It could be worse

…by a lot

I’m talking about the love bugs here.

Plecia nearctica.

Don’t worry; that won’t be on the final.

It’s love bug season again in Florida. Happens two times a year, more or less.

What’s a love bug?

It’s a small flying insect also known as the honeymoon fly or the double-headed bug. This is because during the mating season, also known as a “flight,” these bugs are more than usually enthusiastic. They can and do remain coupled for several days. So, generally, you don’t see one love bug without another.

They’re out and about in force just now, whirling all around my head when I’m mowing, smacking into the windshield when I’m driving.

Perhaps I may have mentioned that I am not fond of bugs. I am especially not fond of bugs in swarms–and this could safely be called a swarm. Things flying at me and crawling on me. . .just, no. I don’t like that.

But it could be worse.

Because love bugs don’t bite. They don’t sting.

They are basically harmless except for a tendency for the acidity of their body chemistry to damage automobile paint–not so much of a problem with newer cars–and for their unfortunate corpses to clog radiator air passages and, thus, interfere with the radiator’s ability to cool the engine.

It’s just the sheer number of them that is. . .unsettling.

On the other hand, it’s not a swarm of locusts. Or grasshoppers. Which–heaven forfend! (And, ick.) It’s just a bunch of little black and red bugs. And since any biting bug makes a beeline for me, I am more than thankful that these are too busy to be biting (even if they could–which they can’t). Plus, they don’t actually live that long. It will all be over in a few days.

So, as bugs go. . .not so bad. Like I said. . .it could be worse.

If I could save time in a bottle,

the first thing that I’d like to do…*

…is shake some of it out.

I need more time. Doesn’t everybody? But the most extraordinary thing about being “retired”–for me–is that I can’t figure out how I ever had time to have a job.

Granted, I have a much bigger house now–and a yard. So that housework takes more time than it used to take–and yard work is a totally new addition to the schedule. On top of it all, I’ve added blogger to the mix–and, sadly, have gotten way too interested in Facebook. But still…

Where does the time go, I wonder.

I think part of what I’m dealing with here is Parkinson’s Law in which work expands to fit the time available for its completion. When all your deadlines are self-imposed, renegotiation is easy. I can always do that tomorrow, you think. And then you’re sunk.

Another part of it, of course, is that now that I have permission to do what I want to do, it is clear that I want to do a lot. I have websites to build, plays to write, novels to read (and write), Chinese to learn, cakes to bake, and on and on and on.

So, in addition to wondering where the time goes, I’m wondering how best to recapture it. I think my progress bars have helped a lot. A visual representation of what I’ve achieved lately goes a long way toward incentivizing (sorry, I hate that word–but it does fit) further achievement.

I’m also wondering how best to prioritize all my projects. No real progress there. (I wish somebody would invent an app that would take all project input and do a cost-benefit analysis on the intangibles of career enhancement, happiness production, contribution to humanity, etc. Pretty sure I’m going to keep on wishing for that one.)

One thing of which I’m fairly certain is that my usual preferred method of diving into something and getting it done and knocking it off the list is just not practical in this new space-time continuum of “retirement.” (I have this impulse, every time I write the word ‘retirement,” to follow it with “LOL!”) My life is now much more like the juggling act it used to be at work when I had dozens of projects to manage. Back then, it was work that required jumping from one thing to another and making incremental progress. Free time was scarce, so it tended to be automatically devoted, in depth and in detail, to whatever I thought was most important.

Now that all time is “free” and everything is important, I’m trying to figure out how best to handle it.

Any ideas? All tips welcome.

* Jim Croce, Time in a Bottle

A college of cardinals

No, we’re not electing a Pope.

“College” is one of the collective nouns for a flock of cardinals–as in birds. Others are “conclave,” “radiance,” “deck,” and “Vatican.” Alliteration explains “college” and “conclave,” and I get why “radiance” would come into play. “Vatican,” too, makes some sense. But, “deck?” Is it a reference to “deck of cards?” I guess it must be, but–note to whoever makes these things up–I think you’re reaching.

Anyway, the cardinals are a Monday Miracle.

They’re back.

