It's been a stormy couple of days here at the hacienda. It's been rather warm for this time of year and I was wishing for rain so I wouldn't have to keep watering my seeds & newly planted plants.
*note to self: Duh! Be careful what you wish for.
Yesterday, I woke at 5. After spending the obligatory (ahem, cough cough 2 hours) catching up on the online world, I went outside to attempt to finish putting in the seeds for the garden before we take off for camp and abandon the garden to weeds. It was sort of cloudy, but the sun was coming out from the clouds occasionally. I did finish what I set out to do, namely getting the sunflower room put in and the 3 sisters planted.
Explanation: for those of you who've never heard of it, a sunflower room is a circle (well, mine's a rectangle) or whatever shape you want of sunflowers. As they grow, they make a sweet little room for little people. Well, of course, being me, I made mine pretty big because, hey, I could, and also, I have two rambunctious little people to play in there. Plus I thought it might be a fun place to knit in the summer. So that is those mammoth sunflowers interspersed with birdhouse gourds. Should be interesting if it works.
The other thing that I planted yesterday (in addition to piles of squash seeds) is a section of "3 sisters". Isn't that a sweet name? It's from the native peoples, who used to plant their corn, squash, and pole beans all together. The concept is that, as the corn grows taller, it provides natural poles for the beans and squash to climb. I'd never tried it and, seeing as I have the room this year, I thought it was time to take the plunge. I sure hope those things work out...it should be really cool if they do.
Ok, so I'd just gotten my tiller & seeds put away and told Friend Husband I was ready to give him a haircut when the sky turned dark and opened up. Literally. I mean, it poured. I was glad that the ground was getting a good soaking (and I hoped that it didn't wash away my little rows of seeds) and proceeded to give FH a goooood shearing. Poor guy! I guess that my mind was elsewhere because it was way short. And I thought I was using a longer guide than usual to avoid that. I consoled him with the thought that at least it would be grown out by the time he started teaching again. In July.
I tried to convince David to let me shave a big "D" on the back of his head but he was having no part of that. One day he'll let me have big fun with his head but yesterday was apparently not that day.
I spent the rest of the day attempting to get clothes together, do laundry, etc. I ended up with a splitting headache. I was just about to lie down for a while when Friend Michelle called. They were approaching our little burgh and it was time to meet them. FM is the mother of Beloved PenPal Bethany, who Abby loves with single-minded devotion. We had been planning this get-together for a while and it was planned for the nearby park. Not going to work in the thunderstorm, so we moved it to the McDonald's PlayPlace.
Oh. My. Word. I can't describe to you how much my head felt like coming right off my head and rolling out the door when I hit the wall of cacophony that reigned in there. FM offered me some ibuprofen and I told her I was going to get some caffeine in hopes that that would make the ibuprofen that I'd already taken work better. If not, I'd take her drugs. Fortunately, a lot of the noisier children left and my ibuprofen kicked in. We had a delightful time. If I were smart, I'd have processed the pictures to put up here but of course, I haven't. Maybe tonight.
While we were in the McDonald's, the sky turned dark again and the wind picked up. I found out this morning that we were indeed in the middle of a bad storm, right behind the gigantic plate glass windows of Mickey D's. Yay. Fortunately, I didn't know that then. The children played for quite some time but eventually it had to end, to much regret on the parts of the penpals.
Let's see, I'm losing my train of thought here. Oh, yes, storms. This morning I woke up to the wail of storm sirens. Now, while I listen heartily to those, Friend Husband does not. I listened to the radio to try and find out what was going on, to no avail, then turned to the internet. Apparently, we had a severe weather warning, a severe thunderstorm warning, and a tornado watch in effect. I got Rachel downstairs, grabbed my knitting bag for downstairs, and watched the weather. Then the power went out.
Needless to say, everything worked out or I wouldn't be here tippety-typing away. The sky is still rather nasty looking but so far no more storm sirens. And I've got to go vacuum now so that my position remains secure in the household. Heh. As if Friend Husband would fire me. Anyway, it has to be done, along with major laundry-folding so I guess I'll blaze. Have a happy, healthy day in the hand of the Lord!
Showing posts with label outdoor life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label outdoor life. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Strange Things Are Afoot at the Circle K...
