The Bleats and Howls of Party Animals

So, my husband says to me, “You can’t write another rant—they’ll think you’re…cranky. You should write one of the happy nature pieces.”

Well, maybe he’s right, but the truth is…I am cranky.   I mean, who wouldn’t be after about two hours of sleep. 

Our neighbor had a party last night.  One of those all-nighters.
 
So, it gave me a whole new concept of just what hell might be like:    Karaoke Top-40 hits from the 70’s and 80’s, sung by drunken middle-aged party animals, over and over and over again, accompanied by a drummer who played like a six-year old who just got a drum set for Christmas.  Yeah, I can imagine hell being like this—a sort of Satan’s Singalong.  Had it not been for the fact that we had plans to go out very early this morning, it probably would have been funny.  I gave up trying to sleep and pulled out a book, so I got to hear drummer boy’s progress as the night progressed and he became more inebriated.  He eventually abandoned all pretense of playing with the karaoke and just started randomly banging, so that it sounded like someone was using a jackhammer outside our window.

I never did do more than doze, but I guess it’s just as well.  Had I slept well enough to dream, I can imagine the nightmares…of Beelzebub in a hardhat, smirking as he jackhammers the streets of Hell.

A Friendly Word of Advice to the AARP

A word of advice to the marketing department at AARP (American Association of Retired Persons): 

You might want to hold off on sending out those early invitations to join the AARP, especially those sent A FULL FIVE MONTHS before the recipient turns 50.   Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think most people, in the last precious months they have left to cling to their forties, want to be reminded constantly of the fact that they are hitting FIFTY very, very soon.  I mean, nothing says “Welcome to the SECOND HALF CENTURY OF YOUR LIFE” quite like seeing your name on an AARP card.

I wish I were one of those women who says brightly, “Fifty is the new thirty!”  Or who call hot flashes “power surges.”  I really do.  But I went into full menopause at 44 (because of severe stress, I think), and after six, stinkin’ years of waking up drenched in sweat and knowing my flushed face is like a red light blinking the message, “WARNING!  MENOPAUSAL WOMAN! STAND BACK!”…well, I’m having a little trouble working up enthusiasm for middle age.   Not to mention my hair falling out or my skin going dry as the desert floor in August.  It seems like some cosmic joke that I got a mustache around the same time my adolescent son did. 

And, yeah, I wish my husband and I could retire and look like the happy couple pictured in the AARP ads. You know, the ones with heads thrown back in gleeful joy, with her long, flowing hair blowing out behind her?  If we could retire right now, we’d look like that, too.  (Except for the hair, I guess. And the smooth, supple skin.  And the perfect white teeth.  And the stylish clothes. Other than that…the same.) 
 
But, sorry, AARP, I guess I’ll just have to return your shiny membership card in the post-paid envelope you so thoughtfully provided—along with a carefully-worded note telling you exactly where you can stuff it.

Prickly Beauty

Though most consider the bull thistle to be a noxious weed, I have always been fond of this prickly plant.  Of course,  I can understand why cattle farmers loathe it, as it tends to spread easily throughout grazing fields by way of its downy seeds. Cows won’t touch it.  I found out why when I got too close while taking these shots.  Ouch.  If only it repelled deer as it does cows—I’d plant a bull thistle hedgerow!  However, I’ve read that deer find it tasty.  I wish they’d eat our bull thistles instead of our rhododendrons, hostas, and my little patch of ginseng. 
 
But as you can see, butterflies and bees love it.  Goldfinches do, too.  I can see them eating the seeds from my window.  I love how the goldfinch clings and keeps eating as the bull thistle bends over from its weight.  Unfortunately, I only have a cheap little point-and-shoot without much of a lens, so I can never get a photograph of that.  I’ve also seen hummingbirds hovering over the thistles, but getting a picture of them seems equally hopeless. 
 
But most of the time, at least, the butterflies and bees tolerate my clumsy intrusions.

The butterfly below that looks like it’s been sprinkled with gold fairy dust is called a fritillary.   I always want to say “flitterary” instead.  Sounds more appropriate somehow.  And, of course, everyone recognizes the lovely monarch (the top photo).  The brilliant blue-winged one to the right is a swallowtail, and the little guy below,with the thick, cigar-butt body, is a skipper, I think.
 
It’s funny—the more I learn about nature, the more I become aware of how little I know!  It’s daunting, yet thrilling to recognize that there are thousands of plants, birds, and insects out there waiting for me to learn their names.

A small, wobbly step into the blogosphere

Hi there.  If you’re reading this, that means that, against all odds (with all the other gazillion blogs you could have clicked on), you have clicked through to my humble little corner of the blogosphere.  Thank you.  I am most grateful.

Though I have been reading other folk’s blogs for a couple of years now, I’ve resisted the thought of having my own.  While I enjoyed reading about the minutia of the lives of people all over the world, I somehow couldn’t imagine that they’d be interested in mine.  I lead a quiet life here in the heart of Appalachia.  My idea of a big time is sitting on my porch watching fireflies (there are a gracious plenty here) or walking in autumn through the old abandoned apple orchard above our house and gathering those wormy, wizened apples that, though blemished, make very tasty apple bread. 

Really, though, what kept me, up to now, from starting my own blog was fear.  Just plain fear.  So many of the bloggers I read sound like professional writers.  Their ruminations on life are perfectly formed essays, whereas mine might sound more like something I wrote for my seventh grade English class.  And one thing I have noticed is that most bloggers seem to be middle and upper-middle class, college-educated people.  I am not.  I graduated high school and have worked as a library assistant, a secretary, and a janitor.  My husband is a carpenter.  We both love books and learning, but neither of us graduated from college.  It is rather intimidating to put your writing out there for all to see when the most advanced training you’ve had was how to write a ten-page term paper for your final twelfth-grade English project.  
 
Nevertheless, I want more than anything to be a writer.  Someday, I hope to take a college class in writing, but for now, I’ll make this blog my training ground.  Who knows, maybe my writing will get better.  Maybe someone will read my words and have suggestions for making them better.  Maybe I’ll gain confidence   Maybe I’ll make a friend.  I’ve already been fortunate enough to find kinship with one fellow reader and writer through just reading blogs.  (Hi, Wesley!)
 
Or maybe I’ll simply have a sense of accomplishment from overcoming my fear, from stepping out of my comfort zone, and from taking that one tentative, wobbly step towards the day when I feel like I can call myself a writer. 
 
So, if you’re still reading, I thank you from the bottom of my heart.  I sure hope you keep reading.  I’ll do my best not to disappoint you.