A Drive in the Country

Adams County, Pennsylvania

I had to go to Adams County, to the west of here, this evening to meet with the teacher of our Meeting's pre-school.  She will be taking over my duties as treasurer, bless her heart, and I was going over some of the tax work she'll have to do.

Adams County was my introduction to Pennsylvania over forty years ago and the land there is part of why I love this country.  The fruit growing region in the mid and northern part of the county makes me feel as though I've come home every time I return there.  I like to drive the back roads, over rolling hills, through long stretches of woods, instead of taking US Rte 30 to get there.  The drive goes past fields of corn, soybeans and timothy, through orchards of apples and peaches, pears, plums and apricots.  Old farmlands, in cultivation for over 250 years, populated here and there with original homesteads even older, are the last, rapidly disappearing vestiges of a wholly different America.

There is a hill I must crest on the eastern outskirts of Biglerville that presents me with a vista which never fails to take my breath away, no matter what the season or the weather.  The distant western horizon undulates with the blue layers of the South Mountains, where, this evening, the pink-tinged, smoky-mauve clouds look like fat dumplings atop a rosy-pink-juiced peach cobbler.  The storm that came through over the weekend ushered in more seasonable temperatures, lingering still, and the breeze blowing through the Jimmy's open windows is summer-soft.

I haven't lived in Adams County for twenty-five years, but every time I return, I feel like I'm going home, and my heart swells with emotion and weeps nostalgia - for what, I couldn't say.  All I know is I feel like I belong there, in those hills, beside those fields.  I fit in there; with the land, at least, if not with the people.  It is where, for a short time, and for the first time in my life, I knew who I was, and liked being me.
Posted by Martha McLemore
The photo above is not mine, but can be found, with more photos of the area, here: http://www.flickr.com/search/?q=adams+county%2C+pa+orchards&w=all&s=int&referer_searched=1

Evening Sky, 25 July

After the storm this afternoon, the neighborhood was transformed.  Neighbors spilled out of their homes, some collecting downed limbs and ripped off leaves, others sweeping water from their sidewalks, righting their garbage cans and picking up trash blown in by the fierce winds.  Children poured into the streets, riding bikes, sailing little homemade boats in the gutters, laughing and squealing while they splashed through deep puddles.

A couple of blocks away, somebody was running a chainsaw - must have had more than small limbs knocked down if they've brought out the big gun.  Somebody else, believe it or not, is mowing his lawn!  The trees are still dripping rain, for heaven's sake.  Well, it's his mower that will get clogged.  Maybe he just couldn't take not mowing his grass another single minute.

The ambient temperature has dropped at least fifteen degrees, and there is a soft, northerly breeze doing its part to push the heat down.  There are fewer locust cries filling my ears, but now the birds are out, re-marking their territory with song, since the rain washed away the last notes they laid down a few days ago, before the heat forced them into silence.

I looked out the back windows that face the carport and for a split second thought that it was afire.  Not so.  It was the light - a gorgeous pale orange - from the sunset bouncing off the semi-gloss paint.  I put flip-flops back on and went out to the front porch to catch the show.  My camera was acting up again, so I just stared at the sky, trying to remember the dance of color and light.

Cantaloupe-hued clouds streaked in sinuous waves across a cerulean sky.  Maxfield Parrish would have given anything if he could have caught this scene.  (I apologize for the amateurish sketch above, done on the computer; wish I could do better, to do it justice.) 

We aren't out of the woods yet, with heat forecasts for the coming week edging back up toward ninety again; but, for this evening and all night long, this is what summer is supposed to be around here.

A wonderful end to a happy day; yes, indeed!

Uh...

This post is not exactly how I wanted my 200th milestone to turn out, but...well...yo, dogz, dis iz whut it iz, aw-right?  (I hope my grandson doesn't see this.  I embarrass him with my attempts to use his teen-patois.)

See, it started like this:  I learned a new word today - poetaster, pronounced POH-uh-tass-ter, meaning, essentially, a lousy poet.  When I said the word aloud, several lines of truly awful rhyme popped into my head, and I thought of rap, that punchy beat, half spoken, half sung music that kids of my grandson's generation find so appealing (I like some of it, too; the not so violent stuff).  So I went cruising YouTube for some rap/hip-hop beat instrumentals to post with my drivel and stumbled onto this.

I was stunned.  I thought rap, gangsta rap especially, had not escaped our shores.  Had no idea it is a world-wide phenomenon.

This video knocked my rap-rhyme right out of my head...at least, for the moment.

Enjoy...I think?

PS:  It's raining cats and dogs!  Not really - just huge raindrops.  There's a tornado watch for our county until seven this evening.  Hope they're wrong about that!

Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight

     I've waited all day, since before sun up, for the temperature outside to drop below eighty.  Still waiting.  We haven't had a summer like this for about fifteen or so years - and the dog days aren't even here yet!  Ninety-six, with heat index around a hundred.  Kinda warm, y'know?

     No sign of the thunderstorms the weather folks said were coming our way Saturday afternoon.  There are large patches of grass that may not ever recover from the scorching heat, patches that sound like you're stepping on cornflakes - crunch, crunch, crunch.  There is one advantage to the dry weather; still haven't had to cut grass yet.

     I've decided to leave the a/c on downstairs tonight, in the hope that the house won't be so stinking hot when I get up later this morning.  If I wait too long to turn it on, the poor thing struggles against the solar collection properties of the house and never does cool things the way it's supposed to do.  (High heat inside makes it difficult to keep the asthma under control.)

     There is a constant high-pitched buzz during the daylight hours from insects - locusts, mostly - complaining about the heat.  In the late afternoon and early evening, small frogs join the chorus.  I have no idea where they come from, as there are no ponds or streams near the house.  I make sure the Double-Bar-Bee Saloon and birdbath stays full, just in case the frogs visit during the night.  In addition to the birds and bees who drink here, there is a thirsty young cat who drops by for a drink, too.  He runs as soon as my hand touches the doorknob, and I doubt I'll ever tame him, but he is a pretty thing to have around; a grey-tan-and-black tabby, about a year old by the looks of him.

     The Borough is considering water use restrictions again, which is a good idea if we don't soon get some rain.  If the dry spell continues into August, we'll need a lot of snow this winter to replenish our water supplies.  The ones feeling the heat most are local farmers and fruit growers.  The other day I had to go to Gettysburg to register for some college classes.  I drove past a field where the farmer was cutting hay and was treated to the fresh, wet aroma of sweet grasses falling before the blade.  By the time I made the return trip home a couple of hours later past the same field, the hay had already lost its fresh aroma and smelled like it had been drying for three or four days.  I bet it could have been baled that same day.

     I wonder if the unusual (for us) summer is because of global warming, or if the sunspot activity is greater than normal.  Whatever it is, sure hope things cool off real soon.  I've spent so much time just standing under the running shower head lately that I may be permanently prune-skinned by the end of the month.

     Still, things could be worse.  Not going to say how, because I don't want to jinx myself.

Trolling for News, Found This.

While searching the news outlets, I stopped at Lisa Golden's blog to see what was new in her neck of the woods.  Followed a suggestion at the bottom of her most recent post and found a rant she wrote back in February this year. 

At the end of it was this wonderful joke, which is too close to the bone for me right now, but I did laugh - "a bitter laugh," as Lisa wrote, but I needed to laugh. 

I told her I was stealing the joke; figured there were at least two or three of you who stop here who might get a kick out of it - one way or the other.


LOST WOMAN

 A woman in a hot air balloon realized she was lost. She lowered her altitude and spotted a man in a boat below. She shouted to him,

"Excuse me, can you help me? I promised a friend I would meet him an hour ago, but I don't know where I am."

The man consulted his portable GPS and replied, "You're in a hot air balloon, approximately 30 feet above ground, elevation of 2,346 feet above sea level. You are at 31 degrees, 14.97 minutes north latitude and 100 degrees, 49.09 minutes west longitude.

She rolled her eyes and said, "You must be an Obama Democrat."

"I am,"replied the man. "How did you know?"

"Well," answered the balloonist, "everything you told me is technically correct. But I have no idea what to do with your information, and I'm still lost. Frankly, you've not been much help to me."

The man smiled and responded, "You must be a Republican."

"I am," replied the balloonist. "How did you know?"

"Well," said the man, "you don't know where you are or where you are going. You've risen to where you are due to a large quantity of hot air. You made a promise you have no idea how to keep, and you expect me to solve your problem. You're in exactly the same position you were in before we met, but somehow, now it's my fault."

18 July 2010

Seven from sixty-three:
Demi lune hangs in the sky,
sweating moonbeams.

The night’s breath is heavy
with the scent of coming rain,
and settles on my skin – warm,
moist and caressing – like
a half-remembered lover’s touch.


When I was fifteen,
And still a virgin of the world,
Sixty-three seemed forever away.
Now it is fifteen that seems
The myth.  At fifteen on this date,
My life had barely begun.


At twenty, no longer a virgin,
I knew I’d be dead by thirty-three:
My Christ-complex years.

I wanted to walk across Europe
All the way to China, starting
At Stonehenge and ending
At the Great Wall.
I didn’t want to grow old.


