birds, again

Something is going on. I’m not sure what, exactly.

A male cardinal keeps ramming into the laundry room window. He’s been doing this for two days. He sits in the rhododendron, maybe two feet from the glass. If I come into the room, I see him fly off, around the corner of the house, and land in a cedar tree. I leave the room and listen to the rhythmic sound of him banging into the window. Is he seeing himself in the glass, as a competitor? I can’t imagine there’s anything in the laundry room that would entice a bird.

Meanwhile, Doof is sitting under the forsythia, next to the birdfeeder, waiting patiently for a bird to fly into his mouth. The titmice and chickadees are safe, as they come to the feeder, pick a seed, and take it into the tree above. The goldfinches don’t fare as well, as they spend some time on the perches, picking over the seeds. He doesn’t kill them, but he bats them around a bit. He loses interest when they quit moving. I probably shouldn’t be feeding them, but in the winter the color and activity are entertaining.

shrew and earthstars

Talking to Rita on Sunday, as we sat on her porch, she informed me that the critter Doof has been bringing home is likely a shrew. I had thought he was digging up small moles, because he was obviously digging, and the little things had short tails and longer snouts. As she has lived in, and loved, the country far longer than I have, I’ll take her word for it.

Having access to the Internet, I went on an information expedition. Blarina brevicauda is the formal name for the northern short-tailed shrew. Their preferred habitat is woodlands, but unfortunately, they also like my flower gardens. They may not burrow as deeply as moles, but I can attest to the fact that they DO burrow. Just walking across the middle level of the yard, on the way to the fire pit, you have to be careful not to twist an ankle. According to the University of Michigan Museum of Zoology website, they are 3 to 4 inches long and have soft slate gray fur. They are not sociable but are territorial and mark their areas with a foul-tasting secretion. They have poor sense of smell and vision, using a form of echolocation, similar to bats. Female shrews can have multiple litters, averaging 6 babies, throughout the warm months of the year, starting at about 65 days old. Shrews are voracious eaters; it’s estimated they consume and metabolize as much as three times their weight, daily. As squirrels do, they store food for the winter. Their salivary glands produce a toxic substance which is effective in subduing their prey, which enables them to kill and eat animals much larger than themselves. Because they eat insects, snails, and mice and have such voracious appetites, they help control crop pest populations. For my lawn and garden, Doof can keep up the good work. As far as the slugs and snails go, kudos to the shrew!



After the rain eased yesterday, I found a number of interesting growths around an oak stump. I knew it was a fungus of some sort, but I had never figured out what kind. So, back on the internet, I found the earthstar, botanically geastrum saccatum. I hadn’t noticed them in their pre-adult phase, a smooth, egg-shaped ball with a pointed beak. The ones I found had opened, the outer skin peeling back to form 4 to 9 triangular petals, with a soft looking punctured ball in the center. The petals are thick and tan. It makes a pretty flower. I’m going to try to keep a couple, see if they’ll last.

forty-three hours

The rain has eased. The creek is over the road at the entrance to the camp. The caretaker of the camp has moved a horse and pony to higher ground, after having to wade in. The county FEMA coordinator showed up at my door, thinking the director of the camp still lived here, looking for the caretaker. It’s been a busy morning.

As usual, the photos don’t do justice to the event. The creek over the road at the camp photo is clear. The photo of the creek in my yard doesn’t tell you that it’s covering twenty feet of ground, completely over the little dock and ladder.

The emergency management guy tells me we’ve had almost five inches of rain since this started Tuesday afternoon. It’s now stopped raining, but I’ve yet to see all the runoff from the feeder creeks.

forty hours

That’s how long it’s been raining. The National Weather Service says it will continue through to about midnight. The creek has covered the lowest level of the yard, the dock no longer visible. The cats are chasing each other through the house. The roof is leaking in two places. The farmer across the creek has rolled out a bale of hay for the cattle, the first this autumn.

