wordsfromanneli

Thoughts, ideas, photos, and stories.


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Annie and the Honeydew Man

I posted this about five years ago and came across it again. I thought it was a sweet picture and couldn’t resist reposting it.

When my sisters and brother and I were little, we lived in a newly built, but unfinished house on the edge of town. The streets weren’t even put in place yet. Our road was just a track through a field of yellow grass. But it was perfect for us to play cowboys and gallop our pretend horses around the trails and up and down the hills of dirt that were not yet backfilled to the new house. We pretended to be characters from the western movies of the day — Annie Oakley, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, and Dale Evans.  But Annie was my favourite.  My sister, maybe almost three years old, was really too little to keep up with us as we tore around on the hills of dirt, so she played Annie Oakley with a toy shotgun and guarded the house while the rest of us were out on the range.

I don’t know what is wrapped around her right hand, and I just noticed for the first time in decades that there is a doll peeking out from behind her left shoulder.

Fast forward to more modern times. When the Captain and I were on one of our trips to Baja California, we stopped to do some shopping in Ensenada. I found a puppet-style doll that I couldn’t live without. She was the Mexican version of Annie Oakley.

What made me even happier, was buying the doll that had to be her partner.  He is pictured here.

The store proprietor told me that this doll represents the hen-pecked husband, the Honeydew man (Honey, do this and Honey, do that), but in Spanish they called this fellow a “mandilon,”  because he is ordered about, and, in the original version of the word, probably wore an apron (a mandil). What woman would not want a mandilon to do things for her? I had to have this doll!

*****

In my novel Orion’s Gift,  Sylvia is all alone in the world. It seems that her life has taken a sudden turn and everything has been going wrong for her. Her husband is all about himself, and would not understand the news she just received in a letter.

She is trying to outrun her problems by escaping what she once thought was a perfect life near San Diego. She leaves everything behind to “run away” to Baja California where she plans to live in her VW van.

Baja seems to be a place for runaways. She meets Kevin at one of the campsites, and although there is an immediate attraction, Kevin has problems of his own.

Sylvia really needs moral support, so I gave her a mascot to lend her strength. Below is a short excerpt from Orion’s Gift, telling about how Sylvia came to adopt Annie.

Excerpt:

In one shop, handmade puppets on strings hung from the ceiling. Each doll had a unique character and, like orphans hoping to be adopted, seemed to call, “Take me with you.” I fell in love with a Mexican Annie Oakley. She held a mini six-gun in each hand and radiated confidence and self-reliance. I paid for her and happily carried her home to my van. I rigged up a spot on the curtain rod behind the seat for Annie to watch over me at night. She’d be my mascot, a reminder that I was strong and could take care of myself.

You can read Sylvia’s story in my novel “Orion’s Gift.”  She’s going to need Annie’s strength to face some of the challenges of being a woman travelling alone in Baja.

The e-book version is marked down to only 99 cents on amazon.com for the next few weeks. 


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Pintail Duck

At the George C. Reifel Bird Sanctuary in southwestern BC, you can see may different species of waterfowl and other birds. These photos were taken by a friend, Sonia, who kindly allowed me to use them after her visit to this sanctuary. Many kinds of ducks visit this waterfowl refuge. The pintail (Anas acuta) is one of these.

 

I grew up thinking that all ducks were yellow when they were little and brown or white when they grew up. It was an eye-opener to me when I learned, a long time ago,  that there were so many kinds of ducks, each with special features that made each type unique and helped to identify them.

The pintail is obviously named for its long pointy tail, as you can see in the last photo, but another special feature of this duck is its long neck. Notice the long streak of white that goes up his neck to the side of his head. This one has his neck pulled in somewhat, perhaps to keep warm, but if it were stretched up to take a good look around, you would see that he has a much longer neck than most other ducks do.

And have you even seen such a beautiful design of feathers as what this duck has on his back?

 

 

The pintail tips up in shallow water to reach for plant matter in and above the soil under the water. Its long tail helps to balance it as it forages for seeds and rhizomes. It also finds food on land,  in fields where it eats  roots, grains, and other seeds.  In the nesting season it feeds mostly on aquatic insects, invertebrates, molluscs, and crustaceans.

 

 

These photos are of the drake pintail. The hen (female) pintail has a similar shape, without the long pointy tail feathers, and with more muted colours (keeping her safer when nesting).


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Did Neanderthals Have Language?

It is my honour and great pleasure to introduce you to Jacqui Murray and her novel, Endangered Species, the first in her latest trilogy in the series called Man vs. Nature. Summaries of the novels in this trilogy may be found near the end of this post.

Who is Jacqui Murray?

Jacqui Murray is the author of the popular prehistoric fiction saga, Man vs. Nature which explores seminal events in man’s evolution one trilogy at a time. She is also author of the Rowe-Delamagente thrillers and Building a Midshipman , the story of her daughter’s journey from high school to United States Naval Academy. Her non-fiction accomplishments include 100+ books on tech into education, as well as reviews as an Amazon Vine Voice , and articles as a freelance journalist on tech ed topics.

