A STRANGE SUMMER TALE

 

                                                                          

The little house was 1000 square feet on a good day. A small, red brick, three bedroom, one bath home in a neighborhood built after WWII.  Oak Forest. We had been won over by the tall, sheltering oaks, beautiful hardwood floors and tall, sashed windows. No dishwasher. No designated laundry room. Attic fan. Floor furnaces. No central. One window unit in the living room. 

On this blistering July day, the window unit and a ceiling fan were struggling to keep the room cool despite the canopy of trees. I was barefoot and wearing my slip, holding my seven week old daughter close to the dining room window. The window unit was possibly original to the house.  

I went to the front door and looked out the window. Even with the sheer curtain I could see it was a white hot day. The street was bright and quiet. And then I saw a man walking down the middle of the street. The small, black man was dressed in white from head to toe, from his hat to his buttoned suit to white dress shoes. I watched him walking down the street in the middle of this heat. He came to my sidewalk and started up the walk. I put the baby down and put my robe on, wondering if he would ring the bell. 

The doorbell rang. I peeked out the window. It was the man in white. I opened the door and put my head out. "Hi, my name is Willie. Would you like to buy a color t.v.?"  I was in shock. There was no car in sight. I told him, "No, I already have one." I shut the door. He turned and walked down the walk. I watched this man dressed all in white, walk down the middle of the street. He did not go to any other house. 

At the time, we just thought it was an odd story. But it was not the first time people had come to our front door asking for money or food. We later decided we must have had a hobo's mark on our curb. One day a lady came to the door asking for food. I wasn't going to turn her away. I put together a small sack of food and handed it to her. She was very grateful. A couple of months later, the same woman returned asking for food. But this time, she had a trade in hand, a few simple trinkets she had made. My husband would be in the garage late at night working on a project. More than once, a man would walk down the driveway, asking for money or food. He would go to the freezer and hand them packaged meat. 

My cell phone just announced an excessive heat warning. When it gets this hot, mid July, I always remember Willie walking down the street. I hope he's found a nice, cool place.

 

EVERYDAY HOUSEWIFE IN SEARCH OF...

 In my recent scurrying around, I was thinking to myself "The Life of the Everyday Housewife." I came home and looked it up and found out it was sung by my Glen Campbell titled "Dreams of the Everyday Housewife." 1968. Now the exception and not the norm. My first blog starred Glen Campbell, my first heart throb. August 2013.Glen Campbell and "Wichita Lineman."  

I have been remiss at any regular blogging which started with the Pandemic but at one time I was fairly consistent. I stand at 198 blogs but as any good writer will admit, I have repeated and rearranged when needed. And six in that number are titled with ideas but not yet fully fleshed out.  Obviously, there have been postings at random. If you are reading this, thank you, thank you for reading and your time. Not as one locally famous newspaper columnist told me, "Thank you for your readership (dahling)" walking away from our conversation.

With the chill in the air the last few days, my housewife industry has been restored. Yesterday, I swept and then mopped the deck with an official deck scrubber. Google said OxiClean worked and it did. The deck had not been officially cleaned since before the Pandemic. I moved everything on the deck, front to back or side to side to get the job done. I washed two windows and hosed down the chairs and tables and cleaned the grill.  And unwittingly gave the dog a gleefully wet playtime. 

I had to walk down the deck stairs and unwind the back yard hose but the little metal sprinkler wouldn't come off of the end and I had to turn the water on and walk the hose with the sprinkler going, back up the stairs. Very small sprinkler head. I held the little sprinkler up to rinse. But I would slide it under the railing when not in use which sprinkled whatever was under the deck like a dog, running back and forth and then back and forth through a batch of heaped old leaves. There was my hour and half of rigorous work. New heart studies are all about how many hours of sleep and cholesterol and blood pressure. I check all the boxes but good exercise. 

I immediately came in and took two Tylenol which is  my miracle drug of choice. I cross-stitched for a couple of hours and then putzed in my office while doing some laundry. Deathtaxeslaundry. 

The question of the day. What's for supper? As my mother always said, I could go without but there are always three sets of eyes looking at me, wondering." Leftover cornbread sent me down the cornbread dressing route complete with sauteed chopped onions, bell pepper, and yellow squash. Served with cranberry relish. We sat down to eat and I exclaimed, "This is our meat free meal for the week." But K. reminded me we had already had our meatless meal the night before. Baked sweet potato, turnip greens and cornbread. 