Seven away from sixty-three:
Now I hope I do.

(C)2010 Martha McLemore

Food, Glorious Food

I registered with the Red Cross food bank today, which I’ve been trying to avoid doing for several months. I have been stubbornly resisting asking for help, perhaps out of foolish pride, or maybe humiliation...I’m not sure why I didn’t ask for help, despite the need.


I think I learned this attitude from my mother, who learned it from her father. She was fourteen when the stock market crashed in 1929, and millions of people lost everything they had in the blink of an eye. My Grandfather Honeycutt was a prideful man, successful and well-respected. He came up from poverty and worked hard to acquire what he had for his family.


Within weeks of the crash, he had lost everything – his job, their home and automobile, his self-esteem and his pride, even friends he’d known for years. He had to ask for help from his family, and when they could no longer help, he had to ask strangers; then, finally – the hardest blow of all – he had to accept welfare. With public assistance came loss of standing among former friends and neighbors, most of whom needed assistance as much as, or more than, my grandparents did, but they refused to ask for it. They didn’t want to go on the “public dole.” I’m sure there was welfare fraud in their time, just as there is today, and there will always be that segment of society who views those who accept public help as bums, or lazy, shiftless lay-abouts.


Mostly, though, my grandfather couldn’t accept that he was unable to provide for his family on his own. That probably is the reason I didn’t ask for help before today, too.


As I sat in the intake office with my caseworker – God, how I hate the sound of that! – I kept swallowing back tears and this huge lump in my throat. Asking for food meant I have failed in being able to take care of myself, that I am unable to provide the most basic of necessities. When a Red Cross volunteer brought out a shopping cart with groceries to the cubicle where I sat, I felt sick, as if someone had punched me in the stomach. At the same time, I was overwhelmed with gratitude – no more cornmeal mush for awhile, although there is nothing wrong with mush! Mush, or rice, is mighty good, especially when the alternative is to go to bed hungry! (I was going to imbed a YouTube video of the “as God is my witness..." scene from Gone with the Wind, until I watched it. Things are not super-great right now, but they aren’t that bad!)


I have plenty of food to get me through to next pay day, and beyond that. Clients (that’s what we are called) are able to draw from the food bank once a month, though I intend not to need them again. But I learned today that swallowing foolish pride is no big thing, and that accepting a helping hand when I need it doesn’t mean I am a failure. Getting sick from lack of nourishment when all I had to do was ask for a little help? That is failing to take proper care of myself...as God is my witness.

Going Fishing

You want to know what’s sad (in a way) or at least dumb?  See the fish animation on the sidebar, last thing on the right? I keep trying to feed the green one.  (Left click on the image to feed them.)


I am invested in taking care of an image, a bunch of pixels of color and apparent movement, a non-existent creature.

Am I that lonely, or is there something else at work here, some human or sentient being need to interact with other “living” beings? Because, you see, at some point I forget that I am playing a game and I begin trying to anticipate where the little green fish will go next - so that I can get there before all the other fish arrive in order to drop food pellets for my little green buddy.

What’s up with that? Is it a delayed case of empty nest syndrome? Am I substituting this moving bit of color on my monitor screen for a living plant or a pet dog or cat to nurture? Is this a female thing, a need to take care of...of...something, anything, to feel fulfilled?  To justify my taking up air and space here?

Or am I bored out of my skull at work, chasing my (note the possessive pronoun!) green fish when I should be working on taxes and filing?

I’ll put this issue on the back burner and let it simmer for awhile. In the meantime, I’ve got a fish to feed.

Rain

Richard's raindrops

Tonight, beneath the arching branches of the witch-hazel, I danced in the rain.

Under a deluge of icy cold droplets, my arms extended out from my sides, my face turned up, mouth open as a cup, I danced. Barefooted, in shorts and tee, dancing in the middle of the alley like a joyous child of three.

The rain washed away sixty years from my heart, and I became that child of three, the one who found wonder in everything, who hadn’t learned yet to fear the thunder or the dark or the water that seemed to fall forever. I danced and whirled around, like the leaf being swept along toward the street, where it would join all the other leaves and a flotsam of humanity’s trash, to drop down the drain at the end of the block.

I stood under the curtain of raindrops that ran over the edge of the gutter near the back door until I was soaked through and through, and began to shiver. Even then, I danced. When the shivering interfered with the dancing, I came inside.

Warm and dry, wrapped in quilt, a cup of hot tea thawing my fingers, I listened to the ebb and flow of the rain as it came in waves. First the heavy downpour that roared over the roof and onto the bricks and the alley, a deafening sound that began to die back almost as soon as it began. The music of the water became softer as the rainfall slowed to a gentle patter, barely audible. Then it came roaring back again.

