I love native Striped Bass from around here, but I feel a tinge of guilt eating it because its season is purposely short as hell to make sure some hang around. Tonight, however, D is cooking up invasive Blue Catfish from Chesapeake Bay. Good to eat ’em back for all the good things they snarf up themselves. Here’s the scoop on the situation.
They’re around here all the time. Have sat and shat on our roof. I watch for them nonstop, because especially groups with a couple Toms can become standout pests. You want to chase them away from any area you care about. Because if they think they can wander around with impunity, they will be back every other day.
I’ve had to smack a Tom with a broom as he raced toward me — his noise was not “gobble gobble” but a screeeeech. Now I don’t approach even a couple of hens without a broom and waving it at them aggressively seems to work. You think they must have a communications network: “Stay away from grumpy old Miles — he’s not worth the trouble.”
I cannot resist the notion that the first across-the-USA total eclipse was a sign of evil times. But the happier chips of me left take comfort in one of the huge benefits of science, in this case astronomy, in making a reasonably predictable universe. Otherwise, the sun going out could be the beginning of freakin’ anything, including that it would not come back.
The Aztecs had a particularly creepy mythology associated with eclipses: the sun was under attack from the stars you could see around it when it turned black. These are the female deities/demons Tzitzimime, quite the monsters.
When I was a kid, a drive through Yellowstone Park wasn’t complete unless you managed to feed a bear from the car. That’s what you thought if all you knew about bears was Yogi. My family knew that bears were unpredictable and dangerous, and so the windows stayed rolled up while we waited out the endless traffic back-ups caused by roadside bears. How could people be so stupid? Surly bears would sometimes smack the side of a car if they felt they weren’t getting fed enough, fast enough.
There were rumors that bear incidents were hushed up because they were bad for Park business, but nobody seemed to know for sure. I did know for sure that “Night of the Grizzlies” was predicted over and over for years before it happened.
When I was a kid, the fourth of July was my favorite holiday next to Xmas and my birthday because little old Livingston went all out for it. The day before there was a parade that was the only sure parade of the year. Ran through all of downtown, involved almost all the businesses and institutions and citizens as marchers or watchers. The day of featured an outstanding rodeo with fireworks immediately following. Especially when I retained that childhood sense of time where a day could feel as long as years do to me now, I flat loved it. The 4th of July incarnated summer. (Of course, didn’t hurt that it was the only holiday out there when you could be assured of a nice warm day.)
I still love fireworks. (I disappear into them and time stands still while they go off. It’s just an urge I’ve always had and I’m glad it did not go away. But the day after the Fourth is the one nice warm day I’m sure to have at least a small bought of depression. There’s the weird business where I feel winter earlier and earlier. But beyond that, today is one of those days I envy anyone who lived before the shadow of nuclear weapons existed. So the Cold War never turned Hot. So what? Means nothing.
Oddly what most brightened my day was Laura Miller writing about death. The message that includes the bad news is the strongest. I have to take a walk outside now.
… Donna and I wanted to get married because the day fell on a Sunday and would be easy to always remember. And would always feature the longest potential sunshine of the year. But our selected minister had a commitment to a weekly sermon on the radio (!!) and so couldn’t do it until the next day. So we were married on a Monday — thirty years ago tomorrow.
I couldn’t understand it — our house in Livingston MT had beautiful views, esp. the spectacular living-room picture window, but over the course of three or four years, my Mother came to want the curtains drawn day and night. One problem was that she suffered for years from undiagnosed cataracts. But even after they’d been removed, the shades stayed down.
“Makes the house too hot,” she’d say. But by then the place had central air-conditioning and I knew damn well the darkness remained in winter. Eventually I felt strongly the pulled curtains were a symptom of her depression; a withdrawal from the world, a refusal to look out and engage.
So I resolved to never become afraid of sunlight. (Tough equally determined to not get sunburned ever.)