For the past eighteen plus years, I’ve lived near this creek. As you would expect, its effect is evident, always.

In kind weather, the creek is a source of pleasure and entertainment. Last March, I was startled to hear voices, looked out the back windows and saw a group from the local wilderness camp maneuvering their canoes. Many times, as I sat drinking my coffee in the early morning, I was privileged to watch a great blue heron glide six feet off the water, heading downstream. I’ve seen Canada geese and mallard parents training their young. One morning, an otter was playing. Human visitors enjoy it, too. The kids sit on the dock; the adults watch the water, mesmerized.

Release of control and respect for the elements is wonderful, never better than when the weather is not “kind.” Don’t push it; don’t test it. Just sit back and watch the power that isn’t generated by humanity.

the Morning Show

Now that the majority of the leaves have fallen, I’m enjoying the morning acrobatic display.

Between the house and the creek are three terraces. As you would expect, the house is on the highest level. The shed and the fire pit are on the middle level, creek access and a small swimming dock and ladder are on the lowest. One of the trees on the middle level has a broken branch, quite large, caught on a lower, smaller branch. A squirrel family appears to have taken up residence. As I sat on the back porch, coffee cup in hand, I watched the show.

It seems there’s always a bold one (or two or more) and, by comparison, a timid one. The bold one came up out of the broken branch, scampered out on the smallest of branches and leaped six feet through the air to another tiny branch on a tree at least thirty feet from his home tree. As I was gazing in wonder, I noticed another squirrel emerge from the broken branch. This one boldly dashed to the end of the small branch, paused, then went back to the trunk. After a few seconds, he or she made a mad dash and cleared the jump.

I always tend to applaud the timid one.

Jack

I’ve known Jack for about fifteen years. We first talked when his son did some excavation work at a store where I worked. Some years later, we spent a quiet few hours, watching his son push dirt at my house. He had had some medical issues and retired early, so he and his dog, Pepper went along on his son’s jobs. When I see him at the grocery store or the bank, I’m always pleased. Yesterday, we exchanged words, when he came to the polling station, where I was working. He’s seventy-five to my sixty-three, fairly crippled up to my healthy as a horse, but I’m interested.

Both of my husbands were younger than me. Not by much, but I’ve always been drawn to and attracted by younger men. Younger women, too for that matter. Maybe that’s a way for me to feel younger, myself. Being attracted to someone does not equate to anything sexual. Even as a young woman, I lived in my head more than in my body. “Repressed” may come to mind. That could be, as I’ve always had some issues of that sort. But I find, as my body sends sexual messages less often, I’m open to different kinds of romantic relationships. The place where I choose to live, feel most comfortable, doesn’t afford me much in the line of romantic partners. These guys are a blue-collar, deer hunting group, intimidated by self-sufficient women. I’ve made friends with a lot of them and cherish those friendships but know that will be the extent of it.

But just maybe, Jack and I can take a ride in the mountains or meet for dinner. I suspect, given his physical limitations, Jack won’t act on what seems to be our mutual attraction. I’ll have to see if I can get up the nerve to pursue this.

fog

I had a meeting to attend last night and drove through the dark in a (literal) fog. Fortunately, there aren’t many vehicles on these country roads, because the distortion of their headlights made the trip a bit scary.

After arising this morning, I had my usual stint on the back porch. It had rained all night, so the fog hadn’t dissipated. Everything was soft around the edges and sounds were muted, until a pickup came down the road across the creek. This was obviously not someone who was familiar with the way this creek twists, because the driver ended up having to back up quite a way before turning around. The sound of the backup alarm was shrill in the soft air. I’d much rather hear the bleating of a calf, the bellowing of a cow, the chattering of a squirrel, or the chirping of the early morning birds.

