merry merry

every single day...

... finds me amazed all over again, when I walk into my kitchen, turn on the light and discover hordes of ants still roaming around on the walls. Possibly just as many deceased on the floor in need of the broom as there are wandering on vertical surfaces, which creates even more amazement. How can there be this many dead and still have dozens or hundreds or thousands on a walk-about in my house? Where can they possibly be coming from? As I was preparing more of my 'recipe' for destruction, I began to consider googling to see how quickly they can reproduce. But almost immediately concluded: I don't want to know. The idea of knowing, being able to document that these little insects can raise another generation faster than the actively moving adults can take bait back to their home is not what I need to hear.

Even though I have not written about this bizarre activity in a week, you should not assume that resolution has occurred. When there were no multitudes industriously walking across the molding up near the ceiling in the kitchen I thought: Yay! Success! Wrong! I had not seen dozens galloping along the top edge of the wall in several days and mistakenly began to think that I had won the battle. Ha! I did not even come out on top of a small skirmish, to say nothing of having the upper hand in an all out conflict.

There is a small workshop/storage room on the north side of the house, entry from the carport. Not much useful in there other than an auxiliary refrigerator/freezer and hand washing sink. But the ants must think they have reached the pinnacle of success. When I went out to get something from the fridge, I notice a steady stream of ants coming out of the hole where the piping for hot water heater goes into the sheet rock/wall. Upon discovery, I began putting out my little squares with bait around the hole and along their path to the sink. All I know to do is to keep trying, even though it looks like I am fighting a loosing battle. This morning, I find them back in the kitchen, trying a different approach, attacking from a new vantage point. Forcing me to get the step-stool out and tuck my little paper squares with drops of bait in different locations, easing the (hopefully) deadly concoction into their stream of workers as they head out from a new angle of attack.

Every single morning, I ask myself: Where? How? What is going on? Why me? What should I be doing to really resolve this bizarre-ness? Is the bait working? Why are there still so many? Is it time to think about moving all the furniture out and fumigate the house? Do the pest control people still do that: wrap an entire residence in plastic and pump in something deadly to put an end to the ongoing invasion?

cannot say...

... who the author of the quote is, but I thought it was worth sharing.

"Never attribute to malice that which can be explained by incompetence."

Which, I suppose, means we should be willing to give others the benefit of the doubt if we would like to receive such grace in equal proportions. Basically, the Golden Rule.

if confession is good...

... for the soul, mine should be ready for the pearly gates. I did something really stupid recently and have had to recruit help to make it right. Meaning I was forced to confess to being inept, and get other people to jump in and resolve the problem. It was most certainly an educational experience: things that hit you in the checkbook tend to really get your attention. Plus  I expect to be pure as the driven snow when approaching St. Peter with his open book, pen in hand, just like in the cartoons.

I had my oil changed in my car last week. In recent years, I have been adding a little bottle of stuff to gas that is supposed to help clean your engine when you fill up the tank after an oil change. So I went to the store to get that little bottle with the long neck that would pour down into the tank when it got low and it was time to buy gas. I got the wrong thing. You see where this is leading, right? Down the path of destruction, where the little Toyota is doomed, headed straight for the scrap heap/recycling.

The stuff I purchased and forced down the tube that leads to the gas tank was meant to go in the engine, rather than fuel supply. It was verrrrry thick, viscous and reluctant to simply pour into the tank as the bottles purchased in the past have easily done. That should have been an obvious indicator that I was making a serious mistake. It was a different brand from the ones used in the past that would have a popular, commonly recognized label like STP. But I thought that the difference was just in the particular brand I had purchased. Really slow going down the gullet leading into the tank.

Then I tried to pump gas in there, which was the actual reason for the stop. But that thick, nearly solid liquid was so glutinous it did not flow on down into the quarter of a tank of gas that was there. When I put the nozzle from the pump into the outlet for fuel, gas was not flowing downhill. It splashed back out of the opening. My next thought was: Oh, S#!t. I got the little bottle of 'conditioner' and read the label that indicated the thick, honey-like material should be added to the motor when the oil is changed, rather than trying to put in gas tank.

I debated with myself about driving on home, only about three miles from that Murphy Gas near Wally world. I had to get home, so drove on to the house, and parked it. Sharing my dilemma with people who are mechanically minded, and would have sound advice. The general consensus being that it would 'probably' not be a problem, as it was petroleum based, with the most likely problem being lots of carbon in the exhaust. But still concerned that driving pell-mell in my usual fashion would cause permanent damage I did  not want to contend with.

I fretted and regretted and fretted some more throughout the day on Tuesday, when I could not actually do anything to resolve the problem other than have it occupy every alternate thought during waking hours. Had to go to work early on Wednesday, and knew I would have to start the process of resolution.  I finally decided I did not need to devote any more of my time to worrying this particular bone. Called a family friend, told him my tale of woe, and said I would like to turn it over to you.

I knew I should call a tow truck rather than drive it another inch, but could not do that until I knew the final destination. The friend was willing to let me dump my foolish behavior into his lap, and was able to find a business that would remove the tank, empty, clean and replace. It seems to be running OK, and a relief to drive after spending time in that huge pick up truck that I need a ladder to access.
I had a friend take me downtown to pick it up, and return home, without incident.

I am hopeful there will not be any long term effects, and the problem is 100% solved.I failed to ask if the repair guy checked fuel pump or filters, and will give a call to confirm it has been given a clean bill of health. I am nearly $200 lighter after that ill-fated $3 bottle of gunk went into my tank. Expensive lesson I will certainly not forget.

Plus I do so hate to admit to doing something stupid.

book reveiw: "The Forgotten Road"...

... written by that teller of sweet, sappy, happy-endings stories, Richard Paul Evans.  Printed by Simon Schuster in 2018 so it is quite recently printed. He has written dozens, including a number of stories for children and young adults. This one is a small book, just over 250 pages, and an easy read. Something that could be finished in a day if you did not have to go to work, do laundry, prepare meals, care for a house full of needy children.

I was at the library over the weekend, looking for entertainment, something that would not be so intense it would keep me from drowsy when I go to read  myself to sleep at night. Several have been so  alarming lately, anxiety inducing, I would be hesitant to turn out the light for fear those creepers in the dark would be able to sneak up on me. This was definitely not the case with the story of Charles James, a successful business man who accidentally found himself reading his own obituary.

He missed a flight he was supposed to be on that crashed soon after takeoff, with no survivors. Actually showed up at the memorial service, sitting on the back row of a large rented space, and surprised there were so few attendees. He decided to reconsider his life, disappear and re-evaluate. Though wealthy and well-known, success-driven, Charles was lonely with an ex-wife and child living in California, while his base was Chicago. He packs a few belongings, and a wad of cash, starts walking Route 66, planning to go to Santa Monica, to plead his case, and ask his ex to take him back.

It is a sweet story, with enough detail about the trip, stops along the way, scenic detours as he tried to stick closely to the original route. There are places it has been replaced by interstate highways, areas where it no longer exists, but with maps and a willingness to travel the by-ways, venture off the busy thoroughfares the trip proceeded. He meets a number of interesting people who impact his life, and help to change his perspective/thinking. I was surprised when the book ended with him only half way to his goal... but maybe there is another at the publisher? Possibly a little fluffy, as opposed to serious literature, but an interesting story. The details included to make it believable were so precise, I had to wonder if Evans had acutaly done the trek, or possibly made the trip by auto, to be able to provide such specific details about people, cafes, museum, stops Charles made along the way

season's greetings...