Ok, so I woke up at 4:30 this morning and couldn't go back to sleep. I decided it would be a good time to read the book club book (sorry, Jen, I just got it from the library yesterday). I read until about 7:30, when I got up to water my poor little plants and seeds. The ones that Keziah and her little friend Chloe did not disturb, pound into the turf, or otherwise mess up when they stravaged about my garden yesterday (oops, note to self: do NOT go there). I decided that I needed to water the poor transplants in the front since the hoped-for rains did not come yesterday.
So picture it: It's a warmish morning and I'm dragging the water hose from the back of the house to the front because there's not water spigot in the front (nope, don't go there either). I'm simultaneously talking to David, who is up with me, chattering about camp, the upcoming park visit with the Bakers, camp, watering plants, the possibility of having a bubble-blow before leaving for church, etc. I walked out about as far as the hose would go, then gave it a pull for good measure and was about to walk out into the yard closer to the garden when something odd caught my attention out of the corner of my eye.
My thoughts: "Now that tree looks really strange. Lumpy almost. Aw man, don't tell me it's got some sort of tree disease and is about to drop. I know it's old but for Pete's sake...wait...those aren't lumps...they're cicadas...Oh. My. Word."
My actions: Well, first I was rooted to the spot looking on in awed horror. Then I dropped the hose and started sprinting back toward the house. At this point, David, who's never seen me sprint when he wasn't in imminent danger, says, "Mom! Wait for me!" I said, "Davy, come on! We've got to go get your dad and the sisters! They have to see this!" Then he sort of slowed down and questioningly asked, "The 'cadas?"
Yes. The 'cadas. I guess Brood XIV has finally reached maximum hatchery because man alive, our trees are writhing with cicadas. Trees as in plural. As in four old enormous trees in the front yard. As I came in from watering the front beds I had this thought, "I wonder how long it will be before they all start their 'singing' in the trees?"
More pictures:
Closer-up of the same tree.
Base of that same tree. I don't know why I can't convince the picture to be the correct orientation, but this is indicative of the sheer numbers coming out. As I bent down and was quiet, I could almost hear those things coming out of the ground. And I did hear them coming out of the shells and whirring a little bit. And yes, this is what finally gave me the willies about the cicadas.
Another base shot. When I held my hand (which is a largish female hand) up to the tree trunk, I could count 20 or so cicadas under my hand-spread. This tree is over 2 stories high and, while the cicadas thin out some as they ascend the trunk, they don't much.
After I took this shot, I thought, "Wow, all those bugs are up there having relations and everything. I don't think I want to be standing beneath this tree any longer." So I skeedaddled and woke up the rest of the family, who were not nearly as pleased as I was.
Hey, it isn't often that you live in history and know it's history as it happens, right?
And I think I'll be preparing for camp inside for the next couple of days.
So picture it: It's a warmish morning and I'm dragging the water hose from the back of the house to the front because there's not water spigot in the front (nope, don't go there either). I'm simultaneously talking to David, who is up with me, chattering about camp, the upcoming park visit with the Bakers, camp, watering plants, the possibility of having a bubble-blow before leaving for church, etc. I walked out about as far as the hose would go, then gave it a pull for good measure and was about to walk out into the yard closer to the garden when something odd caught my attention out of the corner of my eye.
My thoughts: "Now that tree looks really strange. Lumpy almost. Aw man, don't tell me it's got some sort of tree disease and is about to drop. I know it's old but for Pete's sake...wait...those aren't lumps...they're cicadas...Oh. My. Word."My actions: Well, first I was rooted to the spot looking on in awed horror. Then I dropped the hose and started sprinting back toward the house. At this point, David, who's never seen me sprint when he wasn't in imminent danger, says, "Mom! Wait for me!" I said, "Davy, come on! We've got to go get your dad and the sisters! They have to see this!" Then he sort of slowed down and questioningly asked, "The 'cadas?"
Yes. The 'cadas. I guess Brood XIV has finally reached maximum hatchery because man alive, our trees are writhing with cicadas. Trees as in plural. As in four old enormous trees in the front yard. As I came in from watering the front beds I had this thought, "I wonder how long it will be before they all start their 'singing' in the trees?"
More pictures:
Closer-up of the same tree.
Base of that same tree. I don't know why I can't convince the picture to be the correct orientation, but this is indicative of the sheer numbers coming out. As I bent down and was quiet, I could almost hear those things coming out of the ground. And I did hear them coming out of the shells and whirring a little bit. And yes, this is what finally gave me the willies about the cicadas.