One of the minor miracles about cardinals is that I can recognize them. My skills as a naturalist are about average. I can identify most four-legged creatures and tell the difference between a bird, a snake and a fish. After that, it gets somewhat hazy.

I mean, distinguishing one bird from another? Well, I’ve gotten to where I recognize the ospreys and the Great Blue Herons and the bald eagles. Woodpeckers are clear. And owls. Most of the other little feathered things that flit around. . .many of them look alike.

But cardinals!

Bright red.

Crests.

And a song that I’m beginning to know. (Unless I’m confusing it with the Carolina Wren, which is entirely possible.)

Now, when I say ‘they’re back,’ I can’t swear to the fact that they’ve ever gone away. But I have been noticing quite a few of them hanging around in the last few days.

They provide a nice note of complementary color in the yard. It goes well with the pine cone ginger–and my roof. And they chirp up a storm. Last year, they demonstrated a love for sprinklers which they have not gotten to indulge lately, but I’m thinking that may be a reason to install a birdbath. Maybe one with a spray fountain? Solar-powered, if I can find it. (Another of those “someday,” things. Probably, I should focus on furniture first.)

All of this is to say, I am happy that a college of cardinals is convening conveniently close at hand.

Well, that’s not gonna happen

Another one bites the dust.*

Another brilliant idea, that is.

See, the Winn-Dixie had a sale last week on cashews. Two cans for $5. Pretty good price, huh? So, we bought two cans. And we ate two cans.

And I thought, “I wonder if you could grow your own cashews.”

Google!

You can! You can grow your own cashews.

It’s not even that hard, supposedly.

First and most importantly, they are a tropical tree. It probably gets a little too cold for them here. They like temperatures above 50°, but there are ways around that.

Secondly, they like sandy soil. Got that covered.

Third, unlike some trees, they seem to be easy to grow from seeds.

Fourth, not only do they provide cashew nuts, they also grow something called a cashew apple–which is also edible and sounds interesting.

But then. . .

You read a little further. And you find out why cashew nuts are usually so expensive in the stores.

That tasty little seed has a double shell full of a caustic liquid. As in dangerous. As in potentially life-threatening.

It’s related to urushiol, the toxin found in poison ivy.

Processing cashew nuts is arduous and dangerous. Roasting them properly destroys the toxin, but that requires gloves, long sleeves, safety goggles–and I don’t know what all. The smoke contains droplets of the stuff and is extremely irritating to the lungs.

Yikes!

I’m thinking–best to just keep an eye out for those sales at Winn-Dixie. $5 for two cans–definitely a good price!

* Song by Queen band member John Deacon

PSA

Just do it.

Today’s post is a Public Service Announcement and something about which I feel really strongly.

Mammograms.

Yes, breast cancer is a scary idea. It’s even scarier if you don’t find out about it until it’s too late.

Yes, mammograms can be uncomfortable. Have you ever known anyone in the advanced stages of breast cancer? Comfort is long gone.

Yes, it’s a nuisance to have to take time out for a mammography appointment. Chemo and radiation appointments take a chunk out of your schedule, too. The more advanced your cancer is, the more appointments you’ll need.

Yes, it costs money to get screened. Thanks, however, to the Affordable Care Act, your out-of-pocket cost will be. . .nothing! You can’t beat that.

Yes, there is some disagreement about how often women should have mammograms. There isn’t any serious disagreement about whether they should. A new Swedish study conducted over 30 years–the longest study to date–shows that seven years of mammograms made for 30% fewer breast cancer deaths down the road.

Never had a mammogram? Want to know more about it? Check out the Fact Sheet at the National Cancer Institute.

Been putting off your appointment? Pick up the phone.

Early detection is the real race for the cure.

Mad dogs and Englishmen

And Floridians…

Go out in the midday sun.

But we’ve turned the corner on the weather, I think, and I am so thankful. A couple of days of 85° temperatures and only 52% humidity.

Note that “only.”

It’s astonishing how relative everything is.

There was a time when 52% humidity would seem awfully high. (I went to grad school in Denver, for one thing.) The average relative humidity around here, however, is 89%. And it rained for all of August. All of August! ALL. So, 52% is a good number. We like it.