*****

While reading about the Neanderthal tribes in this trilogy, it is natural to wonder about some things regarding how these primitive people lived. Here is a question many readers have about the people of those long ago times. Jacqui Murray explains the answers based on her extensive research of the topic.

Did Neanderthals Have a Language?

Language, like so much about Neanderthal culture and lifestyle, didn’t preserve over the four-hundred thousand years of their existence. The best we can do is extrapolate what might be based on what we do find.

Three questions dominate the discussion of whether Neanderthals had a language:

  • Could they speak?
  • Did they speak?
  • Could they write a language?

Could they speak?

Yes. They had the physical ability to speak.

First: The Neanderthal hyoid was indistinguishable from ours so there is no reason to think it wasn’t used exactly in the same way as ours. Their voice box was higher in the throat than ours, which could mean their voices were higher pitched, but it would have no impact on their ability to speak.

Second: Their chests were large. They could control their breath in the same way we do, which is a requirement of speaking.

Third: Their ears were attuned to human speech, as are ours, which meant vocal sounds were important. I won’t try to explain the physiological details of that, but it is documented scientifically by paleoanthropologists. You can dig into that topic if you like–it’s pretty interesting.

Because of all this, there is every reason to believe Neanderthals could speak.

Did they speak?

So, physiologically, they could speak, but did they? Two details to consider with this question:

First: The types of tasks Neanderthals accomplished were complex–turning bark or pitch into glue, hardening spear tips in fire and not burning them, hunting in a group. These were accomplished best by talking to each other and planning. Rebecca Wragg Sykes, author of the acclaimed Kindred: Neanderthal, Life, Love, Death, and Art goes so far as to assume these sophisticated tasks couldn’t be accomplished without talking:

“Some kind of vocal communication was a really important everyday part of Neanderthal life.” 

Second: Speaking is noisy. Neanderthals were more likely to want to melt into their environs rather than stand out. Speaking might have been less common outside their homebases and more common inside.

Could they write a language?

I’ll stipulate that writing as we know it was well beyond their cerebral toolkit, but they were playing with its elements. Shapes and geometric figures that have no basis in nature are found throughout Neanderthal habitats. To take this a step further, the same 32 geometric designs–lines, rectangles, ovals, dots, triangles, circles–occur in caves and on rock walls throughout Europe over tens of thousands of years, many at a time when only Neanderthals inhabited the caves.

Called art by some experts, but “graphic symbols with meaning” by others, these predate common cave art that includes animals and spears and human activities. These symbols (handprint aside) appear nowhere except in the mind of the creators. Whether they were for writing or art or something else, we don’t know, but they are curious. In my trilogy, Savage Land, I propose that they were used by Neanderthal tribes to share information with other tribes about the area. Because Neanderthals were nomadic by nature and shared their caves with whoever was passing through, this could make sense.

*****

Savage Land is the third prehistoric man trilogy in the series, Man vs. Nature. Written in the spirit of Jean Auel, Savage Land explores how two bands of humans survived one of the worst natural disasters in Earth’s history, when volcanic eruptions darkened the sky, massive tsunamis crossed the ocean in crushing waves, and raging fires burned the land. Each tribe starring in the story considered themselves apex predators. Neither was. That crown belonged to Nature and she was intent on washing the blight of man from her face.

 

In Endangered Species, Book One of the trilogy, Yu’ung’s Neanderthal tribe must join with Fierce’s Tall Ones—a Homo sapiens tribe–on a cross-continent journey that starts in the Siberian Mountains. The goal: a new homeland far from the devastation caused by the worst volcanic eruption ever experienced by Man. How they collaborate despite their instinctive distrust could end the journey before it starts or forge new relationships that will serve both well in the future.

 

In Badlands, Book Two, the tribes must split up, each independently crossing what nature has turned into a wasteland. They struggle against starvation, thirst, and desperate enemies more feral than human. If they quit — or worse, lose — they will never reunite with their groups or escape the most deadly natural disaster ever faced by our kind.

 Join me in this three-book fictional exploration of Neanderthals. Be ready for a world nothing like what you thought it would be, filled with clever minds, brilliant acts, and innovative solutions to potentially life-ending problems, all based on real events. At the end of this trilogy, you’ll be proud to call Neanderthals family.

Endangered Species – Book 1 of the Savage Land trilogy

Endangered Species trailer: https://youtube/AxBlmays3vE?si=1SMtqDJiLYCRZvB6

Badlands – Coming soon – Book 2 of the Savage Land trilogy

Book information:

Endangered Species—Print, digital, audio available: http://a-fwd.com/asin=B0DJ9Y7PQ8

Badlands—digital on presale now: http://a-fwd.com/asin=B0DFCV5YFT

 Genre: Prehistoric fiction

Editor: Anneli Purchase


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The Opportunist

When it’s hard times with cold, wet weather, and not yet warm bug season, birds will take advantage of what’s available and not be too fussy.