Another base shot. When I held my hand (which is a largish female hand) up to the tree trunk, I could count 20 or so cicadas under my hand-spread. This tree is over 2 stories high and, while the cicadas thin out some as they ascend the trunk, they don't much.
After I took this shot, I thought, "Wow, all those bugs are up there having relations and everything. I don't think I want to be standing beneath this tree any longer." So I skeedaddled and woke up the rest of the family, who were not nearly as pleased as I was.
Hey, it isn't often that you live in history and know it's history as it happens, right?
And I think I'll be preparing for camp inside for the next couple of days.
Friday, May 30, 2008
The Cicada Whisperer
I've been spending inordinate amounts of time out in the back carving away at the clay in our backyard, trying to expand our vegetable garden. Because we're leaving for camp soon and I have to get stuff in the groundbeforeweleaveorwewon'thaveanythingtoeatthissummerdon'tyaknow?
Yes, I'm a wee bit stressed.
And we still have the cicadas in residence. I really thought I'd have time to put the pics up on Wednesday but then I really thought I'd have this project in a good place by now andthat'swhatIgetforthinkingandit'sgoingtotorrentiallyraintomorrowandIhavetogetitdoneorI'lljusthavetoredoitandI thinkI'dslitmywristsbeforedoingthatagain.
Whoops, I'll try to keep this within the realm of not-psychotic.
The cicadas. These are the 17-year periodical variety, very special in my opinion. When Friend Husband and I were making our very first move, to Columbia, MO, back when the earth's crust was cooling and I was young and attractive, the parents of these little guys were up in the tree above where my garden is, dropping their progeny into the earth and hoping for the best. Or not. I don't know that bugs hope, but I'm going to go with that thought because I can.
I had no babies myself at the time, unless you want to count my little sister, which I did at the time. But these little guys were dropping into the soil, burrowing way down there, trying to avoid being eaten by moles and whatever else is down there (again, anthropomorphizing). Over time, they developed into whatever form it is they turn into (they come out of the ground looking sort of like worms with big eyes and waspy differentiation between the segments.) Over the last couple of years, they avoided the burgeoning mole population (teeming because they were feasting on my cicada larvae friends and breeding more copiously) to pop out of the ground this very month and make their appearance.
There are very many of them.
While I'm using the tiller (which may I say is the only reason I'm still gardening, I think, being the wuss that I am), all of a sudden there they are. I set Attiller down, pick them up (5 and 6 at a time) and put them somewhere safer. Suddenly, I feel an odd pinching sensation on the back of my legs. The first time I felt it, I thought it was a mosquito, trying to feast on my good rich blood. I slowly raised my almost ankle-length skirt and shrieked when I saw the big black bug on my leg. I batted that one off as a reflex but now I battle my reflexes, pick the cicada gently off, and put it somewhere safe.
I also find myself defending them from the depredations of my children and the neighborhood urchins who "want to kill the ugly bugs" (urchin quote) or are "'fraid of the 'cadas, Mama" (my urchin quote). I told them all about the life cycle and supposed about what their families where doing while the little guys were trying to become the gentle black bugs we see today. I told them that the next time these little guys came out in Clermont County, they'd be in college, or perhaps married and parents themselves. So. Leave. Those Bugs. ALONE. Then I taught them how to gently pick them off them (because, after all, the things fly and do tend to climb up us...I told the children it was because the bugs think they're trees, they're so tall) and release them. I was rewarded by my own little violent urchin's gently letting his cicada fly free and the neighbor's urchin saying, "Wow, those are really cool bugs!" Yay me.
And I returned to the garden where I found about eleventy hundred of the little guys wriggling in the dirt that I'm about to mix with top soil and manure. So I pick them up and yes, I talk to them and tell them to stay over there so they don't get run over or killed by the children. Fly, be free, sorry about those wings, I hope they straighten out, go on over there and climb the tree.
I find myself being the Cicada Whisperer.
And I appreciate your allowing me to say all this or for the rest of the afternoon, I'd be tilling, raking, planting, and having "the Cicada Whisperer" run through my head. Now I can have peace. And I can be the Cicada Whisperer.
Yes, I'm a wee bit stressed.
And we still have the cicadas in residence. I really thought I'd have time to put the pics up on Wednesday but then I really thought I'd have this project in a good place by now andthat'swhatIgetforthinkingandit'sgoingtotorrentiallyraintomorrowandIhavetogetitdoneorI'lljusthavetoredoitandI thinkI'dslitmywristsbeforedoingthatagain.