Another cool morning. I knew it was supposed to be warmer so I better catch cool while I can. I put on my work clothes and headed out to detail my car which is parked in the driveway while the convertible eeks out the one clear spot in the garage. I had my daily wasp encounter when I opened the garage door. (Carry Epi-Pen for such encounters.) Packed my bucket with spray on glass cleaner, Tire Shield, Armor All Car Cleaner, paper towels and Dawn dish soap. Brillant idea. I used my new O'Cedar wring and twist cloth mop to wash the car. 

I walked around the side of the house to the snake pit. There has never been a sighting. Still, I would never go around to turn the front yard hose on again. I say snake pit because of all the rocks around the faucet. I attached the multipurpose nozzle that will turn off/on in different spray patterns. I finished the car and with a little pride noticed how little water I had used. Not even enough to make it to the end of the driveway. I left the hose on the side yard ready to water, not returning back to the snakepit. 

Whew! Worked up a thirst for a coke and two glasses of water. Took a shower. Sat down to call a friend and cool off. Made a grocery list for the holiday weekend. Hamburger meal. Steak dinner. Chicken and Mango Pasta Salad. Street Corn Dip. Stood up and back to the Tylenol. Out the door.

Gas is ten cents lower. Just give it thirty six hours. Pull up next to pump. Big, noisy truck pulls right in behind me. He will never get around me. I have a whole tank to pump. He leaves his truck RUNNING.  There is a skull sticker printed like an American flag on his front grill. Poor old Glory. 

Cleaners. Finally to the grocery store. Wearing my new Levi's Denim Bermuda shorts. Nice and long but above my knees. Cute shirt. Or so you think until you see your reflection in the opening store doors. Maybe there is a reason I don't go out in shorts. Oh well. Nothing can dim this productive day.

I can never find Cojita cheese in Kroger. I'll have to look elsewhere. Nice shopping trip. Two hundred dollars. Blue Bell was two dollars off. Even bought Brand Name chips. But no meat. Basics. Trash bags. Toilet paper - my Pandemic supply is almost zilch. Dishwasher pods. Cabbage. Grapes. Lemons. Limes. Apples. Mushrooms. Peanut crackers. Milk. Eggs. Butter. Dot's Pretzels. Etc. Etc.

Now I remember why I don't frequent this location. One line is open with about seven people waiting. I politely offer to help bag if she will send my things on down the line but Ms. Cheerful gladly bags almost everything herself. She is not very fast. 

Plan of action. Something I never do but I have ice cream and milk and eggs. I start the car with the air going (horn honks) and carefully put the cold items in the front floorboard and the rest on the back seat next to the dry cleaning. Because there is a new print which takes up most of the back of the car until K. takes it into work. Debate leaving my cart but cave into peer pressure. Head for home.

Quickly bring in cold items for the outdoor fridge. Head for the kitchen for the rest. Start to put up inside groceries and realize No Toilet Paper. About that time, feel the give of a box underneath my foot. Oh yea. My box of Little Debbie Birthday Cakes Ten Individual Cakes. Individual is very important. Not two packaged together. But really when have I stopped at one? I reach for sweets in the stress of life. Smushed little white cakes with sprinkles. Well, the TP is like two and half gallons of gas.

Grab a cold Coke Vanilla Coffee, cheaper than Starbucks and head out the door in afternoon traffic. What are the chances it will still be on my cart. None. And due to staffing issues, there is no one at the info desk. I walk back to my car empty handed. Four miles back home. Eight miles total trip. Still less than twenty miles per gallon. Start thinking about a song Lives of the Everyday Housewife. 

Come home. Think about a blog. Forget about fixing supper because I will come up with something. 

Look up song. The song is very dated and basically, the dreams of long ago compared with the present. I am pretty much an everyday house wife but I don't have time to sit around and dream. Campbell sings "She gave up the good life for me." 

Here comes the great hunter from another day at the office. First words to me are "When did the hose  break?"  No, I left it in the yard for watering plants. Well, the hose broke at a weak kink and water has been pouring down the yard, onto the street. All the way to the next curb inlet which is past two houses. I really think it must have happened recently. I would have noticed it when I was going back and forth to the grocery store. K. fixed supper tonight. We had meat.

"She looks in the mirror and stares at the wrinkles that weren't there yesterday. Thinks of the young man that she almost married. What would he think if he saw her this way?