... from my house to yours. I never intended to do any holiday decorating, had no plans to put up a tree, or trim the house with lots frou-frou. There is a lighted wreath I could have hung out by the front door, and plugged in to make the tiny lights in the greenery twinkle and glow in the night. But I did not get it out to let passers-by know we were under the influence of the Christmas Spirit.

There is a little box that sits on the closet shelf with small Wise men made years ago when helping children do art projects with copious amounts of construction paper, Elmer's glue and cardboard tubes. I could have taken the box down off the shelf and had six Wise men (and possibly a Santa) trooping across the mantle above the fireplace heading to visit the stable. But I did not get them out, so they will have to be content to sleep, nestled cozily together for another year, with the hope of fresh air next December.

The 'tree' with the little twinkle lights has been sitting in the dining room since I bought the strings of sparkling lights and twined them on the bare branches last Dec., trying to add a festive touch to an other wise plain, ordinary, every day room. I just relocated it for the day, and switched on the lights to give the appearance of Christmas Joy. So in reality there were holiday decorations: the same little branches that have been in the clear vase since last year, just turned on the lights to look festive for one day.

Back to the grind tomorrow, when I will go to work and throw away all the left over poinsettias, glittery mums, holiday centerpieces with winter greenery and red candles. Dispose of anything that even remotely gives the slightest hint of Christmas, and move on to the next seasonal selling event. All the dozens of roses and mixed bouquets, hundreds of heart shaped balloons and assorted trim was ordered to fill customers' wants last summer, so we will soon be getting prepared for Valentine's Day... where did the time go!?!?

confessing ...

... to being a hopeless reprobate, with very few redeeming features. I never touched a drop of alcohol until I left home at seventeen and went off to college: a gullible, naive, ignorant, blissfully unaware, sheltered young soul. I had to go that first summer a couple of weeks after finishing high school due to the lack of math credits on my transcript. The administration accepted my application with the understanding I would go to summer school and take a non-credit (!!!) math course in order to get up on par with other freshmen. Ha! Guess I showed them: I never, ever,  not even today got up to par!

Still hopelessly inept with math skills, and aggravated each month when my bank statement comes and I have to add and subtract over and over and over and over to try to have my numbers come out even with what the bank thinks. It is a never ending struggle. I will always be thankful to my dad for sending me off to college, and the time he invested to teach me how to reconcile the register with the statement. But he never took into account that my brain is not wired the way his was: Mr. Business Administration major loved to juggle numbers and finagle figures, even when his vision got so bad  he had to do it with a magnifying glass.

I discovered beer when I was sent away to college. I still like it, when it is sort of sissy-fied and not so strong it is bitter and foul tasting. My favorite used to be Miller Lite, until I discovered a strange brand I found in Florida many years ago. We were vacationing, I went in a drug store and saw Pearl Light. I don't know what made me buy and try. It is very mild tasting, not actually beer-y at all, probably similar in flavor to those non-alcoholic beers like O'Douls that are refreshing when cold with no alcohol content.

It is produced by the Pearl Brewing Company in Ft. Worth Texas. So scarce on this side of the Big Muddy, you have to know some one who is going to TX to get it. I was recently surprised with two 24 packs  imported from the far side of the Mississippi for me to enjoy. Amusing that I had one lone little can in the fridge, saved for the dire-est of emergencies, so I could  console myself with the knowledge that I was not completely out! Now that I have restocked, I can drink that last lonesome 12 ounces without fear that it is the last one on the planet.

I am not really a serious beer drinker: the two cases that have found their way to GA will probably last me a couple of years. When you are confronted with the questionnaire about your bad habits, where you must admit to substance consumption/abuse: I don't really go in for risky behavior. My worst addiction is those sugary, fatty cappuccinos from the curb store. I say no to tobacco use, and no to drugs and nearly no to alcohol, might drink once a week, usually less. So if there are degrees of sin, and it is not so black and white as the preacher says, I am nearly, almost, semi-spotless. As my grandmother would say: "Just a wee bit."

'those people are coming'...

... causing me to do a minimal amount of house cleaning, as well as some work in the kitchen. Neither occurs here often. Home maintenance has never been my strong suit, though I have done it most of my life, first as a drudge in my parent's home, the price paid for shelter, food, clothing, transportation, and various amenities. We have been in this creaking, slowly settling house for thirty-seven years, and as you might expect there is always something in need of attention. Much benign neglect is obvious as a result of there being only two people here - neither of which is inclined toward vacuuming, mopping, scrubbing, window washing, etc.
 
But with the expectation of guests for lunch, I have been trying to make us look relatively presentable, plus prepare a meal to share. My peeps should know by now that one of my most favorite things in life is the time we are all sitting down sharing a meal, and to partake around the table I grew up with makes it even more special. When I had to empty all the furniture out of my parents home, a trip with a rental van brought several pieces of sentimental value here to live with me. One is this big oval table, with six spindle back chairs. I thought there were eight, remembered from childhood, but we will make do. The table was hand made by a local craftsman, a small weathered man who looked at least one hundred when I was a child, so I am sure he is no longer here with us. It is round, to seat four, but was designed to expand with the addition of rectangular 'leaves' added in the middle to make it oval, easily seating eight.

I've a pot of soup at a low simmer. It has been in the fridge a couple of days, as giving the flavors a chance to mingle and mature makes it even better. There is a big chocolate chip cookie in a pizza pan. Then there is the recipe I found when someone dumped out my entire recipe box and I had to go through, sort and put about one-third in the trash earlier in the week. The one I have not made in years, and sort of forgot about is a ham and cheese hot sandwich. You have to make bread dough, roll it out and sprinkle diced ham and shredded cheese. I remember it being pretty good, and think I made it several times before young adults left home, but have not made it in years.

~ ~ ~ Later that same day: 'those people' did come. Soup was eaten, sandwich enjoyed, cookie consumed. Daughters and in-laws came and spent the afternoon. Sadly, they spent about half the time they were here entertaining each other with funny stories and remembrances of childhood mishaps, vacations gone awry, because the guy they came to see was gone to bed. We ate lunch and then he crashed. I enjoyed time with them - they are good entertainment - and he finally woke up, to spend a little time before they went their separate ways.

there is an expression...

... remembered from spending time with my mother-in-law when she lived nearby in the last years of her life. She grew up in Pennsylvania, and spent most of her adult life in Johnstown, relocating to FL in a retirement community when her husband retired. After he died, possibly about 1980 or '81, she lived alone in their apartment for a while. Health became an issue, she was unable to live independently (never ever drove a car!), causing her to relocate to middle Georgia closer to family members who could provide care as needed.

She lived for a while with her daughter, then for a while in an apartment in central GA. Eventually relocating to assisted living facility that is actually right across the street from where I am now employed, but I was not working while she was in residence. Her mental acuity was failing, and she continued to decline physically. I would take daughters and go to see her several times a week, assisting with what ever needed doing: shopping, doctor's appointments, etc. As she began to be more and more confused and less able to recall events, people, conversations, understandably there was more and more repetition.

The funny thing she said that I remember, and the family will occasionally still speak of/recall, was what she said when trying to relate a conversation she had on the phone, or someone would go to the retirement center to visit. The expression that was so common when we would see her and she wanted to let us know someone was expected to come by is "those people are coming." She could not tell you precisely who 'those people' were or when they were coming, only retaining enough information to recall that someone had been in touch to let her know they planned to stop by. Unknown people at a forgotten time, but a reason to look ahead.

zipping along...

