for so many things that interest me these days. If I want to know side effects of my prescribed meds or need to nudge the old noodle to remember who won the Oscar for that movie, what was it called? I Google or Bing it, it’s there somewhere. I want to know how to make a Tomatilla sauce. That one, indeed several versions, plus millions more recipes pop up quickly. As my interest in shopping declines, I depend on online shopping. If it’s not found locally, order online where it’s often cheaper. You save not just fuel and wear and tear on your car and your feet, you may not pay taxes on it either, and it will be delivered to your front door in a week or 10 days time, often for free! One day, after a long bout in that chair, I decided I’d take the time to organize my travel photos, and it suddenly hit me. I’m tired of sitting in front of a monitor most of day. So I decided to put the brakes on, hence my general slowdown in regular blogging. I needed to spend more time getting back to things I used to be interested in–art, music, reading books, sewing, etc., reconnecting with the me that I was before personal computers.

I’m startled to realize I was one of the pioneers of my age-group to jump into this new technology in my early 50s. Most of my friends refused to bother with it.  Not for long. After 2012 I read somewhere, half of all retired persons (or senior citizens for lack of a better word) create, share, and exchange information and ideas in virtual communities and networks. (I wonder what’s wrong with the other half). I still process words, I organize my digital photos, I blog in- between necessary old-fashioned household tasks, though my washer, dryer, and even the sewing machine, are computerized. When I can fit it in, not with any degree of regularity, I still blog as you can see, because–let’s face it–I’m addicted!

Hubby and I attended a lecture on Sunday about the current research of a University of Utah professor, David Strayer, with whom our son-in-law worked on a study about the effects of texting and talking on the cellphone while driving. Dr. Strayer suggests that a natural environment, like that in which our ancestors evolved, is associated with exposure to stimulus that elicits a gentle, soft fascination, (as opposed to the hard fascination of horns honking, telephones ringing, TVs and radios blaring) and is emotionally positive and low-arousing. The study suggests that exposure to nature engages in our brains a “default mode” of restful introspection implicit in the efficient task performance requiring frontal lobe function, while restoring cortex-mediated “executive processes” like selective attention, problem solving, inhibition, and multi-tasking. In other words, taking a hike or getting out in nature–away from all of the technological distractions–might be useful in helping clear our minds, restoring and refreshing our creative juices to face real life in a real world.
Hubby’s and my generation, and to some degree that of our daughters, straddle the shift from traditional industry to that of the industrial revolution or technology brought to us through industrialization. We can remember what it was like before computers and social networking. Thus we can appreciate the way they expand the world for us, yet we can function without them. While most of us would be loath to be forced to, we know we could survive if necessary without them. Our grandchildren, however, have watched their parents and grandparents play with and use computers their whole lives, and now they’re making their own discoveries. What about them? It will change them, but how? What kind of social adults will they grow up to be? Will they know more, make more discoveries, be even more productive, than we were? In my mind, it’s the perfect time for studies like these. We should know  the implications of all this technological overload. And will reconnecting with nature prove to be–not a self centered diversion–but a necessary part of the preservation of the human species?
In closing, Dr. Strayer shared a video the research team found on YouTube, and I share it here with my readers. It runs a minute 26 seconds so it won’t take much time, and I’m sure you’ll find it entertaining, if not–as I do–a little disturbing. A perplexed one-year-old,  obviously already exposed to an iPad, is a little confused that her finger doesn’t work on that weird magazine “thingie” with pictures and words on it. Funny. And a little sad, too.


at last, a happier ending for Nance Dude

I was speaking with a friend a few hours ago about my blog, and she wanted to know why I wasn’t posting much anymore. Hubby was quick to offer, “she’s just being lazy.” Yes, I had to admit that is part of the problem.  But the bigger thing holding me back has been that I feel that I have very few interesting things to say, and have been choosing instead to focus on other interests. That is, until a few days ago. Out of the blue, as these things happen, I got a new comment on one of my two most popular blog posts–Nance Dude Legend–the one post with more comments than any other I’ve published. This comment caught my attention in a way no other has because of the interest readers have shown in the story. So I thought about it for a few days and decided I had no other choice but to pass it along to others. If true, and I have no reason to believe it’s not, it deserves to be known.

Legends tend to linger on forever, and over time they can become distorted as people add layers of hearsay to stories passed down by generations preceding them, and soon become distorted versions of truth. Maurice Stanley,  a native of Western North Carolina, wrote a historical novel in 1991 based on the legend he learned from his grandmother, who had seen Nance and Roberta Putnam out walking (in 1913) not long before Roberta’s death at the tender young age of 2 years. Stanley’s book presents all the known facts surrounding little Roberta Putnam’s grizzly murder and the arrest, trial, and subsequent conviction of her grandmother, Nancy Ann Kerley, also known as Nance Dude. It was impossible for most people to imagine how a grandmother could murder a child she had purportedly loved so dearly. It’s a fascinating story, and reading it I wished I could somehow turn back time sci fy style and make the ending a happier one.

Now we learn that apparently, there really was a happier ending, albeit bittersweet, for Roberta Putnam, and in way for Nance as well.

Here’s the comment that has had me pondering for days:

I wanted to share a different version of the Nance Dude story–it’s a bit at odds with the one you have heard and told before. My version is dedicated to all of those folks who said Nance Dude never committed that horrendous crime against her granddaughter and was unjustly accused.

You can find it at:


Thank you.

Cliff Davids [a contributor to the Asheville (N.C.) oral history project.]

