We live in a two-story wooden house, and we do not have an ant problem. In fact, I enjoy seeing the occasional ant stroll across one of my reasonably well-maintained surfaces. I watch the little creature disappear from sight and I turn my attention to bigger things. Most things are bigger, actually, than an ant.
Since I rarely carry any food to the second floor, I never see any ants up there. Well-maintained house spiders patrol the corners and the annoying stink bug will squeeze in from the outside and dive-bomb itself to oblivion, but mostly we are insect-free. Until one day when I was poking around in a little-used part of my worktable where last winter I’d stashed a couple of Smith Brothers Wild Cherry cough drops, each wrapped in its paper twist. Quite a lot of ants were having a nice time taking their little sweet bits back to whereever it is they live here in my two-story house. Even if you’re not a deep thinker, it does make you wonder.
Where do they go? How many of them are there? How do they know there’s something tasty in the vast space that is my house? I assume they send out scouts, lone wanderers looking for food, risking life and limb looking, looking for food. 🐔
All this year, I’ve been lucky enough to be able to worry and fuss about what it means to be 70 years old. All the decades up till now have had relatively pleasant social implications–from teenage driving and voting to drinking in your 20s, to maybe having a mid-life crisis; to retiring. But 70 is the first decade that deposits the bitter truths on your doorstep: less road, short runways, volcano. As of 2017, the human life span stretches to somewhere around 120, which means that even the most optimistic among us can no longer claim to be middle-aged.
Last night Bill Maher was positively gleeful that his panel of Salmon Rushdie, Fran Lebowitz, and Tim Gunn were all over the age of 60. Our Potemkin president’s age is talked about frequently, and Hillary is 70, too. Wonderful people of accomplishment, all holding the short end of the stick now. The odds are going to get you. It’s only a matter of time. 🐔
If I could do a little sewing every day and write a little here in the blog every day, I think my life would be perfect. My hands will stay limber and my mind will be downloading important info for future readers. Yea, life can be perfect.
And so it shall. 🐔
I am working on many things at once, I’m happy to report. I’ve finished the basics for Shadow Lawn Press, our old working habitat that never really died, even though it got sort of neglected on the back burner. I’ve fluffed it all up for the Twenty-First Century, give or take a decade. It was quite an undertaking, quite a tedious slog for a while, but it’s done for now. I will be polishing it as time passes, now that I’ve plugged it back in.
There are twelve different categories of books for sale on the site, representing thirty-plus years covering things Bill and I have gotten interested in, for various reasons. How to explain the foray into UFO mischief, which lead to some rather intense radio work? How did all the murderers and their sleuths find their way into the mansion?
I am back in the hut! In the Happy Hippy Hut, albeit the black mold. I’ve seen black mold before, and it doesn’t really scare me. I will spray it with bleach eventually, and even more eventually, I will get it removed and a nice fireplace wall will be erected in its place.
It does—as is so often the case—depend on money. So, I am back to work making ebooks and even their print companions, should the power go out forever. I worry more about that than black mold, if you want to know the truth. And if you don’t want to know the truth, you should scurry along and look for a nice homogenized blend of a website, flavored to your actual political bent. Hand-rolled and human-maintained sites like this are out there, and with some minimal effort I hope to find others.