... at warp speed, or more likely the speed of sound, though certainly not that of light. I saw the International Space Station high overhead this morning. Got up 'way too early with lots of little things to accomplish: including a return trip to the grocery store to exchange the wrong kind of yeast for the one the recipe calls for. The store opens for business at 7:00 am, but I deliberately planned my departure from home in order to be some place where the high flying object might be visible.

P. gave me the website address several years ago, but I have only timed my life for viewing the orbiting flight path once before. When it will be visible from your locale, you get email with enough instructions for tracking as it whizzes over.  The info. that came last night indicated it would be visible over west-middle Georgia at 7:10 this morning. You have to know where to look , as it is so far away/tiny and hardly discernible once the sun has come up enough to brighten the sky.

Instructions for viewing today indicated it would show up in the southwestern sky about 10 degrees above the horizon, travel towards the northeast and disappear at about 10 degrees up. I placed myself sitting in my cold car near an intersection where there were no trees on two corners. If your viewing is obscured by nearby trees or buildings, and you do not have a good line of sight down near the horizon, it is difficult to see. The first time I tried to spot it was at night, but we are in a place with lots of street lights creating so much light pollution it is always some degree of bright, never completely dark. Riding around in the dark, looking up at the sky causes a person to look a bit suspicious...

It is at such a great distance it looks like an airplane passing over, as there are blinking lights just as you would see as passenger jets flight at high altitudes. But when you know it is supposed to be there, and you are patient, eagle-eyed in the search, it is visible. I don't know the time/length of an orbit, but must be traveling a a remarkably fast clip to be seen and then not. It is moving so fast, you have to be  on your toes, paying close attention or you have sat out there in the cold/dark for nought.

it was so un-nerving...

... it's a wonder I finished the book. Not something I would recommend, though I expect parts of it will stick inside my head for a long time. Upon consideration, I am amazed I stayed until the end, as I kept turning it off, and walking away, unwilling to stay tuned in. A talking book found on the shelf at the library, read in little snippets on my way to work or running errands. So creepy I would stop listening thinking I am done with this, and then turn it back on to see what in the world would happen next.

If it was a movie I was viewing at home on a disc, I would not want to be watching after dark, and would be squished up on the couch into the smallest possible space, with a blanket over my head. If it was something on the big screen at the 'walk in', and I was foolish enough to pay for a ticket, I am certain I would have walked out and asked for a refund at the box office. Like I did when we went to see the first Jurassic Park movie my kids insisted they wanted to view because all their friends had been. When I realized we were all cowering behind the seats in front of us, terrified at the toothy aggressive reptiles, I said 'Come on, let's go', and got a refund for all three tickets. Pretty sure all three of us were to young to be exposed to such frightening fierce creatures.

This story was based in Maine, about a private detective hired to try to find out why a young man who had separated from the Army killed himself. The plot was very convoluted, with lots of characters, many of whom were ex-Army, with quite a few apparent suicides. The common thread was that they were all part of a platoon that was in the first Iraqi war, and gained access to the national museum, looting antiquities. Some of the items were smuggled into the US, originally intended to be sold with the funds going to help soldiers who were discharged with inadequate
support and disability payments.

There were characters in the book that seemed to be evil personified. It was amazingly creepy. You know how in the movies you can imagine bad things about to happen and want to say: 'Don't open that door!' or 'Don't go with that man!' or 'Don't go down the stairs!' You can look at what is going on and know really bad things are about to happen, but helpless to intervene with what is taking place on the screen. Tense and anxious beyond words knowing bad things lurk just around the bend, when the lights suddenly go out! OhMyGoodness!

The title of the book I would NOT recommend unless you want to stay up all night afraid to turn out the light: "The Whisperers" was written by John Connolly, published in 2010. Don't read it. I've read some that were returned to the library only just started, and some that never captured my attention enough to finish: meaning there was no review. But I have never said 'don't do it' before. Unless you want to scare your pants off: don't.

thinking about ....

...the story I heard as a small child when an amusing incident occurred recently. I was getting myself ready for bed one night, putting on pajamas and doing the routine things prior to snuggling in for a few minutes of reading before 'lights out'. Took off my shoes and began to peel off all the layers I wear in cold weather. I have a brace on my knee, with a metal support and a number of velcro closures to hold it in place, sort of  splint like, providing stability for joint going bad. Normally, I would fold the hook-and-loop system closed, but failed to put everything back in order this one time.

I stepped on the brace in my sock feet, causing my sock to adhere to the rough surface of the 'hook' side of the velcro closure. Picked my foot up and the entire brace contraption that was lying on the floor came up with my foot, attached to the velcro by the knitted footwear. It struck me as hilarious, and I laughed out loud. People are always very suspicious when they hear you cackling aloud, knowing you are alone, and there is no one else nearby to cause the amusement. There were other people present, and one came to check, be sure I was ok.

The reason I found the sock-velcro incident so entertaining is it sparked a memory from childhood. When someone probably a parent, was reading me the Uncle Remus stories, written by Joel Chandler Harris. Harris was a journalist, newspaper writer, book author of the late 1800's, best know for the 'Tales of Uncle Remus', which is the basis for the Disney movie "Song of the South". You might not recall the story of the rabbit and the briar patch - but the velcro so firmly attached to the sock caused me to think of "Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby", when wily Brer Rabbit who found himself firmly attached to the small figure made of black sticky tar sitting in the road, placed there by his nemesis Brer Fox.

"Arguably the best-known Uncle Remus tale is "The Wonderful Tar-Baby Story," in which Brer Fox successfully entraps Brer Rabbit by setting a tar-baby out on the big road right across Brer Rabbit's path. Brer Rabbit becomes confounded with the tar-baby's obstinate refusal to exchange pleasantries. He hits the tar-baby only to become entangled in the black tar. About this time Brer Fox makes his appearance on the road and hints that Brer Rabbit will be his dinner. In characteristic fashion, Uncle Remus ends the tale abruptly, leaving young John in suspense. Several days later, after questioning Uncle Remus about Brer Rabbit's fate, {the young boy] John learns that Brer Rabbit narrowly escaped death by begging Brer Fox to do anything but throw him into the "brier-patch." A gullible Brer Fox does exactly that and quickly realizes his mistake when he sees Brer Rabbit emerge up the hill from him, shouting "Bred en bawn (born) in a brier-patch, Brer Fox—Bred en bawn in a brier-patch!" Quoted from an article by Armisted Lemon in 'Documenting the American South.

sitting by...

... the glass doors in the kitchen, the ones that open onto the screened porch to the north, I looked down at the floor. Where I saw dozens upon dozens of tiny corpses, looking like someone had recently tossed out a handful of ground black pepper  - wee bodies everywhere! The Man Who Lives Here was nearby, sitting in a chair pulled up to the recently relocated desk where he does his bookkeeping. keeping check writing/bill paying supplies. I made some exclamation of amazement, like 'Holy Cow' or 'Wow', maybe some really tame comment like 'Oh-my-goodness', but more likely an expletive along the lines of 'Holy S#!t'. Gazing upon the endless carnage, continual body count, when my understanding about the 'bait' is that they take it back to their homies and share with others in the hood?

I said "I think I need to invest in an anteater." He said: "Why would you want something whose only skill is to lay around in the yard with it's feet up in the air?" My response was one of mild correction, when I told him "you are thinking about armadillos, those little overgrown rodent looking things. The ones that have all that armor plating, when what I am wishing for is an anteater. They have long fur, covered in hair rather than the rows of tough skin that appear to be protective, but no match for fast moving vehicles."