According to Mr. Davids, a fine writer by the way, Nance did–as she said repeatedly during her trial–give the child to a traveling preacher, the same preacher apparently that she had worked for, in Roberta’s words that rich preacher that ran the orphanage. He had brought her a child bitten by a rattlesnake from the orphanage, as he’d heard she was a witch who was familiar with mountain remedies that he hoped would save her, but the child died anyway. At about the same time, Roberta’s father or mother had told Nance to take Roberta to the state home because they couldn’t afford to feed her. Nance talked the preacher into switching the dead child with little Roberta, and it was the dead child who was placed in the cave where two weeks later Roberta was found. Going back to Stanley’s original book, the pieces of the puzzle take on a dazzling fit now that the new ending has come along.

If you’re one of those interested in the heartbreaking story of Nance Dude and her little granddaughter Roberta, your should click on the link Mr. Davids provided in his comment above to learn a fuller accounting of the story. It changes the legend from one of desperate people forced to do desperate things in desperate times, to one of unspoken heroes and heroines. Nance Dude died at age 104, quite a long time for a woman to live with the consequences of murdering an innocent 2 year old. Now, viewing history from a different angle as we’re allowed to do in Mr. Davids account, we can think of Nance at last as the tragic heroine she became rather than the cold blooded murderer of the legend. Roberta Putnam, if the new legend is not contested, lived until the winter of 2012. She lived to be 99.

(For the record, the other post with the most “hits” is one about choosing an eggplant. You can read it by clicking here,)


in human nurturing vs nature, nature wins

Much has been accomplished since I last was here. The big painting project I’d been planning for ages is done. I didn’t go for the purple I’d been looking at last year. Instead we chose a sedate taupe with an accent wall of dark blue that really shows off the white wood trim. It required packing away all the books and things on the wall–pretty close to moving out except we didn’t–spending about a week before and a week after to pile everything in the bedrooms and back. Four men filled the house for two long days with stepladders, paint buckets and rollers, lots of music (radio) and joking. Hubby and I spent those two days mainly staying out of the way, except for the afternoon I spent in the ophthalmologist’s office getting an eye looked after. It may have been the flurry of dusting door and window framing that caused one of my inner eyelids to puff up and droop down to cover part of my line of vision. I’d wake in the mornings with it glued shut. And boy was I a sight!  🙄  If you saw the old Charles Laughton version of Quasimodo in Hunchback of Notre Dame, well that was me for a few days! In the midst of all this, the old furnace in the basement had enough of the cold weather and decided to cut out too.

Now that almost everything is done and back in place, the eye all healed (nothing serious as it turned out–just a clogged oil duct in the inner eyelid), a new furnace with a humidifier added this time, it feels as if we’re living in a new house. Everything looks so clean and neat. It’s been exactly the prompt I’ve needed to get going on the massive clearing out of forty-some years of accumulation. Upstairs is practically done, and because the furnace installation mess had to be cleaned before I could do the laundry, that room is looking pretty good too. Next week it’s on to the storage room, my sewing room, and the electronic graveyard. I can just see myself wresting old computer monitors and hard drives and masses of cords and plugs from the hands of a Hubby who never met a piece of technology he didn’t want to hoard.  At the end, hopefully I will have met my goal of everything having its own place to be so that we can get to it when Brrrrrrrh!it’s needed, and if it isn’t likely to be needed, it should be pitched or donated.

Since it’s been so cold here, with temperatures locked into a deep freeze since Christmas, outside has looked pretty bleak. The roofs of just about every house in our neighborhood featured this look.  So it’s been a good time to hunker down and focus on inside pursuits.
In an effort to change the kitchen’s look on the cheap side, I scanned some prize show chicken pictures from one of my books and found some cheap black frames in in the local IKEA. Now it looks like this above the stove:


I would really have preferred a collection of those fancy ceramic chicken sculptures, but the ones I like best would have cost several hundred dollars. These work as a good enuf substitute and not counting the cost of the ink used in my printer, the total for the dozen frames (there are more on the other wall) came to less than $25, and works for me.

Sadly, a small tragedy took place as well. One afternoon I looked into the back yard during a brief foray of sunshine. Sitting there all puffed up was a small bunny. He looked so cold and lonely and forlorn, I started to worry about him being all alone and hungry. When I was preparing a salad later that day I decided to toss a piece of carrot near the entry under the porch  he’d dug through the snow and ice. Then I began to notice little brown rabbit pellets outside that hole so I felt happy at the evidence that he wasn’t starving after all, but I’d still toss little bits of veggies–I think he especially appreciated the turnip trimmings–from time to time. One evening this week as we were sitting down to supper, there was a loud thump outside the patio door and Hubby jumped up to see what had crashed into the house. Well, sad to say it was a big old owl. Less than hour before, I had donated a few bits of lettuce core and carrot trimmings and created a perfect lure for that owl’s supper! Kinda spoiled my appetite that night. I was pretty mad at that owl, but mostly I was mad at myself. I had no idea there was an owl lurking in the woods behind the house, but I grew up on a farm for goodness sakes! I should have known better. Now I have the blood of that poor little rabbit on my hands. The owl didn’t fare too well either. Hubby said he was dazed so badly he sat for a long time on the edge of the retainer wall. He wasn’t there in the morning, but the remains of the bunny were. As for me, I won’t soon forget that in nature, nature takes care of its own in its own way. It’s just best not to be born so low in the food chain as bunny rabbits.