Daphne has been mashing “Lake, Lake, Lake, Lake, Lake” on her talker for days now, so we took her to Crystal Lake in Barton, VT on Saturday. And, once again, we were pleased to find that the park was nearly empty.

I mean, there were certainly more than the number of people we ran into at Maidstone Lake the weekend prior (which is to say, greater than zero), thus any further furtive Mom & Dad make out sessions would’ve been rather indecorous.

Generally speaking, though, we had the beach to ourselves for most of the day.

Now your next question would likely be, “was it cold?” To which I would answer, “No, it was quite lovely. I mean…unless you’re talking about the water. In which case, oh yes. It was positively frigid.”

A sign at the entrance advised us that the water temp was 63°.

As you can see, someone couldn’t have cared less about how cold the water was… Come hell or hypothermia, she was going swimming.

Given the low water temps, her mother and I did have to establish an hourly swim timer. Meaning we’d allot 40 minutes in the water, then force Daphne out on the beach for a 20-minute warm-up. According to the National Center for Cold Water Safety (yes, that’s really a thing), anywhere from 2-7 hours in water that temperature can cause exhaustion and/or unconsciousness. And since she was swimming in there for four I think we’re still in the running for Parents of the Year.

After four hours we were either getting too cold or getting a bit too much sun, so we left the lake behind for a quiet evening at home.

Yesterday, as I’m sure you’re aware, was Father’s Day. And mine was quite nice, thanks for asking.
That said, it didn’t start off great… As predicted, Albeart did return for a honey and bee bread brunch on Sunday morning. I glanced out our dining room window as I was making my way to the kitchen and there he was. He’d plopped his fat butt down just outside the garden fence and was staring pensively at the box of destroyed bee frames…perhaps pondering whether he wanted to clamber back over the fence for seconds.

Albeart Einstein Fat Albeart decided he did have room for another bite or two, and he stood up to climb back over the fence.
That’s when I realized just how big he is.

Albeart is at least 7′ tall when reared up on his back legs. A trifling fact I noticed after I’d grabbed the .22 rifle and was moving toward him from our porch. Suddenly, in that same moment, long dormant vestigial neurons jolted to life and transmitted a klaxon that’d been cave-painted on them by my distant plainsrunning ancestors.
“Leave that thing alone. It can eat you.”
I looked at the rifle I was holding. A .22 gauge bullet had the potential to cause the bear some minor skin irritation. At best. Life choices were questioned.

Fortunately Albeart was unaware of all this trepidation. He also was unaware that the stupid bolt action wouldn’t chamber a bullet properly (I’ve seriously gotta replace that thing). Instead, he waddled off with what can best be described as “performative alacrity” into our Christmas trees, stomping right over Chuck’s plaza on the way.

As you’ve no doubt noticed by the AI generated silliness, I unfortunately don’t have any photos of this event. I did instinctively reach for my phone to document the proceedings, however Daphne had it upstairs in her room and was watching YouTube on it.

Not as unfortunate as the living situation of my poor bees, however, who at this point have had their home destroyed twice in 48 hours. As I said before, there’s not a whole lot I can do for them at this point. Even if I had purchased a rifle on Saturday, I wouldn’t have been able to take possession of it ‘Til Tuesday. (Vermont has a 72-hour gun purchase law.)
I think at this point all I can do for them is some palliative care until the hive dies off and, next year, I’ll start over and ensconce the whole business within a solar-powered electric fence like I should have from the start.

Aside from the bee drama, the rest of my Father’s Day was quite nice.

In the past I’d spoken to Jen about how useful this thing called a “Battery Daddy” would be. Essentially it’s just a singular storage spot for the various and sundry batteries we keep ’round the house.

I’ll admit this might be the latest stop on my inevitable road to prepperdom, but it’s a simple device that really does seem useful to me…if for no other reason than I won’t have to rummage through drawers, half asleep, while smoke detectors are singing me The Low Battery Song of their people in the middle of the night.

Anyway, it was my Father’s Day gift along with some chocolate cupcakes (which I’ve yet to partake in). I also had some fantastic help in slotting all our batteries into their new home.

I am so very lucky that I get to be the daddy to this wonderful little girl.

See you tomorrow.

j.s.