If I knew where I could find one that is reasonably priced, I would seriously consider the possibility of purchase. Though it might require me to install a pet door in the brick work at the back of the fireplace that is part of the kitchen wall, in order to send my household pet in to eliminate the invading ant problem. In the unlikely event I could find a four-legged solution, doubtful they are house-trained, but if that problem were solved, there is the possibility I could rent the friendly neighborhood anteater out when other people have similar problems as the weather changes.
I don't think they are aggressive to other mammals or homo sapiens, but I will confirm via google before taking out an advertisement for ant-removal services.

This was all just a joke, me amusing myself. I just googled them, and there is actually an article about making them pets, with the advice at the end being: Don't. They are scarce, must be hand raised from birth to domesticate. Starting cost of $3,000 to $8000, then double that to build your exotic pet a suitable environment as they have specific needs and are very destructive, to say nothing of odor: much more pungent than skunks. Enough said!

most likely...

... "to succeed" according to your high school yearbook! Not really. You are most likely really tired of reading about the ant crisis that has been going on here for several weeks. Or possibly years of surreptitious reproduction,  just now getting to the point of population explosion, like the billboards that show you household pests like rodents or roaches replicating over generations. A dire warning from pest control companies encouraging you to "nip it in the bud" as Barney Fife enjoyed demanding of those en route to the lock up in Mayberry.

Do you really want an update? No, I did not think you would. I swept the floor in the kitchen again this morning, and decided all the wee little corpses in the dust pan might look more like a spilled jar of instant coffee granules than the shaker of pepper flakes. I've been up on the step-stool twice changing out the little white squares with drops of taste-tempting bait the creatures are supposed to fall in love with.  We thought they were diminishing, then found the sneaky insects attacking from another direction. Now I am wondering if there might be some way to go undercover, slip into the enemy camp and get the general. If we could get their top strategy guy, dispose of the boss, perhaps we could win this battle? Leave them in disarray on the battlefield to beat a hasty retreat, eventually disperse and wander off to RIP?

My new BFF Larry, the bug guy did come back on Monday to spray around the house, when it was a bright sunny day outside perfect for decimating insects. I cautioned him about spraying the lawn, entire yard, as I would prefer to keep beneficials that pollinate, have the food chain remain intact, as long as it does not include me!  I went out briefly to supervise, as he was dragging his hose around the back of the house. When he sprayed along the foundation and then up under the soffit below the roof, he said he would spray around the chimney. I quickly backed up and went in the house, having breathed in enough spray from ammonia over recent weeks to have my sinus completely aired out. I put the ammonia bottle away, and have  not sprayed (though it works amazingly well) since we started putting out the little squares of purported, theoretical 'bait'  they've been enjoying.

I will continue the fight, with optimism, as does any one who puts on their camo. and heads off to war. I recall at some time in the past, in an unremembered location, seeing an entire house wrapped in plastic, that I assumed was being fumigated. Hopefully it won't come to that?

the dance was...

... somewhat premature, when I was hopping around the kitchen, doing the hand-jive, celebrating the end of the ant invasion. They are still in residence. My anticipation that the squatters residing in the brickwork/walls of our residence were being evicted was sadly misplaced. They are still doing what ants industriously do. Arrrrgggghhhhh...

My new BFF, Larry the Bug guy planned to return on Friday afternoon to walk around the exterior of the house with his industrial strength chemicals and spray along the foundation, and yard near the house. He called to report that it would be best to wait and do the work on a different day after it started raining. Somewhat likely he was not remotely interested in working on Friday afternoon, and the change in weather was a fortuitous excuse. I hope he will drop by for a visit with his toxic sprayer today.

The weekend visitors had suggestions: get bait from the hardware store, strategically place in along the paths the insects were traveling like the Hebrews in the desert, going along a circular route. We  made a run to Wallyworld and got a little bottle of liquid. Actually read the directions, put out on small squares as the packaging instructed, and put dozens of small baited bits of paper along the upper edge of the wall. It was a big hit: the ants swarmed as if it were July and they were offered ice cream. We have periodically replaced the wee drops of clear sticky stuff, offering more treats as the insects have surrounded and consumed, with the hope/plan/promise they return home in droves and it is going back into the nest to be shared with extended family.

I've swept the floor in the kitchen a couple of times in recent days, and amazed at the numbers of tiny dots that go into the dust pan. Looking like someone spilled a can of  ground black pepper that needed cleaning up. There is evidence of more corpses on the tile floor, so it is time to sweep again. And still they come...

They apparently are getting addicted to the clear sticky substance we have been putting on little squares of a file card and sticking up near the molding: now they will probably be here for-ever as I am the supplier! I hope they won't expect me to foot the bill when they want to get into rehab?

it's not a big deal...

.. but so annoying if you devote any time to considering how aggravating it is, it rapidly self-inflates to become much larger than it should. A relatively small problem in the overall scheme of things, but could become annoying. Mildly or more-so, depending on how much time you chose to invest. A frequent response to many of life's small annoyances you might hear: 'everything is relative'. You have to put things in perspective to realize there are not many things worth getting your blood pressure up over. Even though small things, left unattended can expand to appear monumental, it's really not a big deal.

When we moved into this house there was a teeny back porch on the north east side of the building. Over time we decided to get a screened porch added, as well as space for storage, adjacent to the carport. The connections for water and power for washer and dryer were up against the wall inside from the teeny porch. The vent for the dryer goes through the wall and blows hot air and dryer lint out there, where there used to be a teeny porch. But for many years the much larger porch has been screened, a space about eighth by twenty feet. Still that lint and hot air blows through little hole in the wall onto the concrete of the porch - making dust-bunnies, cobwebs and coating the screening.

It's been annoying to have to go out and sweep the porch, periodically corralling the dust-bunnies and swiping at the cobwebs to keep from looking like a haunted house. It does not really qualify as an aggravation, and probably not actually worth writing and reading about, but it is very irritating as one of those household chores that never seems to 'stay' done. It should be cleaned up about once a week, but sadly I care remarkably little for housework, so it might happen every few months. Which means the lint accumulates, and we often appear to be decorated for Halloween.

I've asked several people for suggestions, ways to resolve the small splinter-sized annoyance. The answer appeared as the people from TN came for the weekend, planning to help with the 'honey-do' list that has accumulated for months. I'd think of things that need to be done, and either unwilling or unable to accomplish, often just not ready to devote the time to a variety of small projects that need attention. Then along comes the smart, resourceful guy who can seemingly puzzle out most any challenge, knowledgeable, practical and with a brain wired for taking things apart. How fortuitous there is a fix-it guy in the family, since all the others are no longer here with us!

He went to the ACE hardware store and came back with this little 'kit' in a box that seems to be the solution to the on-going minor irritation. The vent deposits the lint into the little plastic box, that has a couple of inches of water in it. When the fluffy stuff hits the water, it changes form, just like we learned in science class. It becomes a liquid, that will eventually turn into  a solid if the water reservoir is not kept filled - so you can just peel the lint off the bottom of the little container: poof! Problem solved!  

another thing...

... that I had on my list for the workers who came to spend the weekend: getting some projects done in the yard. Apparently it is very gratifying to get out the ladder, climb up on the roof with the blower and blast all the leaves that have fallen from overhanging trees. It's one of the things C. does each time he comes to visit. The man likes to be helpful, and I like to know there are not creatures residing in the trash that accumulates from season to season as the leaves and twigs fall. C. is actually the one who discovered an urgent need for a new roof, when a limb pierced the shingles on the back side of the house. Fell off a branch at the right angle to benefit from gravity and go straight in: through the shingles, tar paper, decking and into the attic.  How unlikely is that?