I am blessed with the sounds of nature.

birds

Considering the feeders have only been up a few days, I was pleased to see a pair of titmice this morning. Knowing their habits, I am sure the chickadees will soon be attending. I sat on the bench, about ten feet from the feeders, listening to the titmice scold me, while having their snacks.

Doof sat on a rock across the lane, listening for moles or mice. I enjoyed watching him creep across the fallen leaf litter, hoping to catch a play toy. He doesn’t seem to eat them, but they’re dead, just the same, having expired while being tossed in the air. Being a little over a year old, Doof hasn’t become complacent yet. He dashes around, skulks behind trees, and generally makes life interesting for his two roommates, Jessie and me.

Although I mourn fallen birds, I feel the bird feeders are cheap entertainment for both the human and feline residents.

American Way

I had an enlightening talk with a young man at a wedding reception Saturday night. I was pleasantly surprised to meet a college student who hasn’t seemed to buy into our prevailing view of life. He got his bachelor’s degree from Roanoke College, which included a sabbatical in northern Spain during his sophomore year. He’d like to return, because he appreciated the pace of life there. So, he’s leaving for the Culinary Institute of America for a post-graduate degree, hoping to return to Spain, where dinner with friends is a celebration.

Somehow, we Americans have gotten the impression that our culture, our way of life is the epitome. We’ve taken to gauging our worth by our possessions, by the pace of our days, our rung on the ladder, the balance in our retirement account.

This could very well be sour grapes, on my part, but I really think we should be questioning “The American Way.”

a mystery

I’ve just started reading “To Love and Be Wise” by Josephine Tey for the second or third time. Living alone, without television, I find that I re-read the books I love. The protagonist is Inspector Grant of Scotland Yard. In the first chapter, he’s going to a party, at the request of his friend, Marta Hallard, an actress. Their friendship began because of her need for an occasional escort and his need for a sometime informant in the world of the theater. It grew, because they found that they enjoyed each other’s company.

I’m not a glamorous actress, but I certainly would enjoy having a male friend like that, another happy singleton, who’d like to get together for dinner, a movie, or a day trip every now and then.

color

I took a walk into the camp this morning. Because the wind is blowing, it was a noisy walk, with the leaves on the trees rustling, the leaves on the ground skittering.

As I passed the gate, a maple by the pond spoke up in a blast of orange. When I got to the dock, I could see that the water is much clearer now, than it was in the summer, the algae hovering at the edges. I stood looking at the rocks on the bottom, as the horses wandered over in search of company. We had a brief conversation, after which I started home.

The sun is shining, a blessing after a couple of gloomy days. I felt as though I was drinking it in through my skin, face raised, eyes closed. The white asters have faded, but the lavender ones are going full tilt against the shale banks. The forsythia leaves are beginning to turn a deep purple.

All the tints of autumn, in anticipation of the dimming of color in winter.

anger

I met Sharon for the first time last Friday. She’s working at the newly opened produce stand owned by her son-in-law. In the course of our, maybe ten minute conversation, I found we have a lot in common. We’re about the same age, and now that she’s working there, we both have part-time, post retirement jobs. Although I’ve known her son-in-law for years, I had never seen her before. Like a lot of older folks around here, she isolated herself, without being aware of the situation. Her job at the stand has opened her eyes to what she’s been missing. She admitted that she had been angry most of the time.

My father died in September of 2000. Since then, my mother has kept to herself in their four bedroom, two and a half bath house. Her routine, which she’s shared in numerous notes, consists of waking at 5:30 or 6, driving to a local mall and walking twice around the interior, driving home for a small breakfast, playing a few hands of solitaire, running errands, stopping at McDonald’s for a small burger (which she cut in half to have for dinner), running more errands, more solitaire, watching the news, while she ate the rest of the burger, then watching Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune, off to bed at 8, where she read mysteries, then awoke at 3 or so to read, again for a few hours.

