Mostly Anecdotal

I’m not the kind of guy who would wink at a firefly, though I once said hello to an ant. One thing is for sure; I don’t much like snails. I don’t know much about them, but have heard they are fond of beer. I also know they blow their noses on the little private escalator they use to move around on, and that they appear when it rains.

I like it when it rains. I like the way the air smells. I like seeing the drops of water on the rose like tiny tears of joy. I was out getting the newspaper a few days ago after a light rain, and noticed that someone had left the hose curled up on the front porch. We have a reel for the hose that has a handle on the side. I don’t use the handle anymore because on each turn of the crank a rose bush says a rude hello to the back of my hand. So I placed one hand on either side of the reel, and started turning it, pulling it down and then gripping higher up and pulling again. It was then I noticed a snail near where I was gripping the reel, yuk.

He looked as though he was ready to slime me. I was thinking I should call Snail Busters, but instead I placed my little finger against my thumb and attempted to flick him off the reel and onto the ground. I didn’t use enough force, and though I could see his grip loosen a bit it wasn’t enough to dislodge him. I tried again, and failed again. I didn’t have the heart to flip him really hard, and so I ended my quest to remove him and continued to reel in the hose.

It was only later that I learned that snails are pests, they eat plants, and can wreak havoc in a garden. My wife suggested beer-traps. I didn’t know it at the time. The idea was to kill them by drowning, and so putting mayonnaise jar lids filled with beer around the garden wouldn’t get it done.

I’m not sure what the solution is to our snail problem. I don’t like the crunching sound when I inadvertently step on one, and I don’t want them destroying our garden. Maybe we can negotiate, maybe there is some way to convince the snails not to eat our garden. I’m willing to give it a try. Maybe they could just call out for Chinese.

I like to drive the shopping cart when we’re at the grocery store, and my wife humors me.

She says I’m practicing for my old age. “It’s a rolling walker,” she says, “all you need are those little hand brakes and you’ll be set.”

One day I’ll make a mistake and say “Whatever do you mean?”

She’ll say, “well you know sometimes when you get older you get unsteady on your feet.

“I’m steady,” I’ll say

“But someday you may not be.”

“And”

“You’ll be old an unsteady and need a walker, and walking around with a shopping cart is your way of preparing.”

I don’t use a shopping cart to prepare for a walker.

“Then why the obsession with the cart?”

“I’d rather not say.”

“That’s just your way of not admitting that it’s walker practice. ” “No really, it’s not walker practice.”

“I’m not buying it until you explain yourself.”

“Oh all right.”

“I’m waiting.”

“I do it because I like controlling the cart, deciding where it goes, what aisle we go down next.”

“That’s it.”

“Yep, that’s it.”

I explain, when I control the shopping cart I can skip the junk-food aisle. You know, the aisle that is packed with stuff that clogs your veins and puts extra padding on your hiney.

“I control the cart for you Dear, because I love you, and because I don’t ever want to see a bubble on your butt.”

“You’ve never skipped the junk-food aisle before” she’ll say, “and without your walker to hold on to your bubble butt would go bouncing down the aisle.”

There is an ant in my house, and there is a bookcase attached to the wall above and behind the desk my computer sits on. Most days I see the ant walking along the lower edge of the bookshelf, he walks at least 30 minutes every day. I figure he is on some sort of fitness regimen.

I know there are some of you, who, if you saw an ant walking across the edge of the bookcase in front of you would reach out and pinch him between your forefinger and your thumb, or maybe between your middle finger and thumb, and then you’d squeeze him gently. It wouldn’t take much, and then you’d flick him toward the wastebasket. Not me, I like having an ant in the house.

The edge is perpendicular to the ground so I’m not sure how he manages not to fall, sticky feet I’m guessing. He always walks from my right to my left and around the corner of the bookcase and out of sight. Then somehow he walks behind the bookcase and later reappears again walking right to left and around the corner. I don’t remember seeing him appear until he is at least a third of the way along the edge, I’m thinking he must have an invisibility cloak like that young Potter fellow.

