Caleigh O'Shea's Blog, page 6

Thankful Thursday (2)

A smile is as good as a prayer… ~Abigail May Alcott, American artist and youngest sister of author Louisa May Alcott

People’s laps are chairs

For puppies to sit upon

Comforting for both

Note: This is another installment of the Thankful Thursday series, designed to focus on gratitude. Poetry form is Haiku.

It’s a Messy Job

A poet once wrote: “Let every man sweep in front of his own door and the whole world will be clean.” ~The Rotarian, November 1952

Does anybody truly like to pick up dog poop?

Whether it’s from your own dog or from some stranger that happened to squat on your lawn, it’s a nasty job.

There’s the stink, of course. But letting it ripen in the sun seems to stiffen it so the stench isn’t as wicked.

In most cases.

Of course, depending on what the dog ate, or how its digestion processes food, that’s not totally reliable. And some messes are particularly foul-smelling, regardless of time.

Then, there are the flies. Sounds gross, but flies prefer dog feces to lay their eggs on, and those eggs hatch into maggots. Yuck, right? Who wants that on their lawn?

I always carry a couple of dog waste bags when I walk the Monk. Not that he potties every single time, but just in case. Most regular dog walkers seem to do that as well.

But others refuse. And you can see piles of dog poop scattered about wherever you go.

One neighbor apparently is so tired of cleaning up after lazy/stubborn/thoughtless dog owners that he’s placed a sign in his front yard. The sign firmly reminds everyone to clean up after their dog … and he’s even provided FREE doggie waste bags for them to use.

I need to ask him if he’s had any takers. Apparently not, from the look of things.

Fortunately, I don’t live in a high-traffic area, so my yard isn’t a magnet for dogs to squat on. Until recently.

I don’t want to point the finger of blame at anybody (maybe it’s just coincidence), but when a new family moved into my neighborhood — with three dogs and no fence (invisible or otherwise) — that’s when problems started.

These “free spirits” roam at will, dumping a load wherever they please, and nobody says a word. Nor do their humans go behind them with a poop bag.

A spokesperson at City Hall said we have a leash law, but enforcing random squatting is next to impossible. It can be a touchy subject.

How does your community handle this? Any suggestions for me (other than holding my nose with one hand and scooping with the other?)

Thankful Thursday

The three most important words in the English language are: “I appreciate you.” ~Author unknown, c.1960s

Yearly they appear

Asking nothing much of me

But to notice them

Note: Poetry form is Haiku. My friend Laurie introduced me to Thankful Thursday, in which we write about some of the things we’re grateful for. These Brown-eyed Susans greet me every summer by July. I didn’t plant them, and they don’t seem to demand anything from me. How cool is that?!

Twinkle Time

To a child’s eye a lightning-bug outshines the brightest fixed star. ~O. P. Fitzgerald,Methodist clergyman, journalist, and educator

I Monkey here.

Every summer night, when Mama takes me outside for my Final Pee-Call, she stands around staring into the back yard.

What’s she looking for?

Turns out, she’s not looking for something as much as looking at something.

She calls them Twinkle Bugs, and they seem to bring out the giddy little girl in her.

Golly, Mama, bugs??

And sometimes she bends over and closes her fingers gently around one, watching as it slowly crawls out and climbs up her arm.

And she giggles.

Yes, I know. Mama hates bugs. But maybe these things really aren’t bugs.

Maybe they’re little flickering fairy lights with legs.

Shoot, I Monkey don’t know. My mama is a study in contradiction.

That’s probably why I’m not any better trained than I am. After all, how is a wee Monkey expected to tell the difference between an “icky bug” in the house that Mama chases down with a plastic swatting device and a “good bug” outside that she wants to play with?

Could it be the “inside/outside” thing? Or the twinkling?

Anyway, Mama says she doesn’t want me going through life confused, so guess what?

She’s signed me up for the next level of Puppy School!!

I Monkey am so excited I can hardly stand it. I LOVE Puppy School — especially all the treats! And the happy encouragement and the chance to strut my stuff are pretty grand, too.

I’ll let you know how I get on with it, okay?

In the meantime, all Mama has to do is say, “Puppy School,” and my entire back end starts wiggling, and I become as giddy as she does when she plays with the Twinkle Bugs.

Now, lest you worry that I Monkey am chasing the Twinkle Bugs, I assure you I’m not. Mama thinks I can’t see them once their light flicks off, but I’m here to tell you they don’t taste all that good.

Especially when compared to cookies or Puppy School training treats!

Et tu, Brute?

Sticks and stones are hard on bones.
Aimed with angry art,
Words can sting like anything,
But silence breaks the heart.
~Phyllis McGinley, Pulitzer Prize-winning American author of children’s books and poetry

You

Fooled me.

Or maybe

I fooled myself.

Earnestly craving

A peaceful atmosphere,

I acquiesced to many

Of your suggestions, traded dreams,

And hoped we’d never experience

Long, lonely years of silence between us.

***

But something happened — what, I’m just not sure —

And here we are, stuck in this cold war.

No talking. No contact. Nothing,

When I’d hoped for so much more.

It hurts to realize

You’ve hardened your heart

And just don’t care

Anymore.

Okay,

Fine.

 

Note: Poetry form is Double Etheree. “Et tu, Brute” were Caesar’s dying words in Shakespear’s play Julius Caesar to his friend Brutus, who sided with a clique to assassinate the ruler.

Back From Break

A friend dies or leaves us: we feel as if a limb was cut off. ~Thomas Jefferson, third President of the United States

My “tiny” break lasted longer than I’d anticipated … longer, in fact, than any other break I’ve taken since starting this blog a dozen or so years ago.

Thank you for your patience.

When my mom passed in February, she was cremated as per her wishes, and I brought her urn back home.

