I used to love lady bugs when I was a kid. I loved their bright red bodies with the brilliant black spots. I drew them on the edges of all my papers, lady bugs with long curly antennae, even though I knew that wasn't correct. Call it poetic licence.
My grandfather told me lots of stories about lady bugs when we'd do our adventures through the woods or long rides in the car. He was the Clerk-Treasurer of the Municipality of Alberton and always took the scenic route to the office with me in tow. His tales were varied and I thought a bit creative.
Lady bugs were connected in some way to the goddess of love and beauty. I thought this was a good reason to admire them because being loved and beautiful seemed like a good thing. Lady bugs meant a good harvest and we were farmers so that was another good reason to form a fan club.
My grandfather said the Germans believed that counting the spots on the lady bug could predict something about harvest but I can't remember the details of that one and it seemed a bit of a stretch. The French said lady bugs signalled good weather while the Austrians came right out and asked the lady bugs for good weather. If you want something you may as well ask for it. The Swedes were more romantically inclined and perhaps more determined to get married so a lady bug walking on a girl's hand meant a marriage was imminent and conversely, if the lady bug flies away then the girl should follow the direction because that is where the love is coming from. Counting spots also indicated the number of children. All my lady bugs had two lovely spots so that foils the notion right there. A lady bug landing on you is good luck but if you brush it off, bad luck will prevail. There were others but my memory can't quite dig them up.
They call them ladybirds in the U.K. and other places and sometimes lady cow. The image of that I find quite worrisome. Probably no need to explain. The Asian lady beetle (not my indigenous lady bug) was introduced in the States successfully in the 1980s for some scientific reason that I have come to sincerely doubt. It is called the Hallowe'en lady beetle because it invades our homes this time of year to prepare for hibernation. No kidding!
Asian Lady Beetle be warned! There will be no hibernating in my house, you stinky orange imposter! I shall hunt you down and stamp you out.
These beetles have out-competed my dear lady bug in most areas and even devour my lady bug when food choices are limited. The best solution to rid your house of these pesky fakes is to vacuum. But with an addendum. Don't frighten them! Why? Because they give off a staining ink and a horrendous odour. Don't frighten them? What am I supposed to do? Sneak up on them? Call ahead?
I'm thinking of donning my Ghost Buster suit for Hallowe'en complete with vacuum and hire myself out to rid homes in our area of these menacing annoyances. I've just picked another out of my hair and it seems he was startled by my squeezing him firmly between my finger and thumb. No catch and release for these varmints.
Who you gonna call?
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
MIGRATION
We hear them this time year, their honking songs filling the fall air, air that has a bit of a bite to it. Sometimes I can't help myself and I push aside the curtains that hang next to my bed and strain to see them pass over top the house or yard.
The geese honk and call and answer each other and then I begin to wonder. First I wonder why they use up precious energy to chatter back and forth. What are they saying? Are they encouraging one another to keep flapping their wings the way one marathon runner might encourage another.
"You can do it, not much farther now," they might be saying.
Or are they complaining.
"Whose bloody idea was this?"
"What a bunch of lemmings. Georgette heads south and we all follow like lambs to the slaughter."
"What happened to free thinking?"
"I'm going east. I hear the people are nice there," Doris says.
"They've got nothing else to do, why wouldn't they be nice."
Then Doris heads east and all the other geese are quiet for a few moments. Then the honking begins again.
"Idiot," they say. "She'll regret that decision." But perhaps inwardly they all envy her courage but can't admit it.
Why do they go? Are we all just migrating somewhere but our flight path is just less noticeable, but not less remarkable. Does something stir in us that makes us get off the couch to rake the leaves for reasons other than saving the lawn. Maybe when we see the geese flying overhead, practising their alphabet, and we examine our own choices and begin to feel the notion of change or movement wiggle in us. Maybe we walk a different route to work the next day or don some bright coloured fabric and leave the sensible black in the closet. Maybe we part our hair on the opposite side or cut it, changing the style we have coiffed for fifteen years.
Maybe we're more dramatic and stick a "for sale" sign in the front yard or join a gym or read a book or ... write one. Maybe we take a trip and ride a zipline to conquer our fear of heights before being able to conquer something, anything, becomes impossible. Maybe we clean a closet and toss out things that we once thought were precious, but mean nothing to anyone but us and someone will have to throw it out so why not that someone be us.
Maybe we forget why we quit writing or calling our best friend from third grade and dial their number or write a letter. Maybe we ...
It's a gorgeous sunny day after a long bout of rain and dreariness. I had to walk. The leaves floated down; they're too wet to crunch under my feet, but I remember the sound clearly enough. I love the colours of the leaves and their shapes and I am tempted to collect them and make a bouquet.
Then I begin to imagine my own migration. What path will I take to "rest" up for spring? Where will I lie my head and exhale?
The geese honk and call and answer each other and then I begin to wonder. First I wonder why they use up precious energy to chatter back and forth. What are they saying? Are they encouraging one another to keep flapping their wings the way one marathon runner might encourage another.
"You can do it, not much farther now," they might be saying.
Or are they complaining.
"Whose bloody idea was this?"
"What a bunch of lemmings. Georgette heads south and we all follow like lambs to the slaughter."
"What happened to free thinking?"
"I'm going east. I hear the people are nice there," Doris says.
"They've got nothing else to do, why wouldn't they be nice."
Then Doris heads east and all the other geese are quiet for a few moments. Then the honking begins again.
"Idiot," they say. "She'll regret that decision." But perhaps inwardly they all envy her courage but can't admit it.