Every time I’ve visited, we’ve gotten into some sort of altercation. I was aware of the fact that she was angry. I just didn’t know why. She refused to move from the house she’s live in since 1958, into a retirement home or some sort of assisted living facility. I could tell, when I’d arrive that she was glad to see me, but that only lasted for a day or two, after which she seemed to be jealous of any visiting I did with other family and friends. She’s deaf, so it’s difficult to communicate, particularly if she’s angry, as she tunes me out. Given she was angry most of the time, visiting was frustrating.

There was a crisis in April. There had been a leak in the upstairs bathroom, which had gone undetected, as Mum never goes up there. The collecting water had finally broken through the kitchen ceiling. The good thing is that the crisis precipitated a general discussion of Mum’s situation. My brothers contracted with “Senior Helpers” in May, having a young woman come in every day to do some cooking, cleaning, driving, and general socializing. Even though I’m over 500 miles away, I know having the helper there has helped, because I haven’t gotten any more plaintive descriptions of Mum's days.

I know how she feels. I’ve lived alone and generally favor that situation. But I have made sure that I keep in touch with friends and plan periodic events in my home. I work at the bank six days a week, if only for a few hours a day, expressly to keep in contact with my neighbors. Sharon has taken the same step. I hope I will continue to keep myself involved with family, friends, and neighbors. It’s difficult to keep a “mad” going, if you’re interacting with people who have no idea why you’re angry.

the wind

The forecast was for a low of 48 degrees; the thermometer said 54 at 7 o’clock this morning. The wind is blowing; the cats are dashing from tree to tree. I have two reactions to the wind.

Understandably, I want to hunker down. I want to bake bread, make soup, and get out my turtleneck shirts and my puffy jacket. I want to plant bulbs, in anticipation of next spring, and clean up the drab flower and herb beds. Having acquired bazillion spools of ribbon, I want to figure out what I can make with them, how I can use them to facilitate the passing of winter. I want to make a Christmas list, plan Thanksgiving dinner.

On the other hand, after the lethargy of summer heat, I’m invigorated by the chilly autumn wind. I dream of wandering, seeing new places and people. An ongoing dream of a motorhome, a piece of home I can take with me and the cats, going south in the winter, up to Canada in the summer, entices me. Just drive away from the drama and boredom of day-to-day, see new places and people. Charm folks, them move on, without having to apologize for any inadvertent, awkward comments I may have made.

Of course, that takes resources I don’t have, so hunkering down ain’t a bad alternative.

interesting

I got a call this morning from my ex-husband. He had gotten an email from a friend of mine, who was concerned that she hadn’t heard from me in a week. My ex lives three thousand miles from here; we communicate via email or Facebook every couple of weeks, max.

The interesting part of this, to me, is what went through my mind, before I returned his call. He and I have been divorced since 2000. He’s remarried to a wonderful woman. They’ve visited me here at the creek. But I found myself thinking that maybe there was trouble in their paradise, and he wanted to come back. Oddly, given that I was the one who instigated the divorce, I found that to be an interesting idea.

Most of the time, I enjoy living alone. I do find that I procrastinate, knowing I have tomorrow to do whatever it is, and I tend to schedule events to blast me off my butt. I have a lot of friends and spread myself around, so I don’t overwhelm any one of them. Just lately, I seem to want to overwhelm someone.

This time, last year, I was gearing up for having guests. Autumn is one of my favorite times of the year, and I was going to host two women for the month of October. I have been married twice, both of the weddings in October, the one to the last ex in a lovely outdoor wedding in a park across the street from our home. Next Saturday, I’m hosting a cookout/bonfire for a place I worked prior to retiring. A couple of weeks later, I’m going to a wedding, which will be held at the cottage I talked about a week or so ago, a place with wonderful memories.

It seems I’d better be aware of the effect of October on my psyche. Sometimes loneliness can creep up on you.

yesterday

Where to start? The day was full of friends, some local, some not.

