Skunky bonanza!

Last night turned into quite the skunk gathering. Four adults came through, each distinct, each with their own way about them. King was there – unmistakable, with that white crown on his head set against a mostly black coat. He always carries himself like he knows he’s the monarch of the yard.

Two of the others looked to be rowdy brothers, full of energy and not much patience for quiet. They chased one another across the grass in little bursts, zig-zagging and stomping, like a midnight game of tag. Not mean-spirited, just that kind of rough-and-tumble play that makes the night feel alive. The last one brought up the rear, calm and measured, more interested in sniffing at the leaves than joining the chase.

They didn’t all arrive in one group, more like a shifting parade – one appears, another follows, then the sounds of rustle and shuffle move off into the dark. By the end, it felt like the yard had played host to a skunk council, King watching over his rowdy brothers and the quiet one who lingered.

#skunks #backyardvisitors #rowdybrothers #nightwatch #kingwithacrown #roanokeva #backyardzoo

Rain is easing into mist this afternoon. Another envelope from Lowe’s, their “exclusive credit offer,” all bold letters and promises of savings. They want you to think it’s a golden ticket, but the shine wears off quickly. The fine print is the trick—high interest, too many strings, and not much protection for the folks who take the bait.

The in-laws learned the hard way. Their wallet was stolen, and before they knew it, about two thousand dollars in charges were racked up on that card. Reported it immediately, but Lowe’s credit has no purchase protection to stand behind them. No help, no shield, just the bill to pay. Feels less like a helping hand and more like a trapdoor.

So the flyer goes in the recycling, not in my wallet. A reminder that not every offer is meant for us. Sometimes the safest bargain is to walk away.

#lowes #credittrap

Back yard visitors tonight: two stripe-tailed acrobats bouncing under the stars. They circled, darted, and spun, like they were practicing for a midnight parade. A tumble here, a playful shove there, tails puffed out like feather boas.
I couldn’t help but laugh quietly from the porch.

Who knew skunks could look so delighted just being skunks? The little duet made the yard feel like a stage, and I was the lucky audience.

#backyardzoo #skunks #roanokeva #nightlife

https://lmstudio.ai/

Watching “My Neighbor Totoro”, doodling, and relaxing on the couch with the girls, our bellies full of spaghetti. Not a bad way to spend Friday night!

#digitalmarkers ##roanokeva #doodle #totoro

Watching "My Neighbor Totoro", doodling, and relaxing on the couch with the girls, our bellies full of spaghetti. Not a bad way to spend Friday night!#digitalmarkers ##roanokeva #doodle #totoro

— Scottobear (@scottobear.bsky.social) 2025-09-27T04:35:53.389Z

Tonight’s viewing  –

The Mummy’s Tomb

Lon Chaney Jr. takes over as the mummy,

though you’d barely know it under all those wrappings – his main job is to lumber menacingly and strangle folks in darkened rooms. He does it well enough. The pace is unhurried, dreamlike, and at times a little sleepy, like watching old ghosts go through the motions.

What works: the atmosphere. Candlelit rooms, winds howling outside, shadows long as memory. The sense that the ancient world has reached across oceans and decades to grab small-town America by the throat. Also, Dick Foran shows up again, a nice through-line from the previous movie.

What doesn’t: the script doesn’t give much new. More a retread than a resurrection. By the time torches come out and the villagers chase the poor bandaged guy, you can almost hear the studio thinking, “good enough, next reel.”

Still, it has its charms. If you like your horror in black-and-white shades of fog and superstition, with a monster who never hurries but always arrives, it scratches the itch. A B-movie midnight snack.

My ★★★ review of The Mummy’s Tomb on Letterboxd https://boxd.it/bbAhLn

Captain Clegg

No dripping fangs or stitched corpses here the menace comes in the form of “marsh phantoms,” skeletal riders galloping through the mist. They glow, howl, and vanish across the marshes like Halloween lanterns on horseback. Perfect imagery for a cold night when the house creaks.