I turned off the air conditioner and all the lights, then sat in the still blackness of the room, listening to the rain, and dancing in my heart.

What She Said

A couple of weeks ago I stumbled across Robyn's (an artist in South Africa) blog, then started following her around the Internet to the sites she visits and/or admires, much to my great delight and wonder.

One such blog Robyn follows is Notes from the Voodoo Cafe, by my new role model (I have several, you know), Ricë Freeman-Zachery, from Midland, Texas.  I like what she has to say and how she says it, especially on the subject of good writing, the use of language and trusting writers.

I hope those of you who like to read will check out this particular post, and perhaps wander around her blog awhile since you're already there.

Then go visit this web site and get lost for a bit in the interactive screens about the book, The Selected Works of T. S. Spivet, by Reif Larsen.

I love good stories.  

Happy Hour at the Double-Bar-Bee Saloon and Birdbath

(The temperature has dropped 18 degrees in three hours time, the breeze has picked up and, off to the northwest of here, I heard the low rumble of thunder.  Dare I say rain is on its way?  Better not; don't want to jinx things.)

There weren't as many bees at the trough this morning as there were yesterday, but they (and a big black ant) provided much entertainment.  (I lost the photo of the ant interacting with the bees when I tried loading it into the computer.)

The bees do a zig-zag fly-by before circling and finally settling down on the rim of the bowl.  There is a good-sized rock in the middle of the bowl, for those short legged birds that prefer not to get their rear ends wet while drinking.  Some of the bees would crawl under the exposed edge, hanging upside down to drink.  Most of them, though, seemed to prefer landing on the slope of the rim.  A few tilted a bit too far forward and ended up face first in the drink.  I fished more than one imbiber out today when they couldn't right themselves.

Several bees stumbled away from the birdbath bowl like drunks from their bar stools.  Made me wonder if their bellies were so full of water they lost their balance, or if water is intoxicating to bees.

Three bees settled next to each other on the rim, and were drinking for almost 30 seconds.  They were so focused on the water that they didn't see the ant running along behind them.  The ant ran past all three, then turned around and drew near the bees.  It touched its antennae to the rear end of the first bee, which leaped up buzzing, and frantically flapping its wings.  Ant moved on to the next bee, who hadn't moved a millimeter from its spot at the bar.  This time, the ant gently nipped the rear of his victim, who reacted the same way as the first one, and flew off, buzzing loudly in the most irritated manner.  Ant then moved closer to the third bee, jaws open, as if ready to nip the last one a little harder. 

Ha!  The third bee whirled around and shot a perfect sphere of water into the ant's open jaw, with enough force that ant fell backwards off the edge of the birdbath, into the leaves beneath.  Tickled the heck out of me.  I could imagine the other two bees cheering on their comrade from the sidelines.

I didn't know bees drink water, assumed they drink only nectar.  Does all this water-drinking mean the honey they make will be less concentrated?  Do they take the water back to cool off the hive, or the queen?  What do they do with it, other than knock tail-nipping ants into the dirt?

Flehhh!

Heat.

Hot.

Hell.

Too hot to think.

Too hot to write.

98F in the shade, heat index 104F.

Last winter, I was thrown into a panic one morning because my house was so cold, my lips were light blue. Tonight I am going to stand under the shower, letting tepid water flow over every inch of my body until everything turns blue.

I filled the bird bath this morning on my way to work so my bird friends could stay cool. This afternoon, the bird bath was half dry and the only visitors were a dozen or so honeybees lined up around the rim, like parched, dusty-throated cowboys bellied up to the bar in some bygone western saloon. I've never seen that before and was amazed when they stayed put while I poured cold tap water into their shot glass. The clover they usually visit for nectar this time of year has dried up, turned a golden brown, just like most of the grass.

Haven't had to cut grass for almost three weeks, and shouldn't try, as dry as it is. Not healthy for the lawn - or for the person pushing the mower.

As hot as it is, and as miserable as we all are feeling in this unusual heat, can't help but wonder how peoples in desert areas get through this kind of weather. Makes me feel like such a piker for complaining.

Time for me to do my midnight rain dance, wherein I strip to the skin (except for flip-flops), put a couple of crow feathers in my braids, take a skillet and metal spoon outside behind the garage (where I can't be seen) and whail the tar out of it.

Doesn't bring on the rain, but it makes me feel better to do it. I just have to make sure I get back in the house before neighbors look out their windows to see what the heck all the noise is about.

Damn, it's hot!
...
(I edited the shower paragraph because the original was tacky, to say the least.  I think I'm going crazy with the heat.  Or, I'm having a personality meltdown...maybe both!)