"She picks up her apron in little girl fashion as something comes into her mind. Slowly starts dancing remembering her girlhood and all of the boys she had waiting in line.

"Such are the dreams of the everyday housewife you see anywhere anytime of the day.

"An everyday housewife who gave up the good life for me.

The photograph album she takes from the closet, and slowly turns the page.

She closes her eyes and touches her house dress that suddenly disappears and just for a moment she's wearing the gown that broke all their minds back so many years.

An everyday housewife who gave up the good life for me."

"GUNTER, WHERE'S MY PURSE"

 

Nellie Catherine 

I celebrate today, June 1, as a remembrance of my Grandmama. She was a head of her time and one of a kind. 

                                                                  ***

At 3 a.m. in the morning, everyone was sleeping soundly.  My Grandmama and Pa were visiting, sleeping in the middle room of my parents' house, the guest room.  Obviously not everyone was sleeping soundly.  Without even a whisper but a blood curdling scream saved only for life-threatening moments, Grandmama sat up in bed in the pitch dark night, screaming, "GUNTER, WHERE'S MY PURSE???"  All the lights flew on, the commotion putting the rest of the house in "danger" mode, sending everyone else scurrying to a fallout shelter.  It is funny now but to live it was another matter.  Grandmama could be kind and gentle but she could also flip a switch that brought every other activity to a halt or sleeping neighborhoods to attention.  The purse was found.  She always had a thing about her beautiful bags.  Somehow, I may have inherited both of these qualities.

 

Sometimes I think my lot in life is unpacking boxes.  Boxes from remodeling or boxes moved to the garage for temporary safe keeping.  Ah, the garage.  The glorious repository of all things without quick solutions.  Easy out.  Just open the kitchen door and pitch.  Maybe a professional organizer is in my future.

 

But good things do come in forgotten boxes.  I recently found the box holding souvenirs I have collected from my grandmother's life.  This is not a huge collection because she was the sort of person who had just what she needed and little excess except for dinnerware and family correspondence.  The original place for everything.

 

NRE (1909-2003) started out with a holler, on a hot, summer day in Pine Bluff, Arkansas, after the doctor had asked her father whose life to save, the mother's or the baby's.  The delivery left small scars on her little head.  She was quickly wrapped and placed on a table, unattended, while the doctor and his helper labored to save her mother.  Cassie was spared but would never have any more babies.  At some point, as the story has been told for years, the neglected baby made herself known with a big cry.  And thus, she continued for her ninety-three years, feisty and much loved from day one.

 

We shared a close relationship and could talk about almost anything.   Others insisted I was her favorite but I had no control in being the first grandchild born and sharing her middle name.  When I was fifteen, she shocked me for the first time.  We were walking in a dwindling downtown area.  One store offered nothing but bare mannequins posed for the empty streets.  Grandmama whispered to me, "Somebody really told her where to stick it."  I never saw her in the same way again.

 

Before I left for college, I drove to visit my grandparents.  She loved to shop but always with a purpose in mind.  Always the best and always her brand.  Going out required her to go upstairs to put on her rings, grab her purse and get her credit card (which she paid in full each month).  We went to the local boutique where my mother had bought her wedding dress years earlier.  Grandmama said yes to three dresses for my college wardrobe.   Her generosity was famous.

 

She also shared a story about her first few days in college.  Her beauty was well-known and preceded her to school.  Upon her arrival, the captain of the football team made her acquaintance and offered her any and everything on campus, with one proposition.  Again, I was shocked.  But this was her warning to me about the dangers lurking in college.

 

Family genealogy was a natural talent.  Every introduction included "your people" and her ability to know the chain of relations of dozens of people and families.  She would have loved computers for genealogy.  Her family was precious to her and she always cherished the life she had had with her parents.   

 

To the penny and with a sharp pencil, she kept up with all of my grandparents' business, from running a hotel to tracking the stock market.  My grandparents' love story began in college.  Once they married, they were equals in life and work.  Her business acumen was well advanced for a woman of her time.  Almost every visit, a large ledger was offered to family members for viewing stock fluctuations, dividends and net worth.  In another era, she could have climbed the corporate ladder.