Where is he when he’s not circling above me? Why he’s on the wall near where the cat sleeps. The cat and he like to play, though not as much now as they once did. One day I saw the cat trying to catch the ant, usually the cat just sits and stares at him tilting his head to one side and then to the other. One day the cat was successful. He had the ant in his paw, and then he started hopping around and shaking his paw. I laughed. I’m not sure if I should have. Was the ant just tickling his foot or was he biting? “Play nice,” I said. This continued for a time, and then either the ant got tired of the game and jumped to the floor or the cat shook him loose.

I was worried about the ant, I didn’t see him land; he may have had a hard landing. I didn’t see the ant for the rest of the day, but the next morning there he was doing his wall walking right in front of me. I said, “hi ant, how you doing.” He ignored me.

You might have heard that Elvis is dead, he’s not. He drives the delivery truck for our local thrift store.

We have enough junk to supply all the thrift stores in our area for years. We’re like a giant distribution center. Our house is so full of crap that we are in danger of being trapped in an upstairs bedroom, surrounded by junk. The house is full; it’s reached flood stage. One day soon the roof will pop off, and our stuff will flow over the sides and into the neighborhood. A yard sale three yards wide, and on the move.

My stuff is mostly books, they’re double parked throughout the house. The problem is 650 feet of books and only 300 feet of shelves. I need a little voice in my head saying you don’t really need another book. I need a little voice to say go to the library, don’t buy it. I probably wouldn’t listen to a voice like that, but I need one. I give books away, and I sell some, but somehow they accumulate faster than I dispose of them.

Gail is a crafter, and a painter, a deadly combination, her half finished projects are stuck in every corner, and stacked to the ceiling. Coke stuff, she collects Coke stuff, and not the kind you recycle, it’s the kind you keep forever because it will be valuable. Then there are the Furbies, she thinks they are cute, and collectible; of course. I think they were designed specifically to annoy me. I’d like to rip their little heads right off, but I want to stay married too, so I don’t. She has half-finished painting projects in every room. They’re affecting my sleep. The boxes cast shadows that look like monsters creeping through our house at night, and there are voices. The Furbie is singing Figaro in the spare room. Who woke him up, a bad guy, or maybe it’s a homeless person staying for the night.

I put my foot down, like in sweetie can we talk about our junk problem. I put my foot down figuratively, because there really is nowhere to literally put it down without stubbing a toe. Gail recently spent three days cleaning out her craft room and barely scratched the surface. She’s like a tornado that comes through periodically, she doesn’t remove anything she just rearranges stuff leaving it in a different order. “Some of this stuff will be valuable some day,” she says. “Sell it on Ebay, or you could have a thrift store pick it up,” I say.

The guys from the thrift store came today. I know they came because I heard the truck, and then a ruckus. My wife was yelling, was she yelling because she was having second thoughts. Her words, muffled at first, were now clear; she was yelling for me to get out there and quick. Had she changed her mind, was she arguing with the thrift store guys, was she trying to unload the truck?

“Look, at this guy,” she said, “he looks just like Elvis.” “Listen to him talk,” she said, “he sounds just like Elvis.” ‘Say something,” she said to him. Elvis was ready, “I don’t know nothing about music,” he said, “in my business you don’t have to.” “Not bad, not bad at all,” I said. “He’s great,” she said, “I can’t believe it; Elvis is picking up our stuff.” “Nice meeting you Elvis,” I said. He smiled, “just taken care of business,” he said.

There may be hope on the junk front, my wife is talking about getting another load ready for the thrift store. “Do you think Elvis will come again?” she says.

The alarm sounds, an annoying sound. It’s meant to be annoying, a cadre of bees ready with a morning aria, their voice as one. They may be the same bees missing from hives across the country, and out of work have volunteered for the job of waking our family.

Today it is Gail they are waking for she is the one that has to be to work first. She slides to the edge of the bed, sits up, and punches the snooze returning to her place alongside me. We drift back to sleep only to be awakened again by the same buzzing sound we heard moments before, and again she repeats the now ritual motion quelling the annoying buzz once more.

A few moments later the incessant buzzing returns. “You’re having trouble getting up today” I say, “well I want you to know that three alarms is my limit. If you lie down again you’ll have to take the day off.” She springs forward and shuts off the alarm, and then mumbles something about changing her starting time at work from nine until ten, springing forward so as to avoid springing forward. Will she adjust, will we adjust, or will we wait impatiently until November when we can fall back?