The real tension though is human – secret identities, contraband, and villagers bound together by fear and loyalty. It’s as much cloak-and-dagger as cape-and-coffin. The phantoms, revealed as clever tricks, still work like a charm – illusions that give shape to the unease we already feel.

Cushing commands the screen, equal parts warmth and quiet menace. He’s the reason to watch. Hammer fills the rest with mood: tavern whispers, gallows threats, and that windswept marsh that feels like it could swallow whole caravans.

Not horror in the creature-feature sense, but it lingers. A folk tale about masks, justice, and what people will do to keep their world from being unmasked. A candlelit yarn, told in thunder and fog.

My ★★★ review of Captain Clegg on Letterboxd https://boxd.it/bbAudt

Little skunk has come round again, padding soft through the damp dark. The camera picked him up tonight, and you can hear him – sniffling, clicking, a tiny percussion of curious noises as he moves along. Almost conversational, like he’s talking to the ground, or humming a tune meant only for his nose. He seems healthy, fur glossy, tail full, carrying himself with the careful confidence of someone who knows every corner is already mapped in scent.

I find myself leaning in closer, not to see but to listen. That soft clicking is oddly comforting, a heartbeat in miniature, stitched to the night. A reminder that even the smallest creatures carry music with them. Out there, under a low sky, rain still beading on leaves, he’s making his own kind of company.

The house is quiet, but not lonely – there’s little skunk, keeping time just outside the edge of the light.

#roanokeva #backyardzoo #skunk

Two skunks in the back yard tonight, not just passing through this time, but pausing to play a little. Black and white shadows in the grass, rolling and darting, pausing, then darting again. A tiny comedy act under the stars, tails high but not in warning – just balance, just joy.

A little distant from the camera but I am delighted nonetheless. They circled each other, a soft shuffle in the dark, like kids inventing games only they understand. Then, as quickly as they appeared, they slipped off toward the brush at the edge of the yard, leaving the grass swaying in their wake.

A reminder: even night wanderers carry lightness.

#roanokeva #backyardzoo #skunk

Before the dawn had quite shaken itself awake, the young skunk returned. Rain still stitched the air in fine threads, soft drizzle darkening the soil and whispering against leaves. The camera caught sight of the little wanderer moving with the same calm assurance as before, stripes dimmed by the hour but still bright enough to mark its passage like a brushstroke of moonlight left behind.

It nosed along the wet grass, unconcerned with the hour or the weather, a creature of patience and pattern. The world was hushed – no birdcall yet, just the steady murmur of water and the sound of its small paws through the damp. For a moment, it felt as if time had paused to let the skunk have the stage.

A reminder that even in the grayest light, there are secret visitations, wild and unhurried. The camera watched until it dissolved again into shadow and rain, leaving us with the quiet gift of its return.


Mood: Early-hour reverie.

Weather: Steady drizzle, dim sky.

Fortune: If you rise before the day, expect to meet companions who keep their own hours.

#backyardzoo #roanokeva #skunk

Junior Stinkman visits on a rainy Wednesday night

Tonight’s visitor: one damp but undeterred young skunk. Rain on and off through the evening, soft enough to make the air smell green and sharp, heavy enough to leave the ground shining.

A young skunk padded through tonight, bold stripes gleaming even under the steady patter of rain. The drops didn’t seem to trouble it much – fur beaded with water, whiskers twitching, nose low to the ground, tracing invisible paths only it could read. I half expected the wet air to carry a sharper note, but this visitor was all calm investigation, not alarm.

There’s a particular joy in these quiet encounters, where the wild simply goes about its business in our shared spaces. A reminder that even the smallest creatures have their routes and rituals, and sometimes we’re allowed a glimpse.

The rain tapped on leaves, roof, and earth in rhythm while the skunk moved unhurried, a little flash of black and white against the dusk. I watched until it melted into the shadows, tail swaying like a feathered brushstroke.

A brief visitation, a sign that life carries on through drizzle and nightfall alike. Tonight, I’ll count myself lucky to have been a still point while the young traveler passed through.