 

Division among the ranks as to her cooking.  I remember being a child and wondering if my Grandmama cooked.  Didn't they all?  When she was young, her mother cooked.  When newly married, the deli cooked.  Running hotels and raising small children, the kitchen cooked.  And my Pa cooked.  But she cooked potato salad.  Pot roast.  Meatloaf.  Vegetable soup.  Angelfood cake.  Applesauce salad.  Divinity and fruitcake cookies.  Squash casserole.  Turnips.  Mrs. Smith's Apple Pie.  Popcorn.  Fritos.  Dr. Pepper.  Nobody starved.

  

Every morning of her life, she ate a banana, half a grapefruit, a bowl of Grape Nuts, orange juice and coffee.  Must have been the right combination.  She saw her doctors when necessary or for check-ups.  The only time she was hospitalized was when her two children were born.  When she died, she had never had any surgery or broken bones and was taking one or two prescriptions.  

 

You can be feisty and independent all of your life.  The same will that got you off the table on day one can carry you almost to the end.   With good health, luck and care, you can grow old and wise.   But being feisty or stubborn will not prevent the spider webs of dementia from running through your mind.

 

Stubbornness will make you say you don’t need help.   You don’t care if you lay at the bottom of the stairs dead for days.   You don’t need any medicine at all.  You can’t turn the dining room into a downstairs bedroom.   You can lie in your gown tail in bed all week.  You will fight desperately, verbally, physically, and emotionally to not go to a nursing home.

 

Dementia makes you call the police if your caregiver aggravates you.  You throw books at people you care about.   You scream and cry to get attention.  You lose the battle and enter a nursing home.  You tell strangers you don’t have on underwear.   You call your daughter Mama.   You don’t remember being married.   You think your parents are still living.   You deny your ninety-three years.

 

The last years of a very old person’s life are often not the true picture of that person.  The wonderful people who took care of her didn't know who she really was.  They did not see the beautiful face that broke hearts, or the fun loving, young mother and wife.  They did not see the countless hours she spent serving at the Red Cross in WWII.  Or the years running a hotel or helping at church.  Her sturdy shoes and turtlenecks belied the once stunning figure, impeccably dressed.  They did not know she helped her father and mother-in-law when they were sick and dying.  Or that Grandmama was sitting next to her mother when she died suddenly, unexpectedly.

 

She was the oldest person I have ever known.  I always wanted to ask her what it was like to be so close to heaven.  Burt's grandfather had just died and I needed to pack.  But before leaving, I felt like making the trip to see Grandmama.  The difference in a week was dramatic.  She had never been this way before.  She was leaning over in her wheelchair.  It was hard for her to talk so I did all the talking.  We held hands the whole time.  She would squeeze my hands and look at me.  I know she knew me.  I poured my heart out to her about how much she was loved,  my admiration of her.  What a wonderful life she had lived.  I talked about all of her family waiting in heaven.  As much as I would miss her, I gave her permission to let go.  Four days later, I rushed from a funeral in another state to be by her side but she left before I could get there.  

 

When she was born, her father had smallpox and was quarantined in a shed.  He was allowed to come to the glass window and peer in at his new baby.   Love at first sight.  Grandmama always had a wealth of love and attention.   And she returned the same.

 

 

 

THE SIGN IS ROLLED AWAY

 

Tomato Aspic. Cranberry Pecan Jello Salad, Carrot Raisin Salad, Cucumbers and Tomatoes, Fruit Salad, Tunafish. Sliced Roast Beef with Au Jus. Ham. Chicken Tenders with Honey Mustard. Fried Chicken. Friday's Fried Catfish. Liver and Onions. Fried Chicken Livers with White Gravy. Baked White Fish. Enchiladas. A few options.

 Lima beans. Corn on the cob. Mashed potatoes with brown gravy. Famous fried okra year round. Brown beans. Turnip greens. Cornbread dressing. Eggplant Casserole. A call for green beans at the window beside the swinging kitchen doors. One of the white aproned cooks comes out carrying, two handed, the giant pot of fresh green beans, delivering them into an almost empty tray on the long steam table. Spinach with chopped boiled eggs. Macaroni and cheese. Hot, Cloverleaf yeast rolls. Garlic toast. Hot water cornbread. Wheat rolls. Chocolate pie. Famous pecan pie. Coconut pie. Reaching in to snag the biggest piece of Egg custard pie. Strawberry shortcake. Green jello.    

For the taking, silver-wrapped slips of butter, lemon wedges, Half & Half pods for the mugs of hot coffee. Glass tumblers full of iced water and iced tea, condensation dotting the sides. 

