It's Getting Hot In Here

It's 60ºF outside right now.

In Massachusetts.

In February.

The cats, chickens, and rabbits are thrilled. The fruit trees are confused. The snow shovels look listless.

If this were any other year, I'd be irritated, but this is my 89-year-old grandmother's first winter in New England since 1984, and honestly, I'm glad it's a mild one for her. Still not happy about this whole climate change thing, but at least my Gran isn't buried under feet upon feet of snow like she would've been if she'd moved up a few years ago.

Story Time

I'm rubbish at writing full-length fictional stories (all that plot and character development and dialogue, ugh!), but my wild imagination loves showing me little scenes that I sometimes feel the need to write down. My father wrote Lovecraft fanfic before fanfic was a thing, so while I'm terrified of things that go bump in the night, I'm also somewhat fascinated with them. I present a little horror scene that's been knocking about my brain for a few days -- this is as long as it will ever get, and it's unlikely I'll ever write enough for a compilation, so this seems the best place for it. I hope someone out there enjoys it.

*****

I heard the familiar sound of his truck pulling into the driveway as I was putting away the dishes. He walked in the back door and paused for a quick hug, kiss, and how-was-your-day while rummaging in the fridge for something to nibble on. I told him about my coworkers' latest antics while he scarfed down a bowl of leftover soup and a handful of crackers, and then he bounded up the stairs to take a quick shower.

I gave his soup bowl a rinse, heard the shower start, and was about to go curl up with a book when I heard the familiar sound of his truck pulling into the driveway... again. I watched him walk in the back door and set his lunchbox down on the counter. His eyes met mine, noticed the slightly panicked stare, and he cocked his head to one side in silent inquiry.

"Are you the fake, or is he?" I asked, pointing in the direction of the bathroom, whence came the noises of both running water and slightly off-key singing.

He smiled, displaying teeth that weren't quite human.

Flight Canceled

I watch a lot of homesteading videos these days, and it seems all of these vlogging 'steaders have drones so they can get aerial shots of their farms. One even used his drone to help find a neighbor's missing cow! Now, our little urban patch of earth isn't worth taking many pictures of, but our next one will be, and I was toying with the idea of picking up a little $30 toy drone to learn on before deciding whether to get a beefier model for when we move to the new place in a few years.

Then I started reading up on the laws and ordinances relating to drones, most of which seemed pretty sensible: maintain line of sight, don't exceed 400 feet, don't fly over anyone else's property without their written permission, and so on. There's also one about not operating a drone within 5 miles of an airport without contacting the control tower for permission first.

That one's the kicker, because I live less than two miles from an Air Reserve Base. So I did a little more research, and found a map of restricted airspace in the US, zoomed in on my neighborhood... and it's a no. Zero-foot ceiling, no-fly zone. It's possible that, depending on the day and time, I might be able to get authorization for a short flight from the base control tower, but first I'd have to apply for, test for, pay for, and receive an FAA-issued UAV pilot's license (with re-tests every two years), and then use an app that pings the tower for permission on my behalf every time I want to fly.

That seems like a lot of work to get a $30, 6-ounce, 5-minutes-of-battery-life piece of plastic to hover at roof height for kicks (or to inspect my gutters without having to get out the extension ladder, y'know, if I want to pretend it's for something practical). I guess I'll wait until I move out of the no-fly-zone before I splurge on that new toy.