The Inexorable March of Time

I was reminded by my friend Brian’s recent comments in a Facebook group about returning to blogging that, “hey, I have a blog, too!” Only I haven’t written anything here for nearly FOUR YEARS, and other than satisfying my own desire to write, I’m not sure why I would continue, or even why I did it in the first place.

At home, on my desk, in my computer bag, etc., I have blank notebooks, big and small, some with stuff written in them, some still completely blank. I don’t expect them ever to be of value to anyone, except maybe sentimental value for a time. It’s like a bit of dialogue in the movie “Arthur” where Arthur Bach (Dudley Moore) says to fiance’ Susan, “Not all of us who drinks is a poet. Maybe some of us drink because we’re not poets.”

Not everyone who buys little notebooks is a writer. Maybe some of us buy little notebooks because we’re not writers (but wish we were). I’m also reminded that some things take discipline, practice, and patience, three things I also wish I had more of.

So, what does all this have to do with time? In the four years since I’ve written anything here our eldest and middle daughters have gotten master’s degrees, our youngest gotten her degree, all three are working and living on their own, we took a trip to England, Scotland, France, and (briefly) Iceland. I took a business trip to Norway and Sweden (the ones in Europe, not the ones in Maine), political and civil discourse in our country has gone from bad to worse, our middle daughter has gotten married and our son-in-law started his medical residency at a naval hospital, and in so many ways and in so many spheres I find myself wondering, “what’s next?”

What’s next? Well, who knows, but maybe I’ll write something about it.

time alarm clock alarm clock

Photo by Monoar Rahman on Pexels.com

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Around the World in 223 Days

So neither Phileas Fogg’s fictional feat, nor Michael Palin’s actual one, are in any danger of being eclipsed. But when Lindsay‘s flight lands in Boston later today she will have completed one whole trip around the world. We’ll count the high school trip to France, Spain, and Morocco, and her semester abroad in Uganda, as test flights, like the Mercury or Gemini projects were before the Apollo missions.

Except for eastern Canada and a week in Bermuda I have never been outside the United States. The moons of opportunity, capability, and inclination just haven’t come into alignment, but that hasn’t stopped us from experiencing some fascinating places vicariously. And at a safe distance from spiders.

Clowns to the Left of Me, Jokers to the Right…

No, I’m not writing about Congress (and there are even more reasons since that article was written), though goodness knows I could be. What I am writing about is the apparent wholesale abandonment of driving sense on the part of the motoring public. No, no, I’m going to through bicyclists and pedestrians, too. Holey moley!

This past June I whined on Facebook about an incident that happened while waiting to turn left into our driveway, which is on a busy road. I was on my way home from work and waiting for oncoming traffic to clear before making the turn. I was on the bike, having made sure to flash my brake light a few times while slowing and had both my brake light and left turn signal on. Just as traffic clears, this lame-brain on a BMW touring bike goes by ON MY LEFT, cigarette dangling out of his mouth, Hawaiian shirt flapping in the breeze, and no helmet on his empty head. I give him the horn; he gives me the finger. Fair exchange, I guess, but WTH?!

This morning I’m also on the bike, second in line to cross a busy intersection that’s one lane in each direction on each leg (so no right turn lane, no left turn lane, just one lane). The car ahead of me has its left turn signal on and has to wait for someone coming straight across who must have imagined another lane. Meanwhile, there are vehicles in the oncoming lane with their left turn signals on. I want to make sure the car ahead of me has cleared so the drivers on the other side of the intersection can see me when I cross the intersection to keep going straight. I’m owning the lane and, six-foot-four plus the silver helmet, plus the hi-viz, high contrast XXL jacket I’m wearing, I’m not hard to see but this knucklehead right behind me just couldn’t wait and passes me on the right just as I’m beginning to cross. Once more with the horn, and a few morning pleasantries. Did I really have my face shield open when I said that? Oopsie.

What IS it with you people? Grrr.

Can you see me now??

Can you see me now??

Skwerls!

(c) Lillian Stokes, 2009
In the latest battles of the bird feeder wars between humans (i.e. me) and gray squirrels (i.e. them), the skwerls definitely have the upper ha- um, paw, greedy little cusses that they are.

I honestly don’t know, perhaps in a fit of impending middle-aged softening of the head, but a few years ago I started hanging a bird feeder or two. Joking (or not) aside, I like to see the various birds that come out – chickadees, blue jays, cardinals, other little birds I haven’t identified, since I’m not a serious bird person. We also have bunches of mourning doves that hang around, which I also don’t mind but they’re not as much fun to see as the others. The one I really don’t like to see, though, is the bushy-tailed gray vulture a/k/a the gray squirrel. They make a mess, they scare off the real birds, they hog the bird seed (especially the sunflower seeds), and they destroy bird feeders. So far we’re 1-for-4, with the latest in our arsenal being the Brome Squirrel Buster Mini. Without sounding too violent, though, I was thinking about something with an anti-squirrel missile launcher, but they seem to back-ordered or something.

After watching “Raccoon Nation” on Nature a few weeks ago, I wonder if our efforts to thwart squirrels is having the similar, unintended consequence of creating a race of uber-squirrels. Yikes, there’s a thought.