There are several things I hope to get done tomorrow: doing some trimming and planting. I have had a couple of large Styrofoam pots for a while, intending to plant some small holly bushes received as a gift. The hollies are deciduous: leaves drop in the fall, but hopefully they will keep red berries.  They have been in pots, planted in the ground, with plenty of mulch to survive the summer heat, get some size on them as they were very small when they first arrived. The big pots are half full of Styrofoam chunks so it would not take fifty pounds of soil to fill them for planting, making them impossible to relocate. I unearthed the holly plants and got them planted yesterday. Expecting the soil will settle down into the cracks around the filler and more will need to be added.

There are a couple of places along my frequently traveled route where these trees grow, very inconspicuous as drivers pass by. But in the winter when most trees are bare, and even the occasional deciduous  volunteer holly has shed greenery, the bright red berries lining the limbs are so pleasing to the eye, quite noticeable if you are paying attention to the landscape. I've been so enamored with those slender grey limbs, and colorful fruit, I have stopped more than once along the right of way to do a little trimming. Bringing several limbs home to put in a vase and enjoy colorful berries for days before they begin to fade, wither and drop.

I am really looking forward to seeing them grow and get big enough to have those pretty red berries hollies will make that are so colorful in the winter landscape. Plus mine are portable so if the time comes to relocate, the holly plants can go with me.The ones I transplanted into pots will never get as big and glorious as the photo that was borrowed from a nursery/grower on line, but I still anticipate the berries that will be so delightful when the plants mature a bit. I know when you put things in pots you deliberately limit their size by confining their roots, so don't expect the ones I have will turn into trees, but will nurture and watch them grow.

doing the happy dance...

... right here in my own house after a visit by the new, helpful, friendly, informative, responsive, attentive bug man. His name is Larry, and if I did not already have a best friend, I would have asked  him to consider being my BFF. He was most willing to tackle the problem, and spoke with such knowledge and authority I feel he has had experience with similar situations. He was quite chatty as he made his way around the kitchen putting out bait along the wood work and bricks on the back of the fireplace.

I appreciate the fact that he explained stuff, and answered questions and was able to get started right away. With life complications, this ant problem was getting to the point that I thought it might push me over the edge. I told him I knew, was never surprised at seeing bugs in the house (though that episode a couple of years ago of the millipede infestatipn qualifies as bizarre), and knew there would always be roaches, in residence since the dawn of time, other small creepy-crawlies taking  up residenc via invisible orifices. I've been combating roaches for years, putting out boric acid, first as a powder then little white tabs about the size of your thumbnail, for the bugs to enjoy as dessert, only to discover it to be their last meal.

He said the clear stuff in the tube he was dotting along the woodwork, molding, edges of brickwork, was 'bait', something that will attract them to their unwitting demise. They will take it back to the nest, to share with extended family as the spoils of a successful foray into human land. Far be it from me to inform them it is hemlock or foxglove or an antifreeze spill. My new almost-BFF will come back in the afternoon and spray around the outside of the house, saturating mulch and leaves along the foundation to prevent future entry. I cannot tell you how happy I was to write him a check for $150  - best money I have spent in recent memory, as I am convinced my sanity is still intact.

you know...

... that song the kids sing in the back seat, second only to the endless one about bottles of beer? I am thinking of how 'the ants go marching one by one' ad nauseum, as the little ones securely strapped down in close quarters do their best to make you bat-crazy before you can get them out of the vehicle! I'm having some of that in the privacy of my own home, without ever having to get dressed and go anyplace to loose my mind.

The ant invasion is still awful, overwhelming and making me more than a little nuts. I have been spraying straight, full strength ammonia on them as they trail across just below the molding at the top edge of the wall, crossing vast distances from the brick wall at the back of the fireplace as they make their pilgrimage towards a water source. Maybe the rains that started falling overnight will encourage them to beat a hasty retreat, and go back out into the cold of winter and seek sustenance elsewhere? Probably not, but a tempting thought to feel that the problem will resolve itself.

I don't recall precisely when this aggravation began, but it seems like about two weeks: when I got out the half full bottle of Windex, as the pest control guy told me to do. Spraying several times a day as the invaders formed a new battle plan, replacements began a fresh attack. Then I ran out of glass cleaner and went to buy a half gallon of straight ammonia to refill the bottle, continue to spray across the top of the wall, down into the sink where they were having a party. So frequently misting the encroaching insects, the walls now look like the ceiling leaks, with water stains all the way to the floor. Needing painting, and it's not over yet. I just looked at the receipt the man left, when he also left us $95 lighter and did not resolve the problem. After two calls for help were not returned or   acknowledged, I called another pest removal service yesterday. The new guy is coming today.

People are coming to visit, so I felt compelled to sweep up all the carnage. I got out the broom and dustpan early this morning, and honestly believe I disposed of ten thousand corpses, looking like someone had spilled a can of ground black pepper on the floor. I wanted to at least make an effort, as I have not swept them up for about a week, waiting for resolution, wanting to get them all at one time. Ha!

The latest steady stream was found as they were making a direct attack on the cupboard where the jars of peanut butter are stored. I now wish I had screwed the lids on tighter. But why would there be any reason to think with the top half-secured there was the remotest possibility of bugs being able to scrunch their way into the jar? They are nothing if not persistent. I left the ten thousand there on the shelf where I sprayed them for the newest guy to see when he comes to offer sympathy, condolences on the extent of this chronic problem.

book review: "The Forgotten Girls"...

... by someone I have never read or heard of, just randomly taken off the shelf of boxed Cds at the library, with the idea that it would be a good traveling companion when I am dashing to and fro. The author is Owen Laukkanen. It was so intense and stressful at times I had to turn it off, but would soon be back because I was so interested in the progression of the search for the 'cereal' killer.

It was well written, a fascinating story, told from several different viewpoints of various characters. The plot involves a number of young women, many who were what society might classify as trash, or throwaways, people very few would miss or search for if they never returned, disappearing into the underground. Most of the story takes place in the northwest, between Washington state and Montana, wrapping up across the border in Canada. A young woman's body is found, in the snow, with a wolf nearby,and a 'Jane Doe' death reported. Local law enforcement are stretched thin, have little time to investigate the demise of an anonymous female.

The FBI gets involved, with the pair of agents beginning to see a pattern of sorts, as they evaluate reports of unidentified victims across a wide swath of country, with the one apparent commonality being rail lines. Autopsy reports showed that most of the women were strangled as well as sexually assaulted. The agents gradually piece together the facts to be persuaded there is a serial killer out there, who has been at work for many years, with similar traits in his MO.

As the story progresses, there are many references to the awful weather that predominates in the Cascades and Rockies, at high altitudes over several months. Ice, snow, temperatures that make me shiver just to read about them, endless miles of empty country with only rail lines and trees in the white bleak landscape. And a man who hates females, preying on the women he encounters as they are hitching rides in empty boxcars traveling across the rails over mountains in the harsh winter chill.

He is ruthless, heartless, cruel, without mercy. Living a survivalist life, isolated up in the mountains, preying on people he could physically overpower and destroy. Just plain evil. But a character in a very well written story, that was a clearly described as any thing  you would see in film. Very realistic scenery and people,  making me desire to see this psychopath brought to justice

book review: "Flight Behavior"...

... written by Barbara Kingsolver. Even though it is a depressing story line about climate change, the book is a delight, recommended reading for anyone who enjoys a good story, with well formed characters and dry wit. I thought I had read some of her work, picking up the book due to the name of the author, but could not recall what she had written. Over time, as it took me several weeks to get to the last page, I recalled she also wrote "The Bean Trees", read years ago, that was also excellent entertainment. Thinking I might go back and read that one again...

