POT IN EVERY CHICKEN

Monday, 8:15 AM.  33 degrees F.  Wind NE, calm at ground level, with fish scale clouds stationary at high altitude.  Perhaps we are already getting some wind blowing in from the monster storm that is hitting the east coast.  Sam, our Coast Guard neighbor, left yesterday with the Bayfield Station air boat and its crew for rescue work out East.  But for now, it is another quiet morning, filled with the soft light of an orange-pink dawn.  The barometer predicts partly cloudy skies, and I hope to get the leaves mulched this morning.
      We went looking for grouse yesterday and found none, even where we can usually hope to raise at least one to get our blood flowing.  In the process I ran across an acquaintance with his setter and he reported nary a bird as well. "Few to none," as he put it. In the process I waded into a cut over that I thought looked promising and ended up in the most god-awful tangle of downed slash and blackberries.  I  finally emerged more-or-less intact, if well bloodied.  Buddy just bounded over or slid under the whole mess, proving once again that four legs and close to the ground are a lot better than two legs and upright.  I think we will have to cast our grouse net a lot wider next time, and stick to walking the trails.
      It was good to take a Sunday break from politics.  We had none of it, and only turned on the TV to watch the San Francisco Giants sweep the World Series, winning the fourth and final game against the Detroit Tigers.  This morning's walk brought me back into focus, as a neighbor up the hill now has a Willie Nelson For President sign in his front yard.  Come to think of it, he had one there four years ago as well.  I have to admit I would prefer Willie to the current occupant.
      A century ago the political slogan was, "A chicken in every pot."  Today's slogan might be, "Pot in every chicken."