Whoops, I'll try to keep this within the realm of not-psychotic.
The cicadas. These are the 17-year periodical variety, very special in my opinion. When Friend Husband and I were making our very first move, to Columbia, MO, back when the earth's crust was cooling and I was young and attractive, the parents of these little guys were up in the tree above where my garden is, dropping their progeny into the earth and hoping for the best. Or not. I don't know that bugs hope, but I'm going to go with that thought because I can.
I had no babies myself at the time, unless you want to count my little sister, which I did at the time. But these little guys were dropping into the soil, burrowing way down there, trying to avoid being eaten by moles and whatever else is down there (again, anthropomorphizing). Over time, they developed into whatever form it is they turn into (they come out of the ground looking sort of like worms with big eyes and waspy differentiation between the segments.) Over the last couple of years, they avoided the burgeoning mole population (teeming because they were feasting on my cicada larvae friends and breeding more copiously) to pop out of the ground this very month and make their appearance.
There are very many of them.
While I'm using the tiller (which may I say is the only reason I'm still gardening, I think, being the wuss that I am), all of a sudden there they are. I set Attiller down, pick them up (5 and 6 at a time) and put them somewhere safer. Suddenly, I feel an odd pinching sensation on the back of my legs. The first time I felt it, I thought it was a mosquito, trying to feast on my good rich blood. I slowly raised my almost ankle-length skirt and shrieked when I saw the big black bug on my leg. I batted that one off as a reflex but now I battle my reflexes, pick the cicada gently off, and put it somewhere safe.
I also find myself defending them from the depredations of my children and the neighborhood urchins who "want to kill the ugly bugs" (urchin quote) or are "'fraid of the 'cadas, Mama" (my urchin quote). I told them all about the life cycle and supposed about what their families where doing while the little guys were trying to become the gentle black bugs we see today. I told them that the next time these little guys came out in Clermont County, they'd be in college, or perhaps married and parents themselves. So. Leave. Those Bugs. ALONE. Then I taught them how to gently pick them off them (because, after all, the things fly and do tend to climb up us...I told the children it was because the bugs think they're trees, they're so tall) and release them. I was rewarded by my own little violent urchin's gently letting his cicada fly free and the neighbor's urchin saying, "Wow, those are really cool bugs!" Yay me.
And I returned to the garden where I found about eleventy hundred of the little guys wriggling in the dirt that I'm about to mix with top soil and manure. So I pick them up and yes, I talk to them and tell them to stay over there so they don't get run over or killed by the children. Fly, be free, sorry about those wings, I hope they straighten out, go on over there and climb the tree.
I find myself being the Cicada Whisperer.
And I appreciate your allowing me to say all this or for the rest of the afternoon, I'd be tilling, raking, planting, and having "the Cicada Whisperer" run through my head. Now I can have peace. And I can be the Cicada Whisperer.
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Of insects and girls
Apparently, it's cicada time here in my home county. A few years ago, Cincinnati had its cicada invasion but it wasn't so bad out here in the 'burbs. Not only have the news types talked about it, but I've seen literally hundreds of cicada holes all over the yard in the last couple of weeks. Yesterday, the first cicadas were spotted in our yard.
I actually like the cicadas. They are supposed to only come around every 17 years. They're compact. And there's something compelling about those shiny red eyes. They just seem like happy bugs.
Of course, the girls started their whinging about them and I asserted to them through clenched teeth that we were not going to give the twins any ideas about them because, to be quite frank, I didn't want to deal with the histrionics. So I took some photos and we admired them but left them alone. As I told the twins, "We have to leave them alone so that they can go up in the tree and have baby cicadas. Because that's what bugs like to do--have babies."
And then we proceeded to plan and execute the plan for Abby's birthday sleepover. You see, about every five years or so, Abby decides to throw herself a party. When she turned three, she was apparently miffed that she didn't get a party, so she began to ask everyone she knew (mostly people in our congregation) to her 4th birthday party. I remember one of them looking at me and asking, "Didn't she just have a birthday?" I told him yes, but that she was planning ahead for the next one. None of us thought she'd retain any memory of this party but she worked on that sucker for the next year. And yes, we did have a party for her when she turned four. Sadly, she fell asleep as all the guests were arriving and was quite grumpy for the actual party.
