OH, OH, IT'S AN OLIO! Yes, Dear Reader, what with the thing that came up (down) and the dang-blasted maniacal laugh...I haven't been able to show you much else since the aftermath.
So--here's a little double-feature for you, two movies I put together a few days ago.
The first stars the Little Actor, who has a high old time telling himself NOoooo, but drops his food over the edge of the high chair anyway.
And then the second is a sequel--
featuring a small, four-legged maintenance guy,
who comes in to clean up.
Yesterday the yard man and I set out for our tax accountant's
office; we had our facts and figures and paperwork at the ready.
It just happened to be the gloooomiest spring day we've had thus
far this entire calendar year. There was nothing about the
weather that would give you any notion of planning
a picnic, let's just say. Or any other outdoor event!
It was cold. gray. rainy.
I was doing a tiny bit of muttering under my breath--
something about how the unpleasantness of the day matched the
unpleasantness of the whole taxation-vexation-botheration.
And just like that, we came to an intersection where a
traffic controller, decked out in rain gear, had set up a
warning roadblock. He was preparing to direct a stream
of Amish buggies approaching from a side road.
"Wow," I said, "I wonder..."
"A funeral!" exclaimed the yard man, before I could finish. "There's been a funeral."
(This yard man of mine is a local expert on the Amish [I'm not sure how local--possibly within a pretty broad radius--but at least within the boundaries of our own property])
"That's something," I said, "they get someone to come and direct traffic." After I took a quick picture (showing only a short stretch of the caravan of buggies), I pondered it briefly. "Would there be any other possible explanation for this many buggies, near noon on a Wednesday? Anything else going on?"
"No, that's it. There was a funeral."
My yard man was confident of his
I sat quietly as we drove on through the rain, the car's heater turned up to HOT.
An Amish funeral would have included a burial, I thought.
Hmm. Kinda made our unpleasant chore seem like a picnic in the park--
(on a warm and sunny day, of course!)
This is a fair warning, Dear Reader: If you happen to be afraid of bugs--if they make the hair on the back of your neck stand up and holler, if they make your tummy do amazing aerobic feats --you'd better cover your eyes and read no further. Not only is the creature I'm about to show you not very lovable-looking (you know, like the dear little ladybug or the friendly lightening bug), it's got a downright awful nickname: Stinkbug!
Horrors! Just imagine, Reader Dear, going through life being called Stinkman! or Stinkgirl!
Well, at any rate, I'm trying to feel some compassion for these creatures. They are moving in with me and the yard man; they've been arriving for months now--more and more of them every day! They do not seem the least bit finicky as to where they sleep and eat--on floors, walls, ceilings, windows, window blinds, furniture... even bedcovers! The house is filling up. Each one--after it has lived here briefly--twitters to all 357 of its friends: Found a great place! Come, too!
It's getting to be too much, I tell you! My subtle means of showing them they are not welcome have become ever more harsh (think: death penalty!), yet their influx has slackened not one whit!
What to do?! Dear Reader? What to do?! (This is not a rhetorical question!)
That is the end of this olio. Please excuse me while I go sweep up some uninvited guests!