Step inside the curtained glass foyer, welcoming with outdoor lamps like stepping onto a neighbor's porch. Benches for sitting out the long line or meeting your favorite crew. Walk past the long wall painted with views of Arkansas' hills and meadows. Highchairs with plastic wrapped trays waiting for the youngest customers.

A usually slow walk, peering over people's heads to see what was being dished out that day. Running into your best friend or an acquaintance from long ago. 

Easy favorites and hard decisions. My Daddy's vegetable plate - macaroni and cheese, dressing and mashed potatoes. I have to have the greens and hot water cornbread. Egg custard pie.

Three in my party. Servers carrying trays when necessary, one-handed, snatching up pepper sauce or ketchup from the condiment counter. Sitting under a starry sky or in the larger room with a wall of windows. A favorite spot, four top pushed against the windows. Feast quickly laid out across the table. A cloth napkin. The Beverage Cart Lady pushing seconds and thirds of water and iced tea. A china plate with lemon wedges. An extra napkin.

Four generations of Franke's running the ship since 1919. Cafeterias in Little Rock, Hot Springs, Fort Smith, North Little Rock and Conway. Easter. Mother's Day. Holiday pies for pickup. Sandwiches for the downtown workers. A large to-go order of fresh, hot catfish headed to my home.

One of the oldest restaurants in Arkansas. Just down my road. A family atmosphere. The best visit, the long table in the windowed room, full of family and friends, maybe presents. Young and old.

The Karo Nut Pie was awarded Best Dessert in Arkansas by Zagat's in 2015. Franke's was inducted into the Arkansas Food Hall of Fame in 2018. Delicious, homemade family cooking by scratch, brought local, regional and national attention to the beloved restaurant.  

Since the pandemic and the closing of the last restaurant in 2020, besides the food, I have missed seeing the familiar faces of the people who offered true service. Many worked there for years. All contributed to the experience.  

The sound of helium filling up balloons. Passed out to the younger crowd. Mothers trying to tie the attached ribbons around fidgeting wrists. 

Check out and chocolate mints. Pecan pies displayed for carry out. Easy banter.

Step outside. A little one learns not to let go of the balloon. In a second of release, she sees the balloon drift away. Her mouth opens in surprise. The balloon really is gone, forever. 

THE COMMON COLD IS NOT

 The common cold is not. I'm in my office. Haven't spent much time in here except to check bills and a bank balance. All because the common cold has waylaid me. I have had a whopper of a cold, coming and going for the last nine days. Today is the first day I feel somewhat normal. In this pandemic day and age, Covid symptoms can mimic cold symptoms. 

The worst thing was that Mama was also coming down with the same cold but just barely ahead of me and much worse. When you are eighty-eight this is what happens. Between us, we have three, government provided, negative tests, two doctor visits and one x-ray.

I spent Saturday and Sunday night and most of Monday with her. She moved to town three years ago. By the interstate, I am 12 minutes from her door if she should need me. Well, she has needed me. On Saturday, when she was weak and running fever, I debated taking her to the hospital but how to go? I gave her a strong, prescription Ibuprofen and her fever went down and stayed down. But this is the daughter or son's dilemma. When to do what, when?

On Sunday night, I prayed I would be physically able to take her to the doctor! But she was the priority and we made it. Having to wear a mask while sneezing, not being able to breath and coughing is more than a challenge. But we certainly didn't want to get anyone else sick. I held back in the foyer, coughing my head off, trying not to attract attention. I finally moved outside onto the sidewalk to breathe and suck cough drops. 

We are both much, much better after our antibiotics. She is eager to resume Yoga, Book Club,Skip Bo, Happy Hour and Dinner but I don't want her to rush it. She did forget to play Wordle one day ending her streak. She had bronchitis and I had a sinus infection and the crud. But still, she asked me if this was dying? No, I won't let you, not on my watch.

I have been so sick that I haven't worried about the severe weather all week long (very much), the state of the garage and and other home improvements, Ukraine and Putin, Kent, food, car repairs or friends. Breathing has been my most important focus. It all comes down to being to draw breath through your nose. Such a simple thing in our miraculous body taken for granted but life impacting.

Two boxes of Puff's Plus and a myriad of cough drops, I have survived. Because of my medication, I can take only a scant amount of decongestant or a swig of good cough syrup. 