When she announced that she wanted a party for her 9th birthday, and that she wanted it to be a sleepover, I groaned inwardly. I may have groaned outwardly, I don't know. Having one little girl spend the night can be very fun. Having a bunch of girls between the ages of 7 and 9 spend the night sounded not-fun to me. And when she started inviting random urchins, ahem, I mean girls from the 'hood, I was not at all pleased. It sounded like we were going to have a free-for-all rodeo of estrogen going off in our living room.
What saved us was that the girl next door, who is all of 2 days older than Abby, was having her slumber party the same evening. That party drew most of the neighborhood girls, bar one. The rest of the party consisted of two little girls who've spent the night with Abby (and vice versa) and one friend from her enrichment classes who had wanted to spend the night. All good. Except that the one neighborhood child seemed to need to either be the center of attention or needed to cause turmoil amongst the general populace. After what I thought was a surprisingly nice evening, a fracas erupted at about 1:30 AM. Now I'm not all that happy about having a brouhaha in my home during the waking hours. I was less than thrilled to get to be the referee at that time of the morning, especially since one of the girls was crying and there was a great deal of finger-pointing in the arena. I told all the other girls to be quiet and go. To. Sleep. NOW. And I talked to the other little girl.
The formerly-crying little girl and I stayed up talking for about an hour, at which point I told her that I was old and needed to sleep and she also needed to sleep. She turned over and started sawing logs. I went back to bed, feeling very old indeed and wasn't able to go to sleep until after 3.
It was not pleasant when everyone started waking up around 7.
Once the girls were up, I pulled a couple of them aside to get the story on what had happened the night before and got a more complete picture of the situation. Friend Husband heroically cooked 3 batches of waffles & pancakes for breakfast and we went out to enjoy the achingly beautiful spring morning. Me and about eleventy million children.
You see, I had our 4 slumber party girls plus 4 of my 5 children, plus a toddler from next door who was over to play with the twins, plus the toddler and kindergartner from the other neighbor who Rachel was babysitting. It was a circus. I'm glad that they all got along well, but I will admit that I was watching for trouble with a gimlet eye. The girls seemed to have made up, for which I was glad.
After a much-needed nap and a restorative game of Pack Rat, I went out to attempt to make gardens out of the mucky clay which is the basis of my front yard. Keziah and David were out with me and Keziah found a pile of cicada shells beneath one of our massive oak trees. She took me by the hand and led me to them and we looked at them and talked about the cicadas for a brief moment. As I was turning to go back, I noticed what I thought was a shell starting to move. As I looked closer, I realized that it was a cicada that hadn't shed its shell yet. I was all excited, thinking that I'd get to see one molt, but no, it was just heading inexorably for the tall oak we were standing near. In short order, we located three more. After watching them (and yes, photographing them), Friend Husband and I gave them a boost up onto the trunk and watched them crawling up. It was quite amusing for an amazing amount of time. Maybe we were just too tired to do anything else.
This guy was actually coming out of his shell in the grass but hadn't finished as he was making his way toward the tree. See the 2 sets of eyes?
Cicada races!
Oh, I forgot that I was going to post pictures for Friend Gina of my massive window cleaning. While we were getting the house spiffed up for company, I finally decided that I could no longer tolerate my kitchen window being dirty. This was a big step for me. I had been looking at that window get progressively nastier for the last three years and had done nothing about it. I just didn't have the umph to tackle the job. Since I finally decided I'd had enough, I thought this was a good sign. Unfortunately, three years' accumulation (and resultant petrification) of June and other bugs was rather nasty. To wit:
And a nasty close-up for the perverse in nature:
And, finally, the end result:
Much nicer indeed!
So I'm leaving now to ponder the inexorable mystery of why females are so catty at any age, and why I like the bug-eyed cicadas but don't like the bugs in my window.
Aren't they cute?
I actually like the cicadas. They are supposed to only come around every 17 years. They're compact. And there's something compelling about those shiny red eyes. They just seem like happy bugs.
Of course, the girls started their whinging about them and I asserted to them through clenched teeth that we were not going to give the twins any ideas about them because, to be quite frank, I didn't want to deal with the histrionics. So I took some photos and we admired them but left them alone. As I told the twins, "We have to leave them alone so that they can go up in the tree and have baby cicadas. Because that's what bugs like to do--have babies."