I got an email from Sharon, who used to live nearby until her husband died, and she moved back to her family in Tidewater. She and her sister are planning to visit this weekend. We’ll have a great time, catching up and eating!

Tami is getting married. I’ve known her for about ten years, and we each went through the dissolution of our marriages during that time. Mine was a bit less volatile, in part because I didn’t have the involvement of children. We also worked together at her garden center business and share a love of gardening. The garden center was the glue for our friendship, as it was housed in an old cottage, up the creek from the house I live in now. During the two or three years I worked with her there, we hosted some wonderful “girl” parties, complete with bonfires, potlucks, and twinkle lights on the trees. She sold the business and left the area to go back to school to become a veterinarian tech. Having completed that course, she moved back, divorced, and got a job at Virginia Tech. I’d see her maybe once a year at festivals, where we’d catch up. I got an invitation to a Fourth of July party at her new home in Blacksburg, where I met her fiancé. Then I got an invitation to her wedding, which will be next month at the cottage. She’s rented it, again, and she and her fiancé are fixing it up to be their weekend hideaway. I stopped there yesterday to see how they’re doing. The magic is still there, in the cottage and in her.

Rita just got back from a long-weekend trip with her husband. They rarely go out of town, as they farm, which pretty much ties them to their acreage. She works in town, so I stopped and had lunch with her and her co-workers, always a cheerful, noisy time. She’s my “solid as a rock” friend, brave and funny.

I had been getting emails from Anna, saying she was thinking of me and thought she would call, so we could catch up. She stayed here for a month last autumn, while we worked on a film. The screening for the film was a couple of weeks ago, and she wanted to get my take on it, as she couldn’t make the trip from her home in California. I called her, when I got home from work, and we had a wonderful talk, every bit as thoughtful as the talks we’d had, sitting on the back porch after filming was done for the day.

Friendships take commitment on both sides. I’m honored that these special women have chosen to make the effort with me.

food

Living alone, I’ve gotten lax about cooking. I make my old standbys, generally in too large quantities. Buying packaged, fresh produce is difficult, as the chances are good that some portion of it will spoil, before I can use it all. I make a lot of soups, stews, and sauces, which I either eat for days or freeze in (hopefully) single servings.

As a young wife, I invited friends to dinner and experimented. Some of those experiments have become standbys; most of them haven’t, because they involve too many fresh ingredients. Given my relationship status and age, there aren’t many choices for friends I can comfortably ask to dinner. Generally, the male part of a couple isn’t at ease with the idea of spending a couple of hours, listening to two women talk, particularly if the food is a bit different.

So, I started a food club. I invited three girlfriends, all of them married with children at home, to come to my house once a month for a themed dinner. The last dinner was Mexican. We each take a part of the dinner. Depending on work and family schedules, each friend either brings their ingredients or the finished product. Lisa made quesadillas here; Christina made a flan at home. I made chicken mole here; Jessica put her bean dip together at work. We spent a couple of hours, laughing and eating. It was great fun for me, having friends in the house, and for them, getting away from their houses.

These women, with their busy lives don’t have the time or energy to plan meals, regardless of what Better Homes and Gardens would have us believe. This way we can experiment, without having a seven year old turn up her nose. I can be creative with menus and know that at least once a month I’m going to do a bit of cleaning!

I’m leaning toward French for next month.

words

A friend is going through the end of her marriage. The obvious culprit is alcoholism, her husband’s. Less apparent are the hurtful words that have flown back and forth over the more than a decade they’ve been together.

I’ve never understood the need to belittle people, even in jest. Heaven only knows, I’ve been unkind to people I care about, but it hasn’t been intentional. I would hope the worst that could be said was that I was careless. I’ll admit to that. I get frustrated and cranky.