The story is set in the mountains of North Carolina, with the players being a family who live in a very rural, struggling, economically depressed community. The main character, a woman with two small children, feels confined, unappreciated, frustrated, disappointed with her life. She discovers a huge gathering of monarch butterflies in the mountains her husbands' family owns. The father-in-law has plans to sell the timber, have the mountain area logged for income to  help with financial difficulties. But the butterflies change everything. An expert who has been studying the migration patterns for years comes, dragging a little trailer and begins to study, evaluate, count, attempt to understand why the butterflies are there on the mountainside when they should be traveling to their wintering grounds in the Mexico highlands.

Dellarobia begins to spend time with the research scientist and young grad students who have come along to help with the study. She is intrigued by what they do and how the information is used, evaluations will help science. The researcher, Ovid Byron, eventually hires her after he sets up a lab in a dairy barn on the property to more accurately evaluate the information they are gathering.

Kingsolver is a terrific writer. I enjoyed every single page of the book. It was a rare page that did not make me chuckle or break out in full fledged guffaws. Dellarobia was so well expressed I kept putting the book down because I did not want to finish, though I knew there were a finite number of pages, and it would soon end. There were so many thoughtful statements to ponder or well worded conversations to re-read and savor, I often stopped to write down quotes to remember. Here are a few:

"... she recognized the insantity of the plaln, and was ready to jump out of her hair."

"Did you ask him any questions?" she asked, knowing Hester wouldn't have, endowed as she was with the glory of know it all."

"My mother-in-law is not one for making allowances. If she were an underaker, she'd tell her clients to quit whining and walk to the cemetery."

"Dovey was not the fish-stick type but would eat gravel to get away from the duplex, where her landlord brother was tearing out tile for no apparent reason."

"He pulled back his chin in such skeptical dismay, he looked like a startled turtle."

"Her life was unfolding into something larger by the day, like one of those rectangular gas-station maps that open out to the size of a windshield." 

"She'd asked him to tidy things up a bit, but men and barns were like a bucket of forks, tidy was no part of the equation."

This is just a teaser to get you to read it.

snow???

... in South Carolina when I drove up to Greenville on Monday?  Huh??? What is that? Ice? Would it have fallen off a truck and landed along the right of way there by the guard rail, just as I was crossing over the state line from Georgia, when I never remember the speed limit drops by five  miles? And why would a big semi-trailer with ice on top be going north on Interstate 85 from GA to SC? It was completely baffling. No one in my life who stays glued to the television and on top of the current weather updates thought to warn me about what was going on there in Upstate SC: I had no idea they had so much snow that it was 'sticking', and landscape was covered in fluffy white stuff.

Going once a month to visit my pen-pal, who I feel an urgency to go to see as often as possible as he is 95 years old. I am still laughing about the conversation we had when I arrived. The last time I went back in early November, I took him a pot with pansies and an amaryllis bulb. I have been taking a big fat amaryllis bulb in a box, a kit with bulb, potting soil, a little plastic pot and instructions, a number of times over the years, when they are in the stores around the holidays. Always try to take something growing, blooming, colorful, as well as some tasty treat, good to eat. Geraniums that will bloom all summer, or lantana to plant in the yard and attract pollinators to flit around, flutter by.

When I was there a month ago, I took the bulb already potted, so all he had to do was add water, and keep it someplace where it got enough light. He asked when I got in the door, if I had received the message. I told him I saw where he had called, but he did not leave a message, so I just deleted the missed call. He insisted there was a message, because he had taken photos of the amaryllis when it bloomed about a week ago, and sent pictures. I had to confess I never saw the blooms, because I did not know how to check messages. Homer said: 'I am nearly 96 years old and I do it, so you had better learn!' I told him that I cannot think of anything any more tedious than typing with thumbs, and I have no desire to do that.

But I did get out my phone and figure out how to get into messages, and found the pix that he sent me back early in the month.  What a smart, entertaining guy! We had a good visit, crept out of the house and went to Wendy's for lunch, then to his dr. appt. to get a finger stick. Back to the house safely, as the snow was melting and puddling up every where.  I am still amazed to think I was so unaware and unsuspecting when I crossed into SC and started seeing snow!?! I don't watch televsion, so not up to speed on lots of things that TV addicts know, but still surprised no one in my life said: '...oh, you know it snowed up in Carolina....'

scouting...

... as a helper for making crafts at a holiday gathering. A couple of friends who have been volunteer Girl Scout Troop leaders for-ever have organized a 'holiday fest' for youngsters in our area, inviting any who are interested and willing to pay a small fee to cover expenses. It will be at a church on the north side of town, I assume in a fellowship hall, that will provide space to spread out on tables and do various projects that involving copious amounts of glue, glitter, possibly red and green craft paint.

When I got the email asking if I would help with their plans, I immediately agreed. More than willing to be drafted as a volunteer for doing anything remotely related to craft-y stuff. Even though it is highly likely that the 'crafts' come out of a small plastic bag, with all the parts hopefully included, tidily packaged and shipped from China, via Oriental Trading Company. Projects that start with craft sticks and pipe cleaners, or designs pressed into balsa wood, to be punched out and assembled. A few googly eyes here and there, a bit of ribbon to finish up. Oh, well - the girls will have good fun, drinking watery hot cocoa, eating cookies and making ornaments that will hang on the tree.

I expect these little wooden items covered in sparkles will become keepsakes, parents will save to reemerge as decorations year after year. Trinkets roughly assembled by small hands will be recycled each holiday season for decades, to be sent with them when they become adults. Carefully preserved and brought out to hang on the tree year after year, eventually sent away when those young girls are grown and married, starting out on the path of family building. Stored in the attic long enough for those cheesy little ornaments to brown with age, and mortify the adults when their moms pass them to their adult children. Along with various school projects made of crumbling construction paper, with hand-prints, crayon-ed signatures and a loop of uneven, knotted, raveling yarn for hanging on the tree.

invasion...

... that is making me crazy. We had the Bug Man come a couple of weeks ago to spray for ants, that were all over the stove top and counters. That seemed to solve the problem. But not for long. They are back in full force.

I have sprayed walls, sink and counter tops with ammonia three times in the past two days. When the guy came months ago, looked at the ants, he told me to get the Windex, when I said I did not want to put toxic stuff on the food surfaces. He assured me that spraying the ants with the glass cleaner was going to solve the problem: it stops them in their tracks. Yes, it really does. But does nothing to slow down the ones who are in the rear guard, thousands following the ones who are leading the way.

After spraying the stove top again this afternoon, and deciding to cook something tonight, it needed to be cleaned off: surprising to find the troops came out while I was away and cleaned up all the corpses. They did not get all the ones that were advancing in vast numbers who got sprayed and fell off the upper edge of the wall, but all the ones on the stove top had disappeared. So they must come out and clear the battlefield after the skirmish is over.

I put in another call to the pest service, but have not gotten any results. The Bug Man tried to make me believe that the ants are coming in through the attic. He wanted to convince me the tiny creatures climb up trees (which I can definitely believe) and drop off the limbs onto the roof, make their way into the house. Hmmmm..... Or just start nesting in the gutters, so when you don't keep them cleaned out and debris free the insects multiply. Produce more mouths to feed, and a greater need for food and water. Explaining why they are coming across the top edge of the walls in a steady stream, walking from the brick work on the fireplace all the way around the room and down to the sink. Which for a minuscule ant is probably like crossing the continent.

