Not mature enough to drink coffee

ECHOES FROM THE LOAFERS’ CLUB MEETING

My nephew borrowed my lawn mower and made a lot of money.

 

He mowed a lot of lawns, huh?

 

No, he sold my mower.

 

DRIVING BY BRUCE’S DRIVE

I have a wonderful neighbor named Bruce. Whenever I pass his drive, thoughts occur to me. The neighbors’ rooster crowed. In many traditions, the crowing of a rooster at dawn signifies victory over darkness and the triumph of light. In some cultures, it's believed evil spirits flee at its sound. I enjoyed a glass of Adam’s ale–plain old water–as I’d watched fireflies the night before. It was good to see someone using their blinkers. Each day is a new road. My thoughts tend toward the bittersweet when I see the orphan lilacs, left behind after the people and houses had left. Their blooming season is too short. So was the company of the people.

 

I’m not mature enough to drink coffee, but I might need to take it up. I’ve had late nights recently thanks to being entertained by a family of eastern screech-owls in the yard. They are the cutest little things—all feathers and eyes. They are about the size of a 12-ounce pop can.

 

It’s called “pop” here. I hear it called soda or soft drink, and on my first visit to the Deep South, I was asked what kind of coke I wanted. I asked the server what kind she had. The waitress told me she had Coca-Cola, Dr Pepper and root beer.

 

When I was a child, the nearest town was Bath. It had a population of two or three, depending on which day of the week you counted the people. It had a school once, but everyone became too smart and they had to close it. It had a Catholic Church, a cemetery, a creamery and a general store where a boy could play checkers. Bath was known locally as Poptown. Why? Because you could get pop there. I reckon we could get pop anywhere. Pop wasn’t an important thing in our household. My parents drank storytelling coffee, milk and water. The kids drank mostly milk and water. We also slurped down nectar procured from the traveling Watkins man, Tang and, of course, Kool-Aid. None any better for us than pop.

 

QUICKSAND

A listener to my radio show asked if there is quicksand here? I watched jungle and cowboy movies where quicksand dispatched people. I didn’t worry about diseases or accidents because I knew quicksand would get me. Quicksand exists in Minnesota and Iowa. It’s not the life-threatening, bottomless pit depicted in films, but a natural phenomenon occurring when loose sand is saturated with water and agitated by upward-flowing groundwater. You’re likely to encounter it along the muddy, sandy banks of major waterways in areas that have underground springs. Areas with high water tables—spring-water quarries or marshes—can host quicksand. Don’t panic. Quicksand has a higher density than the human body, making it impossible to sink completely. The dangers would be exposure, dehydration or exhaustion from struggling to free yourself from being stuck in quicksand.

 

BAD JOKES DEPARTMENT

I won $10 million in the lottery and donated a quarter of it to charity. I don’t know what I’ll do with the other $9,999,999.75.

 

When the yoga teacher quit, it left me in a difficult position.

 

NATURE NOTES

I find awe in the company of a gray catbird. It joins me at dawn, jazz singing outside my bedroom window. Catbirds actively sing before sunrise and after sunset. They mimic other birds but add their own interpretations. Their songs are long but would be even longer if they played guitars. Catbirds are friendly birds that visit feeders to eat grape jelly, suet, sunflower hearts and raisins. I don’t need a field guide to identify a catbird. I have a feel guide to help me enjoy my sidekick.

 

Birdsfoot trefoil blankets the roadsides. It’s a legume identified by its low-growing, small yellow pea-shaped flowers and seed pods resembling a bird’s foot.

 

A red-eyed vireo sang, “Look at me…Way up high…Over here…In a tree…Here I am…In a tree…Where are you? Can’t see me.” It sounds as if the bird is counting the leaves on the tree or asking questions and then answering them. In 1948, Music Digest estimated that Bing Crosby's recordings filled more than half of the weekly hours allocated to recorded radio music in America. The red-eyed vireo is trying to match that. Its marathon singing has earned it the nickname of the “preacher bird.”

 

Skippers look like something between butterflies and moths. They are small butterflies that visit flowers and, when perched, evoke the shape of a fighter jet.

 

MEETING ADJOURNED

A kind word costs us nothing, but it might be worth a fortune to another.