It’s no mistake that I live alone. I need a lot of downtime, recharging time. I took the Meyers-Briggs personality inventory, which confirmed that I am an introvert. The thing that interested me about that was their definition of “introvert” as someone who needs to be alone to recharge, as opposed to an extrovert, who draws energy from other people. Being with most people drains me.

sounds

Sitting on the back porch this morning, I noticed that there are underlying sounds here, if you listen. The creek is still, generally. It’s deep enough, wide enough that there isn’t a “running water” sound, unless it’s in flood. But if there’s been dew, it sounds like rain, as it falls from the leaves of the two massive oaks in the yard. Then there’s the “plink” of an acorn on the metal porch roof. Soon, the profusion of acorns will sound like hail.

The Canada geese have been calling for the past couple of weeks, in anticipation of their coming departure. I wonder where they winter, if they come to Virginia for the summer. Their ranks should be filled, as I saw two broods last spring, a total of ten babies. The cattle have been all but invisible through the summer, what with the profusion of growth on the creek edges. I’ll catch glimpses of moving shadows on the water and hear the occasional lowing or hysterical bellowing.

In a month or so, I’ll refill the bird feeders. What with all the rain we’ve had this year, I didn’t think the birds needed supplemental seeds, but as the feeders were outside my bedroom window, I haven’t had a symphony to greet me each morning. Next year, I’ll fill them, as I’ve missed the general chatter as I open my eyes. First thing in the morning, the wild turkeys are active, too. I may not see them, but their talking among themselves on the ridges is evident. Occasionally, a family will cross the road, taking a low trajectory if startled. A mainstay of this country life is crows. It’s rare, if they aren’t announcing what seems to be imminent danger.

Now that the camp is closed for the season, I hear little or no traffic. That will continue until next spring. If I hear a vehicle, it’s someone I know. The cats and I have become used to the small sounds; the sound of a car or truck seems large.

sister

My sister called last night. We were on the phone for an hour and a half, because we had to catch up on about three months worth of our lives.

At some point, in our twenties, we lost touch for awhile. She went off to college; I got married. She met her future husband at college and got married after graduation. My husband was deferred, hers went to Viet Nam. During the Seventies, we both moved around, following husbands’ school or work. She had children; I did not. She stayed married; I did not. Through almost all of that, she has been the constant in my life. We’ve both strayed “a fur piece” from our home town and rarely see each other, but we talk. My, how we talk.

Although I think we’re very different, we help each see the other’s perspective. Maybe not clearly, but we offer glimpses. Having a common early history, we can offer fairly accurate appraisals of motivation and reaction. We both tend to take things too personally but in different ways and with different responses.

I wish she was closer, geographically. I know we’d get on each other’s nerves, but the idea of talking, face to face is pretty wonderful.

smearing

I was sitting in the front yard, with my coffee and a cigarette, watching the hummingbird moth sipping at the abelia and the hummingbird at the basil, when I saw a half dozen leaves floating down. The seasons are definitely not set in stone. The cicadas are calling; the temperature is rising toward a probable 90 degrees. But the leaves are beginning to fall. Much as we’d like to think there are clear lines between things, smearing occurs. In October, before the first hard frost, the impatients will be lusciously pink, the nasturiums vividly red and orange. Many of the trees will have lost their leaves, but the summer will be remembered by the annuals.

more roommates

I have a small back porch, just big enough for a couple of chairs and a small table. That’s where I have my morning coffee and observe the goings on at the creek. Living in the county has introduced me to previously unobserved critters. One of them is the carpenter bee.

They’re those big, fuzzy black, slow-moving insects I’ve always called B-52s. They tend to startle you but rarely act aggressively. Since moving here a year ago, I’ve been able to watch them through their yearly cycle. What alerted me to them was the appearance of sawdust on the porch floor and circular holes in the rafters.