Why do they go? Are we all just migrating somewhere but our flight path is just less noticeable, but not less remarkable. Does something stir in us that makes us get off the couch to rake the leaves for reasons other than saving the lawn. Maybe when we see the geese flying overhead, practising their alphabet, and we examine our own choices and begin to feel the notion of change or movement wiggle in us. Maybe we walk a different route to work the next day or don some bright coloured fabric and leave the sensible black in the closet. Maybe we part our hair on the opposite side or cut it, changing the style we have coiffed for fifteen years.
Maybe we're more dramatic and stick a "for sale" sign in the front yard or join a gym or read a book or ... write one. Maybe we take a trip and ride a zipline to conquer our fear of heights before being able to conquer something, anything, becomes impossible. Maybe we clean a closet and toss out things that we once thought were precious, but mean nothing to anyone but us and someone will have to throw it out so why not that someone be us.
Maybe we forget why we quit writing or calling our best friend from third grade and dial their number or write a letter. Maybe we ...
It's a gorgeous sunny day after a long bout of rain and dreariness. I had to walk. The leaves floated down; they're too wet to crunch under my feet, but I remember the sound clearly enough. I love the colours of the leaves and their shapes and I am tempted to collect them and make a bouquet.
Then I begin to imagine my own migration. What path will I take to "rest" up for spring? Where will I lie my head and exhale?
Monday, October 12, 2009
THERE SHOULD BE A LAW
It's Thanksgiving! Turkey. Stuffing. Gravy ... and Ishgy-Gishgy Cake. No, I must apologize right up front, not pumpkin pie.
This cake has a formal and former name of Chocolate Chip Cake. The recipe was passed down from my father's mother. She died when I was four, but I do remember the soft yellow mittens she knit me and this cake. Its name was changed when its preparation was rushed. You never rush Chocolate Chip Cake and if you do ... the result is an ishgy-gishgy mess. Hence, the name.
I'd share the recipe with you but I've been sworn to secrecy by Samantha, daughter number two. She'd disown me if I disclosed the secrets of this delicious masterpiece and she needs no fuel for that cause these days.
I got up early to make the cake for daughter number one. We are all spread out this Thanksgiving. I am in Vancouver with Aimee and loving being in her space. Aimee and I laugh and sometimes for no other reason than to laugh. We just can't help ourselves. We are that funny (by our own admission). I started assembling the cake parts this morning. I left the butter out overnight to soften and miraculously, the butter was still on the cupboard waiting for me this morning. No one had put it back in the refrigerator when I wasn't looking. I had to smile (and almost laugh) remembering those occasions when some misguided samaritan put my softened butter BACK in the fridge. I remember a particular tirade, probably pre-christmas, the season of perpetual hope and joy.
I got up to make cookies in an effort to chisel away at my "to do" list, only to find my pound of butter back in the refrigerator, hard as nails. I began to rant.
"I live with a family who've never hung up a jacket in their life!" I may have yelled, modestly I hope, with a hint of tolerance I pray. "You've never made a bed without prompting, never emptied a dishwasher without coaxing, but the butter you put away!" I may have ben shrieking by this point. They all ran for cover not feeling particularly thankful or hopeful.
Ahh, but not today. My butter is soft and malleable, ready to create Ishgy-Gishgy Cake and I realize I may have mellowed in my old age or those around me have figured out, "Don't mess with mom's butter."
But really, in all fairness. There should be a law about such things. Wouldn't you agree?
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
OUT THERE
I'm not against cleavage, but I shouldn't have to see it at the breakfast table. With four daughters of reasonable or greater endowment, there's been a healthy serving of "breast" at most meals. I try to resist the urge to pull their necklines a touch higher but often fail. I'm then met with an annoyed, "Mom!"
I'm talking about my own cleavage though. I've not been an advocate of "have it, flaunt it". I'm a fan of the turtleneck, everything tucked in tight and out of sight, a nice secure feeling, my private parts all ... private.
So, I challenged myself to "put them out there" at a recent reading engagement. I was reading my fiction so I felt naked through to my very core so how was a little cleavage going to feel any worse and it could be a response to my new mantra, "do something that terrifies me at least once a week if not every day".
I stood behind the microphone, trembling and blushing and began to read. As I looked down I saw cleavage, my cleavage, bold and brash and I wanted to cover my chest with my arms and apologize and dash from the room. But I held my ground, read as clearly as I could and reminded myself that these breasts of mine fed four daughters, and deserved a moment in the limelight and a little applause. "Well done," the crowd could have been saying about my breasts rather than the story. "Thanks for coming out, now get into some flannel and call it a day!"
What's on for tomorrow? A barrel ride over Niagara Falls?
I'm talking about my own cleavage though. I've not been an advocate of "have it, flaunt it". I'm a fan of the turtleneck, everything tucked in tight and out of sight, a nice secure feeling, my private parts all ... private.
So, I challenged myself to "put them out there" at a recent reading engagement. I was reading my fiction so I felt naked through to my very core so how was a little cleavage going to feel any worse and it could be a response to my new mantra, "do something that terrifies me at least once a week if not every day".
I stood behind the microphone, trembling and blushing and began to read. As I looked down I saw cleavage, my cleavage, bold and brash and I wanted to cover my chest with my arms and apologize and dash from the room. But I held my ground, read as clearly as I could and reminded myself that these breasts of mine fed four daughters, and deserved a moment in the limelight and a little applause. "Well done," the crowd could have been saying about my breasts rather than the story. "Thanks for coming out, now get into some flannel and call it a day!"
What's on for tomorrow? A barrel ride over Niagara Falls?
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