Mood: Gentle curiosity.
Weather: Drizzle tapering into mist.
Fortune: Striped paths cross yours-be mindful, tread soft, and you’ll leave the night unsoured.

Whispers tonight, not about lawns or coyotes.
This time it’s the intel grapevine.

Stories about the interstellar Atlas object.
Aluminum core, heat shields, propulsion pulses.
Closer now, slipping past radar.

Some say Webb caught it before it cloaked itself.
Signals went dark after a radiation pulse.
Conspiracies bloom like mushrooms.
Extra energy, smaller companions, glowing like tiny suns.

I don’t believe a word of it.
But I believe in how rumors grow.
How an ordinary night feels extraordinary
when someone leans in to listen.

Still, I keep an eye on the sky.
Not for drama, but to remember how small we are,
and how big the dark can be.

#porchlightstories #eveningnotes #skynotes #quietwonder #neighborhoodwhispers #smallworldbigsky #latenightthoughts #lookingup

People are whispering again. Not the usual neighborhood stuff, not who mowed whose lawn or where the coyotes are running, but something that sounds like it belongs in a different century and a different sky. The intel grapevine, the kind we all pretend doesn’t exist until it does, is full of little electric murmurs about the interstellar ATLAS object. Aluminum-type core. Heat shields. Regular propulsion pulses. Folks talk like they’re reading a badly photocopied sci-fi prop from the back of a pulp magazine, but with more acronyms and a lot less fiction.

It moved closer, they say, nudged onto a path that seems to dodge most of our radars and the kind of eyes that like to point telescopes at things. That particular detail, slipping past the usual nets, is the one that makes people lean forward in their chairs. It’s the thing that turns a rumor into something that tastes like consequence.

There’s a classified channel buzzing about public response. Not just curiosity, but uprisings, people imagining the streets full of flashlights and pitchforks and livestreams. Someone in that feed asked, plainly, Who do you tell first? The town marshal? Congress? The guy who runs the diner? You can almost hear the worry in the typing: if this is recon, if it’s data collection, how do you tell a population that loves its routines that the routines are being watched?

Then the Webb folks, yes, the big mirror in space, caught something strange on the latest observation. The object went dark. Literally went dark after what the notes call a radiation pulse. One minute it’s there, humming along; the next it’s as if someone closed their shutters. Cloaking. Blocking signals from Earth. Fancy words that make late-night callers sound like they’ve swallowed every episode of every alien show ever produced.

And the conspiracies bloom like mushrooms after rain. Energy profile many megawatts higher than expected. Nine or ten smaller, companion bits with the same metallic makeup, each packing what looks like even more power, but in a tinier form. Little suns in their own right, only they’re not suns, because they orbit and pulse and dodge our instruments.

I sat back with that one and just listened. The thrill of it, the delicious, terrible possibility, is a kind of weather. It blows through forums and kitchens and the back booths of bars. People trade theories like baseball cards, and sometimes you can see the shape of a story forming in the way they trade the facts and leave the feelings to do the heavy lifting.

Here’s the thing: I don’t believe a word of any of it. Which isn’t the same as saying I don’t believe anything at all. I believe in how rumors grow. I believe in the human habit of making sense out of fog by arranging it into patterns that look like meaning. I believe in the way an ordinary night becomes extraordinary when you tell it to someone who leans in. I believe, stubbornly, like an old dog, in ordinary explanations until something proves otherwise.

Still, I keep an eye on the sky. Not because I’m expecting drama, but because looking up is a good way to remember how small we are, and how big the world is, and because sometimes the quietest whispers carry the strangest truths. Even if this one turns out to be nothing more than static and hopeful imagination, it’s given us stories to pass around the porch light. That, at least, is real.

#eveningnotes #porchlightstories #neighborhoodwhispers #lookingup #quietwonder #skynotes #smallworldbigsky #listeningin #latenightthoughts

The light along the Greenway was low and polite that night, like neighbors nodding across a fence. I was halfway through my coffee and the world was the small, honest size it has before morning picks up its pace. Then someone on the porch said, soft as a secret, “You ever hear about the Wampus cat?”

