Like a Thief in the Night

Seems I won't be cutting the grass any time too soon, despite the good weather we've been having, and my reluctant (but determined) desire to get the job done.

Sometime between 5:30 p.m. yesterday and the same time today, when I went to get it, someone has stolen my mower. At first I thought perhaps I had locked it in the barn (the sensible thing to do, right?) instead of leaving it in the back of the carport, hidden from view, simply because that was more convenient. No, I couldn't be that lucky. It is gone.

So, what's with the image of the heavy-duty, 32-foot, fiberglass Werner extension ladder? They got that, too.


There's no fool like a trusting fool, which it appears that I am, but acknowledging that, and accepting that I was negligent in my responsibility to safeguard my property, doesn't make the loss easier to bear. And I don't mean the loss of the ladder and mower, though they matter, certainly.

The greater loss is my sense of security and my trust that the rest of the world thinks like I do, which means no one would steal from anyone else, would respect the property (and other) rights of their neighbors, and that they all live by the Golden Rule.

I won't replace the ladder, for - at my age and middling physical condition - I won't be needing it to climb up to the roof line to paint my house again. However, I was planning to use it to fix the upper barn window that was damaged when part of the southernwood tree fell on it last October. Also, I had planned to repair the fascia boards under the carport roof, where the starlings have torn out a hole so they can nest inside...would have needed the ladder for that, too. And then there's that 25'-30' snag of the serviceberry at the side gate that still needs to be cut down...ladder would have helped there, as well. Ah, well - so it goes.

I will have to replace the mower, though. Might take me a couple of months to get the funds together for a good used one, so I'll try to find a neighborhood kid who wants to earn some spending money to cut the grass until then. I do have an old-fashioned **rotary** blade mower that will do, as long as the grass isn't too tall. I'll take it to the shop tomorrow afternoon, have the blades sharpened, the wheel bearings greased, that sort of stuff, you know?

It is going to take a bit longer before my faith in humanity is recovered, though. That's the theft that cuts the deepest.

Dammit.

**Thanks to Z's suggestion, I've discovered that what I have left is a reel mower. It was the rotary (power) mower that was stolen. A brand new reel mower can be had for about $50US, so if it will cost more to have the ancient one repaired, might bring home a shiny new thing. It's good, dog - it's all good.**

The Seasons of Rain

Lilacs in rain

We are in the midst of a lovely spring rain this evening. Not a storm, but the sort of rain that is recorded for stress relieving CDs; environmental sounds.

Off in the very far distance, I can hear, barely, rumbling thunder, so a storm is on its way. But for now, I am being lulled into a relaxed state by the gentle splattering of water on everything in my back yard. After a week of cold, unending wet weather, today cleared off around noon and was warm. The forests of grass dried off by late afternoon. I should have taken the mower to it, but I was running errands I had put off taking care of earlier in the week because I didn't want to be out in the cold and wet. Maybe tomorrow will bring another dry, warm, yard-working day. (Not saying the grass will get cut, mind, just that the opportunity might present itself.)

When the aroma of the rain made its way through the screen door, I noticed how different it smells, compared to rains from other times of the year. Tonight, I detect the faint perfume of lilacs and hyacinths; daffodils, and the odor of chestnut and oak leaf buds, all sticky and green, sharp to the nose.

Later, in late spring-early summer, the neighbor's roses will scent the rains, along with dust from the streets. If anyone in the neighborhood has recently cut grass, that aroma will add to the melange, tricking my nose into thinking it smells watermelon and cucumbers, mixed with parsley.

In late summer, the rain smells hot and smokey, from lingering cook-out odors. Hot tar sizzles in the rain, giving the rain a hint of the oil refineries we used to pass in Baton Rouge, on our way to Uncle Howard's.

Come fall and the rains take on the aromas of fallen leaves, gardens and flower beds in various stages of harvest, and a hint of apples, cornstalks and pumpkins.

In November, smoke from burnt piles of leaves, acrid and nostalgia-inducing, colors the rain. There is a dry coldness that accompanies the rain, not like the damp of this cold spring. That will arrive after the trees are bare, and before the snows come.

In December through the end of February, any rain that doesn't freeze into ice, or become crystallized into snowflakes, smells just plain cold. And clean! As if the air has been rinsed of all the perfumes and scents of the previous year, getting ready for spring again and the renewal of the cycles - the seasons - of rain.

Before the storm arrives (if it does - might simply skirt our town and drift north), I'm going to take a cup of hot tea and sit on the back steps, in the dark - surrounded by the melodies of rain on tree limbs, on wind chimes, on rooftops - and let my cares rise with the steam from my cup, becoming one with the rain.

Wind Songs

We're having an extended March this year, right into mid-April, with wet, cold weather and high winds. I saw a bed of daffodils bent low to the ground by the wind last week, their little heads bobbing up and down like the heads of those articulated dogs that ride in the back windows of cars in some parts of this country.

When the wind is steady, it produces an exotic sound as it races through the ham radio antenna the Ex put up years ago; a low, throaty, almost melodic sound. Coupled with the antenna cable slapping against the side of the house, and the singing pipes of the wind chimes, the sounds remind me of Tibetan chanting, especially when punctuated by the gentle clacking of the bamboo chime at the back door. I like these wind songs.

I like Tibetan monks chanting, too. That thrumming, throaty, humming sound that seems to come from some hidden place, perhaps from within the caves of their hearts, or from the wells of their souls.

I'm Just Sayin'...

Anything on my floor that runs faster than I do, and is running toward my foot, is gonna be stomped. Especially anything that looks like a pair of false eyelashes on the loose.

As long as this creature, common name house centipede, which actually is very beneficial (so I've read), stays in the cellar, or outside under leaves and rocks and stuff like that, I have no problem sharing my property with it. But if it insists on running toward me at 6AM, before I can recognize what it is, so that my rational brain can keep my atavistic, vestigial-Neanderthal-brain under control, it will be smooshed into oblivion!

In the second image, you can see the shortened, modified legs that deliver the house centipede's venom, those red-tipped, curved things just behind its head. I read online that it is very rare for the house centipede to sting humans, but that when (when?! What happened to 'very rare'?) they do, the sting is no worse than that of a bee...like that's going to make a difference?!

Okay...so, I'm a coward. I can live with that. I just won't live with these many-legged-creepy-crawly things running toward my feet.

'Nuff said.