Not Jack Sparrow - crazy sparrow

We have lots of birds on the property and around our house. Recently I've seen Cedar waxwings, a Baltimore Oriole, a Scarlet Tanager, eastern bluebirds, and the list goes on. I adore all these beautiful birds. I recently saw a few goldfinches alighting in our catmint plants, a purple-flowering plant that attracts lots of bees. I couldn't tell if the birds might be eating pollen, nectar or what - I didn't see any insects to eat.

Yes, the birds are gorgeous, and I love the " screen door opening " sound effect made by the pheasants launching into flight. But there is one bird around the house I don't like at all. It is a plain brown sparrow, and it's not the bird's looks - it's just a crazy bird. It doesn't hang out with the other birds. It's always alone, usually flying around looking at itself in big panes of glass. If it can get in front of a picture window and sit on a chair, it will poop on the furniture (or house or window or patio) and try to attack itself (or make out with same, who knows) over and over.

It wakes me up in the mornings sometimes scrubbing along the window, not chirping but clattering its beak at its reflection. I thought maybe this spring it would not be back after the winter, being too wacky to survive. But no, there he was, so he must be well able to feed and shelter himself, unlike the lovely swallows who will bed down in bluebird nests not suited for them, and freeze to death in sudden temperature drops.

But I digress. I don't see anyone taking BB gun to this bird; they might hit the house. So I guess he'll just continue to annoy us, and I'll have to keep scraping his poop off stuff. Maybe I should go rustle up that old slingshot that came home on someone's business trip to Australia as a souvenir.

Did That Really Just Happen?

I mowed yesterday. It was an interesting experience, and at the end of it all I felt like a chimpanzee fishing ants out of a hole with a twig. Allow me to explain:

It was a lovely day in the '70s when I chose to go out in the garage and start up the old John Deere. Noticing the mower's gas gauge was reading nearly empty, I grabbed the red gas can and unscrewed its cap nozzle. Someone had replaced a center piece with a disk of black rubber - it functioned well enough in storing the gasoline; kind of a two-piece, makeshift cap for the portable five-gallon tank.

Anyway, after carefully filling the mower tank and then getting ready to reattach its black screw top, I reached over, looked in the tank and the small black disk flew out of my left hand with the breeze, kind of 'Frisbee-flew' sideways and drifted straight into the mower gas tank.

I couldn't believe it. Of all the places in the garage or around the mower that little thing could land, and it flips into the gas tank. Unbelievable. I look in there. It's there, resting on the clear plastic bottom of the gas tank. Ok, but what if it clogs the gas intake to the engine, cutting off the supply? I decide to see if I can extract it. I locate a long screwdriver and an old dinner fork from the kitchen. I attempt to get a hold on the disk, but it slips out of my grasp. I wish I had a really, really long set of tweezers.

I decide to close up the tank and go ahead and mow, and see what happens. Thankfully, I mow without incident. An hour or so later, I drive the green and yellow tractor back into the garage, and can't forget about the little intruder in the gas mechanism. I take another look.

Now the tank is much emptier, much of the gasoline having been used. I decide to go fishing again. This time this time I drag out more tools: a pair of long-handled pliers (why must it still be a PAIR), a set of bar-be-que tongs (BBQ is such an interesting word. Remind me to Google that.).

None of the new stuff works. I finally go back to the screwdriver and fork, chasing the little black disk around the tank. Finally I find I can steer the disc with the screwdriver, trying to get it to rest on the fork. Because I can't get much angle, this is tough and takes many tries.

Finally, after working bent over looking in the tank for over half an hour, I finally manage to get the little circle resting on the fork, and gently extract it from the tank. Done and done. This is why I see in mind the African primates using their primitive tools, fishing like me. I fit the little black circle onto the mouth of the red gas can, and screwed the black cap over it. Somebody needs to fix this- maybe.

By the way, google's best explanation for BBQ is a translation of "sacred fire pit.". I would take some pig roasted in the ground anytime you want to make it. I'll clean my fork and tongs first, though - or get some new ones.

Carpet cleaning day

Technical difficulties from my mobile device. So back on the old Dell with the 'tower', here's the word:

I really like Stanley Steemer carpet cleaners. My carpets looks so clean when the guys have been here. It's really a big event: when the most heavily trafficked areas finally get too grimy for me to look at, I call and schedule, once a year or so. I prefer hardwood floors, and have them, but I also have a busy area that is covered with carpet.

Picking up and moving things ahead of time makes the areas easier to see - nothing is hidden. So I end up moving nearly every chair and every object I can get out of the room. Then I vacuum. It's like prepping well for painting - it pays off.

I've heard people who have chem-dry type services, without the steam cleaning, complain about 'it not looking as good' when cleaned that way. I've also tried purchasing home appliances, and renting the big machines myself from grocery and hardware stores, but nothing looks as good as when S. S. has been there. The local office is located at 202 Research Drive in Fort Wayne.

I like the company's spray spot remover, that one uses ones self. Applied properly, it does an amazing job.

I also think their protection treatment, sprayed on after the professional cleaning, holds up well.

Metal and wood furniture is placed on foam blocks or plastic strips to protect from water damage. Meant to be left under the furniture until the carpet dries, I sometimes forget it's there and it stays for months. Ah yes, clean carpet. One can lie down, do yoga, not worry about gross stuff.

Last days in elementary school

A little girl sat on the cold gym floor. It was hot outside, so she had worn shorts, but the cold floor and a slight sunburn had chilled her.

She was tired; it had been an exhausting holiday weekend. One by one, the talent acts went out on the floor and auditioned. Bad karaoke. Hip hop dances to pop songs. Children dancing to numbers meant for teens and twenty somethings; the edge of inappropriate lyrics - kids having fun. Excellent pianists, bad drummers, a violinist, creative skits, stand-up comedy.

Meanwhile, she's cold, hungry, tired. Her eyes look dull. She has the hint of a head cold, a raspy throat. How's she going to sing?

The end of the school year, her last in a great elementary school; it's hard to say 'goodbye.' Where did the years go? Where was I?

Then it's her turn to get up. A cappella, words memorized, a song with great depth, feeling and emotion, another level removed from the other children, serious, soulful. She nails it. The expression, the artistry. The stage moms all look over at us, "good job!" She got their attention.

The song - about an American Indian's relationship to the earth, to nature. About appreciating animals, mountains, the wind. About respecting people of all color.

My eyes sting. My heart pulls in my chest. From whence did she channel that voice? Will everyone hear her, or are they too distracted, too tired, late in the day? The sad transitions of late May, early June. To feel old and young at the same time. The strikes she rolled at the bowling alley, accidentally by bouncing the heavy ball off the gutter bumpers. She's still rolling strikes, and she's growing up.