Xylocopa virginica is yet another roommate. The Ohio State website tells me that carpenter bees are solitary, overwinter as adults within their old nest gallery, and emerge in April or early May to mate. The females prepare the nest, excavating an entrance hole slightly less than a half inch wide. She’ll bore a couple of inches perpendicular to the grain, then make a 90 degree turn and bore out four to six inches to crate a gallery for her offspring. She puts a food ball, a mixture of pollen and regurgitated nectar, in the end of the tunnel, lays an egg on it, then walls off the brood cell with a plug of chewed wood pulp. She repeats the process six to ten times and dies soon after. The babies stay in their brood cells, going through the entire life cycle (egg, larva, pupa, adult) for about seven weeks, then chew their way out. They use their birth nest to hibernate through the winter.

Carpenter bees like wood, particularly weathered wood, unpainted. My house has aluminum siding, but the underside of the porch roof is unpainted wood. There are places where holes have been plugged, with putty and duct tape. I’ve added some duct tape patches, myself. But this fall, when the temperature has fallen enough to make the bees less active, I’ll plug the holes (the ones I can see, anyway) and paint. They don’t seem to like painted wood.

I’d really prefer to choose my roommates!

friends

I joined Facebook about six months ago, mainly to keep track of the people I worked with on a film last fall. Facebook seemed like an easy way to do that.

The first thing I noticed was how hungry I became to acquire more “friends.” Funk & Wagnalls defines “friend” as: “one who is personally well known by oneself and for whom one has warm regard or affection.” Is it possible to have over a hundred of them? Not for me.

Two things happened in the past week. I sent a “friend request” to a young local woman, who I’ve known since she was a child. She sent me a message, “who are you?” Indeed.

I was contacted by a man I went to high school with, asking, “Was your maiden name Fox?” No, but I responded with my maiden name. I accepted his friend request, and all hell has broken loose for me. He’s sending suggestions for friends to me and sending the link to my profile to others. He seems to have taken it upon himself to be the moderator of all things high school for a growing number of sixty-somethings, posting photos from our yearbooks and old newspapers, suggesting changes to our profiles, including our photos and names (please include your maiden name, so it’s easier for your classmates to find you). The historical bits are interesting, but to get back to my main premise, can all of these people be considered “friends?”

Not for me. The young woman’s question resonates. She’s caught in a bind, isn’t she? If she accepts my “friend request,” she may feel obligated to edit anything she posts. If she doesn’t accept, any time she sees me could be uncomfortable. I do have affection for her; I’ve watched her grow up. But I can understand that the feeling may not be reciprocated.

The conductor is not my friend. I remember his name but only recognized him after checking out my senior yearbook. I changed my profile photo to my senior picture but will now change it back. I did not follow his request to add my maiden name to my profile. I haven’t used that name since 1967 and don’t think it defines who I am in 2009.

health

Fortunately, I’m extremely healthy, at age sixty-three. I don’t have (and don’t much care to have) “health insurance.” I could have had insurance at my last full-time job, but even with the company paying 71% of the premium, my monthly payment would have exceeded my yearly health care cost. What kind of financial sense does that make?

My opinion is that the combination of the medical, pharmaceutical, and insurance industries has fostered the impression that we are all accidents waiting to happen. Somehow, we’ll be “safe,” if we are constantly monitoring our vital signs or begging doctors for medicine. The implication is that we will live forever, if we just spend the cash needed.

I am not defined by my physical ailments, most of which I’ve brought on, myself. I don’t need an anti-depressant to handle what is a gradual lessening of energy, as I age. The few times I’ve gone to the doctor to have my ears flushed, I’m usually asked how the rest of my life is going. (I think they feel they should do some diagnosing and prescribing, doncha know.) Depending on my mood at the time, I’ve sometimes said I was feeling tired. I’ve never been asked if I take dietary supplements and/or eat well; I have always been asked if I want a prescription for anti-depressants.