I have sprayed ammonia on the walls so many times, the room will have to be repainted due to streaks and water stains running down.  I am so frustrated I want to break something. The guys must know how annoyed I am and do not want to listen to me rant, so they are not calling back. I have swept up thousands and thousands of little ant corpses in the past two weeks, and there is no end in sight. Plus every time I feel the slightest tickle any where on my person, I think an ant is crawling....

un-paid advertisement...

... for a non-profit organization that seems to do a world of good. Over the years, I have supported them with donations to help provide livestock in third world countries, gifting my family members. Providing the funding to give animals they did not have to personally feed, groom, house, clean up after because the ducks, chickens, bees, sheep would be given to people we don't know. The young animals (I assume the smaller they are the easier they would be to get delivered?) given to anonymous families in need of improving their lives, nutrition of their families, income-producing livestock. The premise being that the family would care for the animals, eventually passing along off spring to others in their community to provide neighbors with opportunities equal to the ones the original owners received. A 'pay it forward' sort of agreement.

A card came in the mail yesterday from Heifer International, from friends who live in north Florida. People who care deeply about the less fortunate, and choose to make donations in a desire to make a difference in lives of communities they will never see. We have received similar cards over the years, with indications of various animals sent to struggling families in countries all over the world - any place the Heifer organization impacts lives by training and supporting families who are willing to commit to the maintenance of their/my 'gift'.

The wording inside the card:
"This gift to Heifer International, made in your honor, is already waddling, strutting or trotting it's way into the lives of a struggling farming family. Gifts like yours are helping people around the world lift themselves into self-reliance. It's nutrition. It's income. It's hope. And that won't fit in a box."

I got a flock of chicks. I do not have to provide housing, food, water, care.  I know that someone else is getting the benefit of eggs to support nutritious meals for their family, plus extras to sell, and an occasional bird to go in the cook pot for Sunday dinner. I expect there is a annoying rooster in there as well, to fertilize a few eggs that will hatch and bring another generation of chicks into the community for these people to share their good fortune. Thanks, D and G!

insignificant...

...revelation just occurred here in front of my computer screen. I am sitting here eating my bowl of cheerios while typing, looking out the window. There is a line of vehicles visible through the bare trunks of deciduous trees, brake lights glowing, right turn signals blinking, as the drivers approach the stop sign on the corner. When I first sat down, all you could see was those eye-catching brilliant lights, as it was too dark to actually view the cars and trucks as they slowed heading toward the T-shaped intersection. But the sun has come up and it is light enough to see they are work/utility vehicles, big yellow school buses, SUVs, shiny pickups, sedans transporting people to work.

I can look out the window all day long: no work today. Observe nature, watch squirrels fall off the bird feeder, see birds winging to and fro, occupants of cars and trucks going about their business. It is such a small thing, but I do love to be in a place to see the sun come up and rays streaming through the trees, bright slices of sunshine gleaming off the floor, as the windows across the east side of the house catch the light. Sitting here as the sky gets brighter, tree trunks and limbs catch the early morning rays and light shines through.

Here in my pajamas and a jacket, occasionally shivering from the cold, thankful for electricity and all the modern conveniences that are a result of Ben Franklin and his key strung up on the kite. The central heat comes on, warms the house, and keeps it temperate weather there are people present to throw more logs on the fire or not. The lights are so dependable: just flip a switch. All the potable water you can use (or waste) on demand, an endless supply at your fingertips.

That surprising thought I had was that we used to have a big oversized desk, with a big oversized desk-top computer sitting in the kitchen. Back when there were teenagers in the house, and you heard frequent warnings/words to the wise about the dangers of kids having access to the internet without ample adult supervision. Funny, you don't hear that anymore, huh? They all have, from grade school on, mini-computers in the back pockets of their low-slung denims. That gigantic desk was jammed up in the corner, adjacent to french doors, where the cold  north wind blew, creeping in through the cracks. Us born in the south with thin blood do not tolerate cold weather well, and I wanted to get away from the glass doors and winter chill. The time finally came to move it all, and with young people out of the nest, it went into an empty bedroom.

Ha, ha, ha. Here I sit, with practically the same view, looking out a different window, on the north side of the house, wearing layers. Occasionally stopping to blow on my hands with stiff knuckles and chilled fingers to stay warm. Proof: What Goes Around Comes Around.

PS: I read somewhere recently that an effective way to punish teens is to take away the chargers. Do  not take the electronics for bad behavior: take the charger instead, so they cannot get  more juice.

not mine,...

... not my original thought, but worthy of consideration. I cannot take credit for it, but want to pass it along, thinking as I age, I see more and more value to be had in admitting to mistakes, foolish behavior, hare-brained activities. Realizing one of the benefits of the years invested is retrospection: knowing that what it takes to acquire such though-provoking pearls has been worth the hard knocks along the way.

"Experience is what you get when you didn't get what you wanted."

 You could probably google it and find out the origin, but that doesn't much matter. Knowing is the important part, looking back from the vantage point of experience and recognizing lessons learned is what counts. I've often said in recent years that even though it has been a bumpy ride at times, there is nothing I would ask for a re-do on, since it was all so educational. Even if it was a complete bust, filled with tears and misery, a total heartache, you learn. Sometimes the lesson is to not do that again.

there is...

... a quote, framed, that has been hanging on the wall in my kitchen for years. Even though my adult children would not be able to tell it verbatim, they would recognize it when spotted in a different venue, and immediately realize they have been looking at it their entire lives. It is thought-y, and worth consideration:

"Every experience God gives us, every person He puts in our lives, is the perfect preparation for the future that only He can see." I can tell you the source, but not many details: Corrie ten Boom, who was a well known writer in Christian circles. Her family, living in Amsterdam, sheltered a number of Jews during WWII, causing her to be sent to a concentration camp. She died in California in 1983, a very prolific author.

I've been thinking about writing, and just realized that I have been doing it all my life. When I was in high school, I choose an English that would probably considered college prep now, but taken and survived long before anyone thought to call the class "AP". I signed up for the class as much for the teacher as the subject: she was a beloved institution in that small community. In her class, students were required to write at least one page to turn in every day. Any subject - but a paper every day, five each week.

Off to college with my AP English, as well as being chronically, hopelessly math impaired. Failing every math course I took for many years, including one that was supposed to be so easy it was non-credit, but required for people who did not have enough math credits to gain full admission: that's me! I think it took at least six courses to finally pass one in order to graduate.

I had a college professor who made us write every week, turn in a paper of various forms/formats, learning structure, how to build a coherent paragraph and assemble a readable narrative. I admit that the work was enjoyable, surprisingly easy, not seriously challenging, possibly from all the basics drilled into my head in that year of the AP classes. I am still composing, stringing words together, pondering life in print, occasionally searching the thesaurus for synonyms to be concise.

Then I left south Georgia, but wrote letters and card to my grandmother every day for years. Years of purchasing note paper, envelopes and postage stamps. Years of telling about mundane activities as well as milestones in the life of a family with little people who were (and still are) highly entertaining.  Years of letters delivered to her front door, read, and bundled together to be found on the shelf in her closet when the family gathered to make decisions about a lifetime of accumulated personal belongings.

Books and books of journals, pages filled with musings during the years I spent time with my mother as she declined. Frustrated, sad, confused, doubtful, lonely being miles away from daughters/family in an effort to be the glue that held my parents together as they aged and struggled with health issues. I bought those one-hundred page composition books and filled them with thoughts that could not be verbalized, hungry for a way to express all the emotions that simmered below the surface of being a capable devoted caregiver. I occasionally look up on the shelf in the closet and think: 'I should get those books down and take a look..' But No, Not Now.