And then we proceeded to plan and execute the plan for Abby's birthday sleepover. You see, about every five years or so, Abby decides to throw herself a party. When she turned three, she was apparently miffed that she didn't get a party, so she began to ask everyone she knew (mostly people in our congregation) to her 4th birthday party. I remember one of them looking at me and asking, "Didn't she just have a birthday?" I told him yes, but that she was planning ahead for the next one. None of us thought she'd retain any memory of this party but she worked on that sucker for the next year. And yes, we did have a party for her when she turned four. Sadly, she fell asleep as all the guests were arriving and was quite grumpy for the actual party.
When she announced that she wanted a party for her 9th birthday, and that she wanted it to be a sleepover, I groaned inwardly. I may have groaned outwardly, I don't know. Having one little girl spend the night can be very fun. Having a bunch of girls between the ages of 7 and 9 spend the night sounded not-fun to me. And when she started inviting random urchins, ahem, I mean girls from the 'hood, I was not at all pleased. It sounded like we were going to have a free-for-all rodeo of estrogen going off in our living room.
What saved us was that the girl next door, who is all of 2 days older than Abby, was having her slumber party the same evening. That party drew most of the neighborhood girls, bar one. The rest of the party consisted of two little girls who've spent the night with Abby (and vice versa) and one friend from her enrichment classes who had wanted to spend the night. All good. Except that the one neighborhood child seemed to need to either be the center of attention or needed to cause turmoil amongst the general populace. After what I thought was a surprisingly nice evening, a fracas erupted at about 1:30 AM. Now I'm not all that happy about having a brouhaha in my home during the waking hours. I was less than thrilled to get to be the referee at that time of the morning, especially since one of the girls was crying and there was a great deal of finger-pointing in the arena. I told all the other girls to be quiet and go. To. Sleep. NOW. And I talked to the other little girl.
The formerly-crying little girl and I stayed up talking for about an hour, at which point I told her that I was old and needed to sleep and she also needed to sleep. She turned over and started sawing logs. I went back to bed, feeling very old indeed and wasn't able to go to sleep until after 3.
It was not pleasant when everyone started waking up around 7.
Once the girls were up, I pulled a couple of them aside to get the story on what had happened the night before and got a more complete picture of the situation. Friend Husband heroically cooked 3 batches of waffles & pancakes for breakfast and we went out to enjoy the achingly beautiful spring morning. Me and about eleventy million children.
You see, I had our 4 slumber party girls plus 4 of my 5 children, plus a toddler from next door who was over to play with the twins, plus the toddler and kindergartner from the other neighbor who Rachel was babysitting. It was a circus. I'm glad that they all got along well, but I will admit that I was watching for trouble with a gimlet eye. The girls seemed to have made up, for which I was glad.
After a much-needed nap and a restorative game of Pack Rat, I went out to attempt to make gardens out of the mucky clay which is the basis of my front yard. Keziah and David were out with me and Keziah found a pile of cicada shells beneath one of our massive oak trees. She took me by the hand and led me to them and we looked at them and talked about the cicadas for a brief moment. As I was turning to go back, I noticed what I thought was a shell starting to move. As I looked closer, I realized that it was a cicada that hadn't shed its shell yet. I was all excited, thinking that I'd get to see one molt, but no, it was just heading inexorably for the tall oak we were standing near. In short order, we located three more. After watching them (and yes, photographing them), Friend Husband and I gave them a boost up onto the trunk and watched them crawling up. It was quite amusing for an amazing amount of time. Maybe we were just too tired to do anything else.
This guy was actually coming out of his shell in the grass but hadn't finished as he was making his way toward the tree. See the 2 sets of eyes?
Cicada races!Oh, I forgot that I was going to post pictures for Friend Gina of my massive window cleaning. While we were getting the house spiffed up for company, I finally decided that I could no longer tolerate my kitchen window being dirty. This was a big step for me. I had been looking at that window get progressively nastier for the last three years and had done nothing about it. I just didn't have the umph to tackle the job. Since I finally decided I'd had enough, I thought this was a good sign. Unfortunately, three years' accumulation (and resultant petrification) of June and other bugs was rather nasty. To wit:
And a nasty close-up for the perverse in nature:
And, finally, the end result:
Much nicer indeed!
So I'm leaving now to ponder the inexorable mystery of why females are so catty at any age, and why I like the bug-eyed cicadas but don't like the bugs in my window.
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