In case it isn’t apparent, I’m all for “socialized” health care. In a year and a half or so, I’ll be eligible for the American version, Medicare. I probably won’t use it much, anyway.

flood

In spite of all the rain we’ve had in the past few months, this is the first time I’ve seen the creek look flooded. It’s high and silty brown. The rain started at about quitting time at the bank yesterday, growled into a thunderstorm, settled into a downpour, and continued through the night. Because of the silt, I suspect it was raining on a good part of the creek, upstream.

Although this has been a beautifully cool summer, the rain has necessitated that the windows be cracked, instead of wide open at night. Hence, the house is stuffy and smells of mildew, stale cigarette smoke, and cats. The house is built on a concrete slab, which is covered with carpeting, so I’m seeing blotches I’m assuming are caused by the damp, leaching up through the carpet. There’s an infestation of small black ants, which appear to be munching on the shoe molding in the kitchen, not to mention errant pieces of dry cat food. All in all, I’m meeting roommates I wasn’t aware I had!

cycles

Yesterday, I had what I consider a productive day. Lots of resolution of issues, some chores accomplished. I felt energized.

Then I spent a restless night. Today my brain is sluggish, my thoughts scattered. I’m not sure which is the cause, which the effect, but the cats’ actions seem to reflect my state of mind. Either they are playing out my indecision, or I’m just projecting my frustration on their usual activities.

Life is like that, filling and draining.

This could be a perfect day to have lunch with Rita!

Necessities

I belong to a rural electric cooperative. Formed in the 1930s and 1940s, electric co-ops buy power from generating companies, then push it through locally maintained lines and connections. This allows those of us who appreciate being away from “the madding crowd” the ability to live less primitively. Somehow, over the past sixty or seventy years, the rural electric cooperatives have gotten a bit arrogant.

Every month I receive a glossy (small) magazine called “Cooperative Living.” The latest issue has been sitting on the kitchen table for the past few days, as I ponder why I’m finding it offensive. It has a hard stock over cover, with the headline, “Electricity is a Necessity….. Don’t let Congress make it a Luxury!” It would appear that there’s a “cap and trade” bill before Congress, which would levy fines on electricity generating facilities for carbon emissions. The co-op would have me believe this would make buying electricity from them too costly.

Two things come to mind. I think the co-op is getting me ready for yet another rise in my electric bill. That way I can pay for the “free” Cooperative Living magazine, which gives me great advice on how to conserve energy in my home, advice I read thirty years ago in Mother Earth News.

The second thought is this. When did artificial things become necessities? It’s only been about a hundred and thirty years since Edison lit the first light bulb. I’m sitting here at my computer, writing this, but I think I have a pretty clear idea of what necessities are.

Rain

I just went out and emptied the rain gauge. Since Tuesday, we’ve had an inch and three quarters. All three of us are a little soggy and cabin-feverish. It’s raining, as I speak. The creek’s up but not as much as one would expect. I suspect it isn’t raining as much, upstream. Craig’s Creek lacks a half mile of being classified as a river, so there’s a lot of “upstream” involved. The Canada geese are active, calling to each other as they fly over. With all of the trees along the creek, they aren’t as visible as in the winter, but they certainly are audible.

My first post

Although I’ve spent years writing and editing, I’ve never had this large a prospective audience. I hope I’m up to the task.

Some background: I’ve lived in the western shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains for better than twenty years and expect to die here. Having grown up near Detroit, I didn’t know the comfort and awe-inspiring quality of mountains. Add to that the pleasure of a large creek and its attendant wildlife, and it can’t get much better, at least for me.

I live in what was the caretaker’s cottage, near a summer camp for handicapped children. At this time of year, there’s some traffic, particularly when the kids are arriving or departing. During the winter, if a vehicle comes down the road, it’s either the caretaker of the camp or the mailman.

Every morning, the cats and I sit on the back porch and watch the creek. Truth to tell, I usually have a cup of coffee and my first cigarette of the day. I watch the creek and the cats and any wild life (mainly squirrels doing their trapeze act), while I think about things. My connection to nature is more philosophical than physical.