And here we are: writing and reading. That quote up at the beginning covers a lot of territory. Funny- but-not in an ironic sort of way, that we cannot see into the future. Probably a blessing that we do not know how things we do or don't are going to have an impact on our lives for years to come. I often think we should all come equipped with a Magic Eight Ball as the most intelligent way to make decisions....

living on...

... the corner of: 'waiting at the stop sign' and 'flying over a blind hill at breakneck speed'. Even though the posted limit is 45 mph or lower depending on how close you are to the yellow blinking light near the school zone. Out here on a narrow, crumbling two lane street with little other than residences and the entrance gates to the city golf course, it can be dangerous to attempt to cross from one side to the other.

When we moved here over thirty years ago, our house was the last one on the street: now there are dozens that have been built in a subdivision past our driveway, and literally hundreds in developments on the side street going past our property. Meaning traffic like you would not believe could occur in what would appear to be a relatively quite residential area. There is an elementary school situated about a half mile away, and a fairly new middle school less than a mile from our front door. Meaning hundreds of cars and buses/daycare vans going back and forth twice a day to deliver and pick up students in those two schools. And hundreds more coming out of the developments that have grown up in what was once forests in the acreage to the east.

There are so many potholes in the street, with multiple asphalt patches, it is like a water park when we have days of rainfall. Lately there has been quite a bit of rain, and the holes in the street are constantly being replenished after vehicles splash the water out traveling to and fro. If you were unlucky enough to be a pedestrian slopping along in the rain, you would be in danger of getting drenched from the side/below as water is sprayed when wheels clump and thump through multiple areas where the asphalt is in constant need of replacing - a vicious circle as the eroding effects of rain and traffic are the cause of the steadily enlarging holes. I have actually contacted the city to report on the standing water in the streets. The guy I spoke with did not specifically say 'take a number and get in line'. But a two lane residential street is understandably at the far end of work orders for repairing transportation issues.

We were really in the country when we moved here, with the nearest traffic signal miles away. Understandably progress is continually edging out of the city and squeezing rural spaces.  At the end of our street, where you would make a turn to the west to head into town, shopping/services and work, there was another two lane highway. Admittedly you did not actually see mule drawn wooden wagons taking produce to market, or /farm equipment going about the business of agriculture. But it was definitely slow-paced, easy living, peaceful country quiet.

There is now a traffic light at the end of our street, which empties onto a four (six when  you include turn lanes) lane highway that was expanded in recent years. The state Department of Transportation has plans to turn that intersection into a roundabout, and eliminate the lighted signals. Four lanes entering the intersection from four different directions feeding into a roundabout? Okay. That sounds challenging. I was recently riding with someone whose plaint is that no one seems to know how to 'use the roundabout': they either hesitate, or go barreling through without consideration for other drivers. Neither approach is good or safe.

hauling a tree...

... tied to a luggage rack on top of a SUV, traveling from the lot where the fir was purchased.That is what the anonymous family was doing over the weekend. Going home to take it inside and drag down boxes of trim to decorate for the season.  I saw a family yesterday with a tree securely tied to the top of their vehicle, heading home to set up and cover with festive seasonal trim.

That won't be me putting up a tree, or stringing lights and garlands all over the house. I gave up on decorating some years ago, and have not put up the first thread, light, seasonal fluff in my house. Gave it all away, either to family members or just donated when I decided I was done with putting time and effort into getting stuff down, and spreading it all over the house only to go back and find it in several weeks and re-box to store for eleven months.

But when I see people driving home with their purchase, and putting up trees, I will always think of the last time my brother and I were instructed to get a tree. Our mom sent us out to find one to bring home and decorate. Many years before there were Christmas Tree lots that popped up on every corner on the day after Thanksgiving. None available in the little town where we lived: why would you go and pay for a tree when the woods were full of them? Does not matter that the ones growing wild, volunteer red cedars that were nearly as common as pine trees were so scratchy and prickly they would eat you up while you where cutting it down. Then loading it in the back of the pickup truck, and dragging it in the house to put in the tree stand. Itchy with every single ornament and string of lights added for holiday cheer.

We found what we thought was the perfect one, nice and bushy, just the right height. Stopped and got out of the truck with the hand saw to go and cut it down, just across a ditch, where it had been growing up through a wire fence. Never noticing that on the other side of the fence was an orchard of pecan trees. Never noticing the man who owned the property with the orchard was watching us while we were cutting and loading the tree.

As we started to leave, heading down the dirt road with our tree, the man who owned the property came barreling up in a cloud of dust, demanding to know who we were and what we were doing. We was terrified. Fully expecting to be using our one phone call from the jail to be calling Dad to ask him to come and bail us out for Christmas.

The farmer was persuaded we were only interested in that mean, scratchy red cedar, to take  home and decorate. We had no desire to steal his pecans, so he let us take the tree and go. Pretty much everyone in the county knew my Dad, so it was only a matter of time before he heard the story. We laughed about it for years, but at the time we were convinced we would spend the holidays eating gruel and sleeping on the hard cold concrete floor on the county lockup.

how did it...

... get to be December so soon? Wow! I actually purchased decorated holiday paper for sending out seasonal greetings last week right after Thanksgiving. A first for me, the person who is usually scrambling around, visiting numerous office supply stores searching for paper with a suitable edging/theme to copy the composed epistle of events from the year. This year will be more difficult, challenging than in the past, with events that are really not the sort one would normally put in a year end summation of cheery events designed to evoke smiles and amusement from readers.

I've been thinking for some time, even before getting to the store to pick and purchase the paper - how to approach sharing the events of the past eleven months. Pondering the best way to put into words some things that are still difficult to even think, much less commit to print, and leave to posterity in an annual summary of high points for consumption and reflection. There has been plenty of good stuff, lots of hilarity, but also much of the sort that causes reflection on the temporary bonds that hold us here on this planet.

About going to the store for the paper: it had to be purchased in November because the rewards points/store credit expired on the last day of the month. Pretty aggravating to get a gift that has a short life span, then it vanishes into a black hole. The thought occurred that maybe the office supply/chain drug store/retail outlet should not be so generous: if there was no reward for shopping we'd  not feel the inclination to have any allegiance. But if they were not so determined to lure me back to their business by offering rewards for dollars spent, I would not be tricked into returning with a sense of urgency to spend my invisible bucks before the expiration date.

The Man Who Lives Here took himself to the store to purchase a new printer for the computer, after we finally reluctantly admitted defeat with repairing one that kicked the bucket. Which gave him a nice big fact store credit for $24. Even though everything in the store is overpriced, that amount enticed me into trying to find something to purchase to use the the funds before Nov. 30. Plus I had purchased several ink cartridges for that obstinate, disagreeable printer at the suggestion of repair guy who seemed to think it just needed a refill. Giving me a store credit for $6.

The effort devoted to trying to combine those two amounts for one purchase was exhausting as well as a monumental waste of time. Because the funds were in two different accounts: Never The Twain Shall Meet. Not even when you call customer service and spend thirty minutes being on hold, then explaining repeatedly.  I am convinced the entire purpose of voice mail and 'hold' is to wear you down, make you admit defeat, give up the fight. The toll-free customer-service team certainly won that round.

I finally just gave up, left the store and went home with a long confusing, convoluted, eventually entertaining story to tell. But in another sense: I won. When I went back several days later with a different plan of attack, I got a case of (free) paper to donate to a non profit org. I support with my time. Plus, in a separate purchase: the pack of holiday design paper to use for Christmas letter. The cashier would not, could not combine the two different rewards to use for one purchase - but determined Me got the full value. In fact, all I paid for the box of copy paper donated was tax!