I Don’t Kill So Many Bugs Anymore

I Don’t Kill So Many Bugs Anymore

I thought about this on my way out of the house this morning. A pretty big black ant was walking across the driveway, minding his own business, and I stepped over him. I’ve never been one to squish ants on purpose anyway, but not to long ago I read an essay bemoaning the arrogance of humans who go out of their way to step on bugs because we’re just, well, bigger and we can do it.

Obviously, if bugs were the same size as we are, we wouldn’t step on them.

I’ve always been cautious about ladybugs – I’ll take them outside and shake them off gently. And, there are lots of other bugs that don’t bother me. June bugs are all right, because they stay outside. I like lightning bugs, and I’m always glad to see them. There don’t seem to be so many as there used to be. One theory is that light pollution makes it harder for them to see each other and find someone to mate with.

Mating does not seem to be a problem with those nasty little red fire ants. I do kill them. I also draw the line at roaches and termites.

I’m on a live-and-let live status with flies outside, but they cannot come inside. (When we were kids, my sister and I trapped a few flies that were annoying us between the screen and the window in our bedroom. A few days later, the WHOLE WINDOW – it seemed – was full of nascent flies making a frightening noise. Our poor, long-suffering father had to come up and handle the matter.)

I was feeling really very good about all of this, but I just remembered mosquitos. It would seem that I am delicious to them. My whole life, squads of mosquitos have lined up to attack me. If mosquitos have a “Most Wanted” poster board anywhere, my face is on it. I kill them without a second thought.

It’s worth thinking about, in my opinion, this business of which creatures you are willing to snuff and which you are not. It would appear that there are plenty of humans who are willing to step on anything or anybody, without a moment of consideration.

A Recovery Update

A Recovery Update

It isn’t the emergency that is hard, it’s the future that follows that requires courage. Wait – I’m serious about this.

When you are in the midst of an emergent situation – oh, let’s say a brain tumor removal surgery has triggered seizures that won’t stop and doctors are privately saying 50-50 at best just to live and, if you do, being a vegetable is a real possibility – you really don’t have to be all that brave. You’re busy.

As my son, Tyler, said (about something else), “It’s like landing the Space Shuttle. You don’t have an engine, you’re strapped in, and you have one shot to land it.”

So, when you get through the emergency, you’ve landed the ship, and you start the day-to-day. It’s the “everydayness” that you have to master, now. It’s the petty annoyance of reminding yourself to stand up straight and lift your feet up.

It’s when you notice there are frown lines where there didn’t used to be any. Noise is noisier, especially highway noise. You get too much attention when you don’t want it – like when you fall off a treadmill. And too little when you do – like when you think you maybe look pretty good for the shape you’re in and everybody should be commenting.

When your blood sugar drops you need immediate relief – like a tiny bowl of Rice Krispies. When you’re hungry, you want protein…ideally a prime steak. Now.

But the “everydayness” will save your life, each and every day. The birds in the morning are ridiculously loud. The trees are really magnificent, aren’t they? The flowers are really awfully good.

Also good: vacations, artwork, comfortable chairs, the doggies, my dear family, old friends who are back in touch, the current cast of characters who make my days interesting and fun. Then there are my sons. My younger son has developed into a young man of character, drive and intellect, far braver than most, dearer than you can imagine. My older son is a mad genius, wildly creative and smart, and filled with love. His soon-to-be wife is a delight – so smart, so creative, so loving and with great taste in men!

And then there is my husband. More years than either of us want to confess to. Lots of hills and valleys, adventures and evenings at home. We could never have predicted the course of our lives, but we are so glad we did it together.

The emergency may kill you, but “everydayness” will save your life.

The Last Straight Man on Broadway

So two days ago I was at my regular doctor’s office for a checkup. This is as opposed to the neurologist and the brain surgeon and any other specialist who walks by. This is the doctor you want to see – bugging you about flu shots and who takes care of old and young...big problems or small. He's a "you've got a friend in me" kind of guy. A good guy to know.

Out in the waiting room I was sitting with an older woman with a very fancy walker. It seems she had broken her tailbone the very day after finishing rehab after a leg injury. She said she just got up too fast and fell right on her, um, tailbone.

“Oh dear, “ I offered. “I am so sorry. Please be careful.” She topped me with these truly wise words: “Isn’t it amazing how fast we learn when it’s our fault?”

Stop right there. If only I could needlepoint a pillow. Or take a billboard. I’ve never heard this before (obviously, some would say).

“Isn’t it amazing how fast we learn when it’s our fault?”

Amazing, indeed. It’s the source of so many of the lessons I’ve had to learn the hard way. Most of them I’ll never admit to. I wish I had heard this sooner. I would probably have ignored it, as with so much good advice. But isn’t it just?

“Isn’t it amazing how fast we learn when it’s our fault?”

Some More About “LIT-ra-cha”

Some More About “LIT-ra-cha”

I believe I’ve mentioned this problem before. I aspire to be a writer of “LIT-ra-cha” – that is to say, prose that has some meaning beyond the obvious, and that aspires to be an honest reflection of time, place, mood, or experience.

But here is the problem. I am not nearly depressive enough. Oh, I’ve been depressed. Make no mistake. My standard comment has been that if you are not depressed you either don’t have enough information or you are stupid.

Happily, the removal of the brain tumor vastly improved my own depression, and the meds putty up most of the remaining cracks.

So now I am writing and reading serious prose to see where I stand in my quest to amaze by my words. Sadly, I find I am too sunny by half and more. For my research, I am working my way through some classics. Mostly I’m crawling through one of my son’s textbooks – a 1600+page tome entitled, appropriately enough, “Literature”. It is one of those giant and expensive textbooks that everyone has to buy for an English Lit survey course.