That name keeps its claws hidden in the throat of a story. Wampus – a hiss and a hush stitched together. Folks will tell you it’s a thing of moonlight fur and wrong shadows, that it walks on two legs when it wants to be clever and on four when it wants to be a memory. Around here people point toward Mill Mountain, the river bends, the old logging roads that forget the wheels that once cut them. I went looking in the quiet places, mostly to keep my feet moving and my mind from fretting about small, human troubles.

I’ve seen bobcats in the scrub and once watched a fox practice magic with a chicken bone. Those are animals with a name and a ledger; the Wampus keeps a ledger but it writes in different ink. A neighbor told me about two pale shapes that blinked on the edge of the yard, tall and watching, and how the chickens grew uneasy for a week after. Another friend said she heard a song – not a howl, not a purr – a slow questioning that stopped when she answered with her own breath.

People laugh and say “tall tale,” and they’re right sometimes. But other times a laugh is a kind of apology for the part of ourselves that believes in things that belong to the dark.

If you stand where the city light thins and the pines stand like patient weather, you start to hear the country talk. It sounds like twig and wind and the distant clink of something settling. The Wampus lives in those sounds – or maybe it lives in the space that wants them to mean more. In my backyard camera footage long lost, there was a shape that moved like a heavy coat being shrugged on: too long-legged for a housecat, too smooth for a raccoon. The white of its eyes caught the tiny infrared like coins.

Stories change with the telling. Old-timers say the Wampus is the woman of the hills  – part witch, part cat, part consequence. Schoolkids say it’s a genetic trick, something mixed up in the woods. Hunters say it’s a big black cat with a sense of self and a grudge. Me? I keep my door latched at night and my camera pointing toward the dark, because I like being polite to whatever’s passing through. I leave a little light on the back steps and a bowl of water when the summer is cruel. Maybe that’s superstition. Maybe it’s neighborly.

There’s magic in admitting you don’t know. It’s friendlier than pretending you’re not a little afraid. If the Wampus pads by one evening and sniffs my compost bin, I’ll be gentle in my surprise. I’ll take a picture with a steady hand and then sit with the image while the coffee goes cold. These are the kinds of stories that make our yards wider than property lines, that remind us the place is shared whether we like it or not.

If you’re in Roanoke and you hear something that sounds like a question in the trees, tip your head and answer back with the small things: a soft voice, a light on the porch, a courteous bowl of water. The Wampus – whatever it is – likes a place where people are careful.

#roanokeva #wampuscat #cryptid #backyardzoo

One of the Stinkman family visited again last night, and today is the equinox. 🍂

First day of autumn. The air carries a different weight, cool and slightly brittle at the edges, as if the world has been rinsed clean overnight and set out to dry. Shadows feel longer, stretching with more confidence than the summer ones. A light wind tugged at the trees this morning, and a few early leaves gave in to the season, drifting down like trial balloons for what’s coming.

Coffee on the porch was accompanied by the quiet rustle of squirrels in the hedge, busily shuffling acorns into secret places. A crow cawed overhead, loud and insistent, the voice of some small herald announcing that the season has turned. I always feel that shift in my bones before I can name it, like the year has quietly opened a new chapter.

The backyard camera caught one of the skunk kids at about 4 this morning, just a brief wander under the dim glow, nosing through the grass in search of earthworms. A quiet little reminder that the yard has its own rhythms and its own calendar, separate but in tune with mine.

I walked out back and could almost smell woodsmoke that wasn’t there yet, only the promise of it. The grass is damp in a way that suggests cooler nights, a thin thread of fog hanging in the low ground just after sunrise.

It feels like an invitation. Time to lean into the rhythm of sweaters, early dusks, and lantern light. Autumn begins not with a bang, but with a quiet nod, the softest of thresholds.

#firstdayofautumn #roanokeva #backyardzoo #skunk #seasonschange