See the feeders all refilled,

On this chilly day,

And the suet is replaced,

“Just in time,” I say.

 

Tastes a bit like greasy bugs,

Though not quite the same,

Filler of the feeding place,

I’m so glad you came.

 


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Great Blue Heron

When I first took this guy’s picture, I thought he had hurt his wing. It looked like he had maybe torn the top of his wing where it folds against his body. But when I looked up other photos of great blue herons, I saw that this is a natural colour on their wings. I was relieved to see it and wished I could have all that time back when I worried over his non-existent “owie.”

Mr. Patience, yes, that’s me,

Quietly I stand,

Waiting ’til the frog I see,

Makes a dash for land.

 

 

Then I spear him lightning quick

With my mighty beak,

Savouring his waist so thick,

Tuning out his squeak.


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A Bright New Morning

No soul in sight

It’s getting light,

The air is crisp,

Beneath the wisp

Of clouds that let

The sunshine get

To shine on me

Before I ski.

 

Okay, so I made that up; I’m not going to ski, but I can imagine and dream a little.

 

But those who stand there on this hill,

Are feeling anything but chill.

Filling  lungs with crisp, clean air,

Joyful and without a care.

Oxygen revives their brains,

As the plaque inside them drains.

O-k-a-y…

I must stop this silly rhyming,

As I’m losing all my timing.

***** 

Have a happy 2025.

Thank you, Pat, for the photos.

 


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Snowy Hills

Way up high on the hills, the rain turned into snow.

Why is it that white snow comes out of black clouds?

How did that sunshine get through to the hills when the whole valley is in shade?

Can you guess where the deer are that used to live up in the hills? Where are the birds? Bears? Cougars? Squirrels?

I can only hope that those who didn’t wander down to lower elevations are hibernating in some cozy den. Probably even those who might hibernate would have come down from the highest parts of the hills, if they were able.

 

Meanwhile, I’m in my cozy den at home, not hibernating, but also waiting for winter to pass.

A new year is coming. That gives me hope that spring won’t be too far away.

Have a happy year ahead, everyone.

All the best in 2025.

 


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The Brothers

I said I would try to include Shorty in my alphabet series but Shorty was displaced by Squirrels for S. So here he is. Hard to believe he was Cowboy’s brother. Their coloration was quite different, but they were definitely brothers. I adopted them when they were only five weeks old, not quite ready to leave their mother. But I got them drinking milk from a dish by dipping my finger in the milk and letting them lick my finger. Gradually I brought my finger down close to the dish between licks and they figured out that they could tank down all they wanted without my finger.

They were good company for each other as well as for me.  Best cats I ever had living with me.

They did a lot together.

That doesn’t mean they didn’t get into trouble, but even that was something they often did together — their midnight snack adventure for example.

 


Shorty

 

Cowboy

 

Taking the Fall

Cowboy was a sleek, smoky gray cat with ears that seemed a bit large for his smallish head.  His brother, Shorty, was a perfectly made Siamese cat.  Well, almost perfectly made.  Sometimes when the sunlight would shine on his tail, you could faintly make out the rings in his alley cat tail.

Even though they weren’t perfect, the brothers loved each other very much.  They wrestled together, snuggled up to sleep together, and sometimes they got into mischief together.

It’s hard to say which of them was smarter, but it seemed that when the two of them did something bad together, it was always Shorty who got caught and ended up taking the fall for their mischievous stunts.  It was like that the time they decided to check out the kitchen garbage can after the people went to bed.

The kitchen trash was kept in a cupboard under the sink.  It was really easy for a smart cat to get into.  All Cowboy had to do was to hook his paw under the door and pull.  Then quick as a wink he would stick his head in the open space and squeeze through.

Ahh! What a lovely aroma of chicken scraps greeted him as he peered over the rim of the garbage can.  Up on his hind legs, he could clearly see a half-eaten chicken drumstick that the people had thrown away.  There was so much meat on it still, and pieces of skin not eaten.  Ooh! He was drooling as he thought of the wonderful snack he was about to have, when suddenly a Siamese paw reached past him and scooped that drumstick right from under his nose.

“Meeeooow!  Shorty!  Give that back,”  he spat.

“Shhhhh!” hissed Shorty. “You’ll wake the people!”

No sooner had he said that than he heard a pair of people feet land on the floor in the bedroom.  The shuffling of slippers was coming closer.

“Yikes!” Shorty said. “I’m getting out of here.” He slipped out of the cupboard and sat on the floor as prettily as he could, eyes looking towards heaven.

“You don’t fool me, Shorty!” The lady shook her finger at him.  “I know you were in that garbage can again.  Weren’t you?  Don’t you do that again! Shame on you, Shorty….

“I wonder how much mess he made,” she grumbled to herself.

As she opened the cupboard, there was Cowboy, licking his paws and washing his face.  All that was left of the “snack” was a tiny piece of chewed up drumstick bone.