All of a sudden, it is rather pleasant to do yard work. Mowing, edging, pruning. I am Gertie the Gardener this week. Even a mosquito bite seems more bearable when it doesn’t feel like the insect had to swim through the air to get you.

The thing is, however, that it’s a little hard to adjust to this different weather pattern. In the old days (two years ago), this would be the time of year when I would be launching new writing projects, starting new classes, attending first-meetings-of-the-year for a bunch of organizations to which I belonged. It would be the time to start putting away outdoor toys and accessories.

Down here, however, I am learning that this is the time to start thinking about your outdoor projects. Now is when the ligustrum needs to be pruned and anything I want to transplant needs to be dug up and moved (and, knowing me, likely killed–but that’s a different post).

This is the time to think about cleaning out the garage, tidying up the dock. It’s the time to think about repairing the driveway. (I don’t know anything about concrete, though, so thinking is as far as that will get for now.)

It’s time to get serious about weeding the flower beds, and it’s probably time to figure out how the lid to the dryer vent comes off and clean out any lint.

Trouble is, of course, that it is still time to be launching new writing projects and whatever else comes with a new year.

Because this is the new year, really.

That thing in January–that’s just a Hallmark holiday.

There’s always something.

New and good.

It’s a Monday. And you know what that means, right? A post concerning a Monday Miracle.

The trouble is, I have not been able to think of a miracle about which to write. So, I had this thought: Maybe Monday Miracles could alternate with Monday Moans.

Plenty of material there, right?

Then I saw a butterfly flutter by right outside my upstairs window. It flitted in and out of the branches of my neighbor’s oak tree which overhangs my property–by a lot!

I thought, There’s a miracle.

The truth is twice a year we get quite a number of butterflies. I’m not really up on butterfly habits, but I know that some species of them migrate at least once a year. I don’t know if they live long enoug to head back, or what. But we get a lot of butterflies, and they’re pretty, and it’s fun.

So there’s that.

And the oak tree is another miracle. The Southern Live Oak is a beautiful tree.

There are lots of miracles all around. It’s just that they’re here all the time. And they seem sort of small and mundane. Everybody likes butterflies, don’t they?

The truth, however, is that most of the “moans” I can come up with are fairly small and mundane also. A hundred years from now will it really matter that I haven’t yet figured out what to do about the fogged window glass?

So, my question is: Why is it easier to come up with the bad things? The petty, pesky annoying things? Rather than the good things?

Some quirk in the human brain–or, perhaps, only in how we’ve been conditioned by our society makes many of us focus on the hardships and challenges more than the joys and achievements.

I once participated in a program that started every meeting with “What’s new and good?” and ended with “What are you looking forward to?” because we do focus so often on the negative. Not a bad plan. Not a bad plan at all.

What’s new and good right now is the fact that I’ve remembered this.

And the butterflies.

Where have all the whip-poor-wills gone?

Long time passing.

Can’t you just hear that sung to a Pete Seeger tune by Peter, Paul & Mary?

All kidding aside, though, where have the whip-poor-wills gone? When I was a kid, they were one of the few birds I could recognize by their call. The other being a bob-white.

For me to recognize them, they must have been pretty prevalent. Now, I never hear a whip-poor-will or a bob-white.

A little research shows that they are indeed in decline, and no one is quite sure why. Destruction of habitat due to building, pesticides that kill their food source, and global warming are the most common reasons cited for the dwindling numbers.

My uncle has another theory, although I’m not sure it holds good for areas farther afield than Florida. He thinks the egrets eat the whip-poor-wills’ eggs. Whip-poor-wills, and for that matter, bob-whites nest on the ground. And egrets have been known to prey on the eggs of sea birds–so I guess it’s possible. I suspect it is also true that the egrets are a more efficient competition for the same food.

They do seem to be efficient. They have very few predators, and as long as humans raise cattle, their habitat will survive. They do okay. First bred in Florida in 1953, they had spread to Canada by 1962 and California by the mid-sixties. A successful species.