It was frankly comforting to have her here. I was able to tell her when I saw something interesting in the news or spoke with someone who offered heartfelt memories of her. I was able to relax, knowing she was at peace and no longer in pain.

And I was able to discuss things with her, without having to hear her complain or disagree!

But our priest reminded me that I couldn’t keep her with me forever. That unexpected things (like fire, tornado, or theft) would put a huge dent in our little arrangement.

So I decided I’d better get her properly interred. In Mississippi. With my late dad.

Fortunately, my son Domer was able to get some time off from work, so we made the two-day road trip south with Mama’s urn.

Now you’d think going to such a lovely spot as the Mississippi Gulf Coast would be a fine vacation. I’m here to assure you our trip was not.

The temperature climbed into the mid- to upper-90s every day, with “feels like” temperatures in the 110s. And we were so focused on doing what Mama wanted that we failed to set aside time to walk on the beach, visit tourist attractions, take pictures, or go to the movies.

But we did eat. Very well, in fact. Fresh seafood, when you live inland as we do, is a supreme delight.

And we did shop. Funny how being in some of the same chain stores feels so different when you’re away from home.

And we took care of business, bringing my sis some of her Illinois things and returning with some things I’d left in Mississippi the last time Mom and I were there.

We also got Mom properly laid to rest, despite my last-second desire to tell the cemetery folks I’d changed my mind!

So, it was a good trip, though brief. And it’s great being back among the corn and bean fields, even if Beryl followed us home and dumped nearly five inches of rain here.

I might no longer have Mama’s ashes, but I’ll always have her in my heart.

A “Tiny” Break

Good things, when short, are twice as good. ~Baltasar Gracián, Spanish Jesuit and Baroque prose writer and philosopher

My Tiny Tree now measures 7 1/2 feet!! It looks healthy and seems to want for nothing. How it manages to look so cool and collected in this blazing heat and humidity baffles me.

It’s time for a wee blogging break. I’ve turned off comments for this post and will be back soon. Have a safe, joyous Fourth of July!

Luscious Lantana

A sow prefers bran to roses. ~French proverb

Beautiful to see

Multi-hued, sun-loving blooms

Toxic to dogs though

Did You Collect Bugs, Too?

Hasn’t modern civilized life come to be little else than a fight for life against bugs? ~Dorothy Scarborough, American writer from the Southwest

My late dad loved insects and often pondered why he hadn’t chosen entomology as his profession.

How, then, did he end up with two daughters who aren’t fans of bugs, especially flies, mosquitoes, wasps, roaches, and most beetles?

Daddy would’ve had a field day with the recent emergence of all those red-eyed cicadas. A big old bug like that, with its ability to drown out everyday household noises — and the fact that its urine stream is amazingly strong for its size — well, Daddy would’ve found that fascinating.

When I was in school, we had to make an insect collection, and Daddy was eager to be included as my “assistant.” I’d have gladly turned the entire thing over to him if I hadn’t feared I’d be caught cheating!

That didn’t stop him from giving me regular pointers. Stuff like, Don’t worry about the far-off goal of getting it done by the following spring. Rather, work now while the bugs are available. Eventually, they’ll go into hiding, and you won’t be able to find them.

Did I listen?

Right. What kid listens to wise advice like that?

I think this is a feasting on my Lantana flowers — he’s one of the good bugs!

So I caught a few bugs, chloroformed them as our teacher instructed, then stuck a pin through them, labeled them, and inserted them into a foam layer in a cigar box.

Yuck.

I didn’t want to touch them, didn’t like the smell of the “poisoning” agent, had trouble downsizing my huge script so it would fit on those tiny ID labels, and caught myself apologizing for sticking pins in the poor creatures’ already-dead middles.

And as the weather turned colder, I panicked when I realized I hadn’t caught near enough bugs. All I could hope for was an early, buggy Spring!

Today’s kids probably don’t do insect collections like we did. Shoot, if they don’t do leaf collections, why would they mess with bugs??

But even though I wasn’t enamored of the project, I must confess I learned a LOT. How to identify our area’s common insects, where to find them, how to preserve them. And I got a pretty good grade, despite whining over the task from the day it was announced until the day I turned in my cigar boxes.

How about you? Did you do an insect collection, or was there another school project you found objectionable?

Note: Happy Father’s Day to all the dads out there!

Change Happens

All changes, even the most longed for, have their melancholy; for what we leave behind us is a part of ourselves: we must die to one life before we can enter into another! ~Anatole France, French poet, journalist, and novelist

From the time I was a child, my dad used to remind me, The only things certain are death and taxes.

To that list, I’d add change.

Seven years(!) ago now, I started playing in community band. And as Fate would have it, another flute player showed up for her first practice session the same night I did.

We sat together and muddled through, giving each other confidence to continue — despite the fast runs of Sousa marches and the obvious proficiency of the others in our section.

And we bonded. While I had only been playing for a few years, she’d played back in high school but hadn’t touched her flute in decades.

Putting us at an even level of ability.

And that spurred a bit of healthy competition as each of us worked to improve our playing skills so we wouldn’t get left behind. I took lessons and practiced regularly; for her, muscle memory was all it took for her to improve.

We had other things in common, too: aging mothers, young adult children, a love of physical activity, appreciation for life’s blessings.

So when she didn’t show up for symphonic band this past school term, nor community band this summer, I texted her with my concern.

Turns out, her world is changing. She’s retiring from her career this fall and planning to relocate out of state.

Sigh.

I’m going to miss her. Yes, there are other flute players I enjoy spending time with, but sometimes you just click with someone. And when that someone goes away, there’s a void.

People come into your life for a reason, a season, or a lifetime.~Brian A. “Drew” Chalker