But I have thought about a couple of things during the blur of hours. Due to my vain nature, even when sick, the color of my hair. Is my hair turning grey or are those just scalawag rogue fake white blondes fooling me among the roots well revealed?

And my writing. I waller in my writing- my lack of production and my lack of gumption. Maybe I can't write anymore, certainly as well, although, as I proceed into my current decade there is no reason to explain except for slothful ease.

Sitting around, watching the endless loop of TCM musicals and B&W I've seen before, I told myself I would get up and writing something. This is an exercise - a start.

This may not be worthy of blogville but I am trying to follow-through with my fevered thought (I had no fever). Whatever the outcome.

Now I have written two pages on a grey day. But I can breathe! With both nostrils. Sneezing and coughing is greatly reduced. Taste has come back.

My only regret is not being able to take care of my Mama better. (I did drive over two days ago for my weekly Cat Box Errand.)

She was always the best, most tireless nurse when we were sick which was usually when my Daddy was out of town, in the middle of the night. On night I remember her sitting by my bed, pinching my nose shut so I wouldn't have a nosebleed when I started coughing. The overhead light was on and she had a paperback book in her lap.

If able, I would have been at her apartment serving grape drink - diluted Welch's Grape Juice with fresh crushed ice and sprinkle of sugar. Or her convalescent meal of hamburger patty, green beans, green salad with Green Goddess dressing, a roll and warm chocolate pudding. All depending on if you had thrown up in the last forty-eight hours which would only net a few tablespoons of cold Coca-Cola and four saltines. 

This is the care I would have started with. A freshly spruced-up bed and a pillow for her head. B&W movies she had seen before. 

Nothing is too good. I am taking her lunch today. Food has been an issue. But Chick-Fil-A will keep her going in the right direction. Afterall, when your Mama is eighty-eight, you can never be too caring.

BATTER UP WITH ACORNS

I was sitting in my neighbor's driveway, putting together a surprise goody box for her 94th birthday. Big crash. Like glass crash. I grabbed the goods and jumped out of my new car expecting to see a huge crack in my windshield. Two chunks of a huge split hickory shell were lying in the wipers grill. I couldn't see the guilty party but I did feel the force behind the pitch was aimed at my car.

That time of year again.  I woke up this morning and realized today was the day, the primary day of acorn flinging, Drop Day. Elephants running across our roof.

We do not have tickets to the World Series.  At this late date, all the baseball uniforms of every team are at the cleaners.  So who is running bases on my roof?

It is that time of year again, the Squirrel World Series.  Day barely breaks before they are playing with acorns as big as crabapples.  And they can’t catch!  If I sneak out on the deck, I can hear the fans singing “Take Me Out to the Taylor Tree,” smell the popacorn and hear little bitty cans of Nut Beer popping open, all before 7 a.m.! Bases are loaded.

Drop Day is a big deal at my house.  We have oak and hickory trees circling the house.  But this year we are experiencing Drop Week.  The acorns are so big everyone knows someone who has either been hit in the head or broken a bone falling over an acrimonious nut.  The dog has had his legs crossed for days. 

What is the purpose of the squirrel?  Maybe their purpose is to drive the meek mad. Friend or foe, ask a person not what they hate or love, but what drives them crazy.  A whole industry has developed to thwart the endeavors of these birdseed thieves.  My father had a little chair for the squirrel to sit on and eat corn, thinking it would distract the cute rodent.  They just got fatter. 

They keep their teeth sharp by chiseling deck rails.  We have especially talented squirrels that leaned out over the roof edge, devouring a shoebox size piece of soffit.  We covered the opening with mesh wire stuffed with steel wool pads, about the only thing they can’t get their teeth into!

 The antics of the squirrel are so amusing we forget they are just rodents in the tree of life.  Recently, we watched a squirrel climb into the BBQ grill.  He thought he had found a secret paradise, his twitchy tail still hung out the back.  Later, we looked in the grill and found a half-eaten acorn.  I left two fat ones as a gift.

 Do you know why you never see a squirrel kid?  They can’t run with nuts in their mouth and aren’t long or fast enough to keep up with Mama.  What makes a squirrel change direction in the middle of the street?  Count the times you’ve zigged for his zag.  Come to think of it, have you ever seen a squirrel lying dead from an inaccurate leap?  No.  A Secret Squirrel Society gathers up the errant Wallenda to perpetuate the myth of the flying squirrel. 