So, I don’t know. A bunch of egrets following a herd of cattle is a pretty sight, but I do miss the whip-poor-will’s song.

The rain no longer raineth every day

Flapdoodle?*

When we first moved to Florida, we were in a drought. I had to buy sprinklers and remember my watering days to have any hope of getting the grass in my lawn to recover.

And then we got Tropical Storm Debbie.

Tons of rain!

The grass–it was so happy! It grew and grew. (So did the weeds, but that’s another story.)

And then it kept raining. And raining. And raining. Almost every day. It’s a good thing the grass started to grow to help keep the dirt from washing into the creek. (A lot of it did, anyway.)

It has rained so much that the split-leaf philodendron is turning yellow. The tomato plant has shriveled up. And one of the vincas has given up the ghost. (That’s a shame, because it was a pretty pink one.) The hydrangea, on the other hand, is thriving.

I know the Midwest is having a terrible time with a drought right now. The cost of everything is going up because of it.

So, I feel guilty saying this, but it seems like a miracle that we’ve had a couple of days without rain. It’s hard to do yard work when everything is soggy. Thunder and lightning interfere with my ability to use my computers. They interfere with my ability to use my treadmill! They just interfere.

It is fascinating to watch the rain over the creek. So, there’s that. It has a habit of raining over the water for a good 5 to 10 minutes before it comes on land–which is weird. Part of that weird Florida phenomenon where it can rain on one side of the street and not the other. (I once drove into rain at a red light and out of it when the light changed. That’s how localized a storm can be here.)

But I’m tired of watching walls of water move. I’m really glad it’s stopped raining–even if only temporarily.

* Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, or What You Will Act VI, Sc 1. Also, King Lear, Act II, Sc 3. (If you got both of them, you get two Flapdoodle points!)

Collections

Do you have any?

I’m of two minds about collections. On the one hand, I think if you don’t have one going, you should be assigned one. Possibly, you should be assigned one at birth for the better buying of presents. It is so much easier, when those birthdays, Christmases, Hanukkahs, etc. roll around for your relatives to be able to pick up something to add to your collection.

On the other hand, collections can be a bit of a problem. Maybe other people don’t have this issue, but there may be a borderline hoarder in me. Because, you know, one Reader’s Digest is a magazine you haven’t read yet. Three are the beginning of a collection. And then what?

Actually, I do all right disposing of magazines after one brief struggle in my teens when I had somehow amassed an inordinate number of TV Guides. I understand, though, that National Geographic has caused some people severe pangs.

Some of my collections may eventually become digital. Books and music are–with varying degrees of time and expense–convertible to a more space-saving format. Some, however, must remain physical presences in my house. And therein lies the problem.

Space!

Fortunately, my new house could have been tailor-made to house my glass menagerie. I have so many windows with wide sills and sunshine. We never thought about it when we were thinking of buying, but it has turned out to be perfect for the glass.

The music boxes…that’s a bit of a problem. I don’t have any rare or expensive music boxes, but I have enough of them that I can’t just give them away. Besides, I like music boxes. There are not a lot of moments, however, when it occurs to me to wind one up and let it play. Mostly, it occurs to me when I’m dusting them. Music box dusting, around here, creates quite a cacophony.

I was fine with the books, the records, the glass animals and the music boxes. But now, I seem to have a clown collection, and I don’t even like clowns. (As figurines, I mean. I have several friends who actually are clowns. Graduates of Ringling Bros. Clown College, no less. I like them fine.)

I now have four clowns:

One is made of glass. You can see how that happened.

One is a music box. You can see how that happened.

Two of them are recent acquisitions–mementos of a beloved aunt whose children and grandchildren have a clown phobia. (Coulrophobia, it’s called. I bet you didn’t know that.)

Anyway, I am happy to have these keepsakes to remind me of my aunt, but you can see my problem, right?

A couple of clowns are just things you have. Four are a collection, and you’re stuck with them forever. So, I hereby issue an addendum to the Collection Rule. I only have a collection when I declare I have a collection. If anybody gives me any more clowns, I’m giving them away.

Elaine Smith Writes

Anything She Wants

Category Archives: Life in General