I would bet anything that no student reads all of any of this material. I didn’t. I’d read the first part of the piece, then the end, then I’d work my way back to pick up the plot. I’d study the “compare and contrast” questions at the end, write the essay and move on to the next assignment.

I obviously had no integrity as a serious student of what is deemed to be good literature. So now, after all this time, I am doubling back to read some of these famous pieces – I recognize many of them from my own college days because they’re still in the book. Chekov, O’Connor, Poe, Hemingway, and the rest of the expected cast of characters are all here just as I remember. “The Lottery” is even included, which is guaranteed to ruin your day so may I say I need to up my dosage of antidepressants. This is heavy ground to cover.

There must have been a snooty committee somewhere long ago that decided what would be deemed serious literature. To be worthy, the writing needs to be dense. The topics should be dreary, threatening, or just plain creepy. It is entirely satisfactory if the story is virtually plotless. The characters walk around, bumping into emotional furniture, perhaps inflicting mayhem (silent or noisy) on their fellows.

There seem to be no bright skies shining in these worlds. Redemption is to be treated as you would sniff tainted meat.

In short, said the snooty committee, if you would be a serious writer you have to write serious stuff. But I doubt they said it that briefly.

Here is a perfect example of the problem. James Thurber is not usually included in the ranks of “serious” authors, although he is widely considered one of the greatest American writers. He was by turns funny, amusing, or at least darkly comic. His cartoons are compared to Matisse. Today, though, if people remember him at all, it is for “Secret Life of Walter Mitty”. Pity.

I am a student of James Thurber. I’ve read everything he wrote, along with a very serious 1000+ page definitive biography. In this biography you find out where he rented a cottage in the Bahamas in 1932. You learn more than you want to know about his fumbling romances. His bad eye gets blinder. (His brother shot him in the eye with an arrow. Mothers are sometimes right about these things.)

He bred poodles. And Scotties. He was a mean drunk. As he got older, he was meaner and drunker until he was finally diagnosed with the brain tumor that killed him. His life was far more serious than his writing. But I suspect, had his writing been more “serious” he would be hailed today as a literary lion (if such still exists).

My impatience with seriousness has often gotten me in trouble, or at least has held me back. The world rewards the furrowed brow, the fretful whine, and the impatient tap of a pencil on the table.

But back to LIT-ra-cha. There is one story in the anthology by Gabriel Garcia Marquez (who is a very big deal and taken very seriously) that concerns an “angel” that is really a dirty old man with dirty old wings missing a lot of feathers. I would say it’s really more of a character study of the man and his wife who are very poor when they find the angel. They charge admission to see him, make lots of money, but take terrible care of him. I would call it elder angel abuse. Then one day he flies away.

The questions at the end probe for multiple layers of meaning, of which I suppose there are plenty. Maybe it is a warning about how to treat angels. Maybe it is talking about how badly we treat others, including angels. I don’t know. Perhaps Mr. Marquez did but he’s not telling.* But he is on that high, serious shelf.

But here’s what I do know - the only way I will make it up to the serious shelf is to climb the bookcase like a third grader.

*I swear…this is directly taken from a study guide about this story: “How does magical realism reveal new perspectives of reality?” Obviously the snooty committee wrote that.

I Want to Dance

I really should stay away from dance competition shows. I’ve watched them for years, going back to my youth and PBS ballroom competitions that were at once impressive and funny. Oh, they took themselves so seriously! These were dance ninjas – gracefully elbowing competitors for better positions in front of the judges. I can only imagine what back stage must have been like – with their pomaded hair and spangled costumes and eyes that would cut you like sharp steel.

Now we have “Dancing with the Stars” and “So You Think You Can Dance”. Each, in its own creepy way, has much to offer.

DWTS certainly has dancing. Stars, not so much. It would seem that the barrel of “stars” is a small one, and each season they seem to dip deeper and deeper. It is interesting, though, to watch the season. Some improve, some don’t – I am uncanny with my accuracy as to who is going home. Really, if I were in Vegas I could bet. I wonder if they have a DWTS “book”?

SYTYCD is an entirely different breed of leotard. These are youngsters – 18 and maybe a little older. They can bend, leap, and twirl. The comments are often absurd. But there is no doubt that there is, on display, a rarified sample of the skilled and talented.

Time was, dancing was not a spectator sport. Social events often centered around dancing, complete with lingering glances. Today, I would be hard pressed, to find a venue for my urge to dance.

I could square dance. (I have some claim to this. My grandfather was a noted caller, and had custom satin Western shirts to accommodate his 19.5 inch neck. He was delightful.) Square dancing, however, requires that you join a club and these days you also have to wear those skirts held out to the horizontal with a frightening layering of crinolines.

Your partner has to be willing to go along, usually wearing a shirt made of the same fabric as your dress. Try as I might, I cannot see The Kenny doing this.

There is also the possibility of taking ballroom dancing classes. I suggested this to The Kenny and we took up shooting instead. It turns out I am an excellent shot, and I am an enthusiast at the range. However, I suspect that gunpoint is the only way I will get him to ballroom lessons. I would, however, love to see him Tango.

I have considered Tap Dance lessons. I tried this in my youth but showed no talent. I recall we worked for months on the same routine and only got about a minute into it. My teacher used her basement, had professional wooden tap shoes, and a flap in her tongue where she had bit it once when she was dancing. (I recall her son also had surgery to remove a suspicious hump/lump on his back which turned out to be a malformed twin, but that’s another story.)

I also tried ballet. Tried. The shoes, however, were fabulous.

Now, when I am actually feeling the urge to dance, I can see that I have waited too late. But I never showed any innate skill. My sense of rhythm is about as well developed as my ball-catching skills.

But I have the urge. I am looking for an outlet. And a leotard.