 Despite the negative, there are good things about Mr. and Mrs. Squirrel.  They are thorough and tireless when building a nest high in the treetops.  Think of the courage required to jump out a distance five times your length or the confidence required to zip along branches and electrical wires.  Despite my frustration with them, I am drawn to their secret treetop world, only imagining the thrill of flying through the air and maneuvering their hickory mazes and oak bowers. 




A yearly reminder of the revival of the love affair with Fall. One of my most requested posts for reading at Fall Festivals such as The Really Good Cornbread Festival and The Strangest Pumpkin Pie Spice Soups and Sauces Carnival.

NO CHARM IN A THIRD TIME

 

Three years ago, we replaced our old deck with a larger, more attractive model. I love this time of year because I can take a cup of tea and sit on the deck and enjoy this perfect autumn afternoon. Maybe read a book.

Inside, the house is a few degrees cooler than outside. We haven’t “turned the air” on. That is our quirky way of saying we are messing with the temperature – hot or cold. But no heat yet in the house on October 19. I am carrying my floor heater with me from office to den to take the chill off.

Apparently, this is the year of the wasp. Angry wasp. There are editorials written and poems and articles.

We had the yard treated in September and found a big nest under the wonderful, new deck. It was quickly disposed of after all of the contents were deceased. Several people have suggested I tell my wasp story but there are so many others out there. How different can wasp incidents be?

I didn’t have my peppermint spray with me. Supposedly, if you Google what wasps don’t like, wasp don’t like the smell of peppermint. Oh, the lucky person who made that discovery.

Lovely autumn day waiting for the jeans to dry. Still a chill in my bones despite the heater. Since it is warmer outside, I make myself a cup of Constant Comment Tea which is a lot like spiced tea, add sugar and head out to the safe deck. My husband has been giving me regular wasp reports when he goes out to grill or sweep the deck. None to see.

I remember my first wasp sting. I was about seven, playing in a front yard tree where a few wasps resided. I poured mud on their nest and they rewarded me with a sting near my eyelid. My next sting was at my grandmother’s house. You always had to watch for wasps at her house. Like when you got in the bed. I leaned up against a window seat and it got me. My knee was swollen and hot and I went to the doctor.

A few years ago, I stepped on a sluggish wasp in my office. It was just wobbling on the carpet. No reaction except any injury on a toe or knuckle drives you crazy. Several years pass until the end of this summer.

My first two wasp stings were two weeks apart. Honest. I was standing in the exact same spot, wearing the same clothes and the same time of day. End of July. One was on my left forearm and the second on the back of my upper arm. The first was red and swollen and I went to the doctor because it was obviously not just a little sting.

The second sting caused my arm to swell inches past my elbow. And it was bad red and hard and hot. My doctor said I had had a severe reaction and I must carry an EpiPen. He puts me on steroids and cream. I won’t post a picture.

I am devastated. My daughter carried an EpiPen and I remember the mystery severe reaction that put her in the ER. Yes, I am glad to have the pen if I need it, but just the thought of needing it caused me to lose sleep.

I love to be outdoors. But there are stinging insects out there. I suddenly felt restricted, scared to step on our deck. I even made up Peppermint Spray – not to spray at the wasp but around the area where I am. I bought Peppermint Shampoo and Peppermint Soap.  

Wasps like trash and recycling and my ferns. And also, Constant Comment Tea. I had just gotten settled, a couple of feet from the previous wasp attacks, when this flash of black flies towards me and swoops up over the roof. I would know that swoop anywhere. I am out of there.

If I get stung again, I will probably have a panic attack and will be unable to distinguish it from the severe allergic reaction of not being able to breathe. I carry my pen with me everywhere, even if I were to go for a walk. I keep one in the house.

This pen is Epinephrine. It comes with its own special Trainer for Practice Only Pen. I don’t carry that. I can only hope I will be cognizant to use it myself or instruct someone how to jab my thigh and count a slow three. But once you inject the pen, you have to go the hospital. That is the best part about being out in the middle of nowhere if you do get stung.

Everyone raves about the ability to take the shot and I agree. I just disagree with some little flying wasp that can cook my goose. I am not ready to have my goose cooked or in such a manner. I don’t take out the trash or recycling or look forward to yard work.

The audacity of the angry wasp to send me running into the house. Guess I’ll go find my peppermint spray bottle. And get lathered up about something I have very little control over. Afterall, it could be peanuts or shellfish.