I thought I would throw a short post up on Al Gore’s interwebs today. I’ll give a little bit of a life update and a short story. No, really. It’s short. I promise.
Next month Misty and I will celebrate our 15th Anniversary. 15 years. That is crazy. I think I’ll revive and revise some entries from 5 years ago. I spent the week of our 10th Anniversary posting stories from our courtship and early marriage. I may use the same stories, I may tell new stories.
I realized this afternoon that I started my blog almost 6 years ago. That is crazy. It’s evolved quite a bit since then. Most entries then were short and sort of pointless. Not nearly as many stories. If you have a chance go tot eh archives and read some of those early entries from 2004 and 2005. I posted on Live Journal back then. I moved everything over to Blogger last year, but the comments didn’t make the move. You can read everything starting here.
Derek Webb is giving away his latest record, Stockholm Syndrome, for the next 20 hours or so (until 10:00 am Friday 2/26). You can down load it here: NoiseTrade. It’s really good stuff. As with most of his music, it makes you think.
OK, now for a short story.
When we first moved back to Florence we lived in a townhouse. It was a two-story brick home sandwiched between two others on one side and 4 on the other.
We typically came and went through the back door which led from the family room onto a wooden deck. The deck sat about 6 ½ feet above ground level. It was painted brown 15 years ago. The paint faded years before we moved into the home. Some of the wood had begun to rot. Mostly around the edges, though. It wasn’t dangerous.
Next to the back door, a wall-mounted light fixture lit the deck. This light, with its 100-watt bulb, served as a beacon to every insect in the quad cities. At least it seemed that way when we entered or exited through the door at night.
Every time we opened the door we had to fight to keep the bugs in their habitat and out of ours. This fight included quick, sideways exits. Often, we employed wildly flailing hands. Sometimes a primal scream to frighten shock them long enough for us to exit.
It was a dark and stormy night. OK, not really. Just had to give a little Charles Shulz shout out.
One warm, summer night the kids and I returned home from some errand that I cannot recall. Arriving home at night meant that I would have the “Yes we are going in the back door and, no, the bugs will not hurt you” discussion.
They were particularly wary of the large cockroaches that liked to crawl around our deck. I can’t blame them. They were pretty creepy. I usually just told them, “They aren’t nearly as scary as the roaches in Auburn. They were twice as big and flew. I once stepped on one and it pushed my foot away and then shook his fist at me.” This didn’t make things any better.
We parked the car, entered the large wooden gate into the backyard, and headed toward the deck. This process usually meant that the kids would stand at the gate and wait for me to open the door. Once it was open, they would race up the steps and into the house keeping their sight focused on the door, lest they actually see one of those monstrous roaches.
Up the steps I went. I opened the door screen door and unlocked the back door. As I closed the screen door to await the arrival of the kids I waved my hands wildly to keep the flying bugs at bay.
The kids arrived and I opened the screen door. They raced in and I quickly followed. Pulling the screen door closed behind me.
Just as the screen door was about to latch closed, I heard something zip by my head. The intruder made a soft rattly buzzing sound as it flew by me. At first I wasn’t sure if it was a bug or just the door creaking as it closed. Then I saw something fly to the top of the refrigerator. As it landed I recognized the interloper. A cicada.
I immediately leapt into military commander mode. I barked out orders to the kids and Misty. We had to work together as a team to rid the house of this invader.
“Stand by the door and be ready to open it!”
“Hand me that towel!”
“Stand back!”
I told the family my plan. I would grab the bug in the towel and take it outside to release him. I grabbed the towel and climbed onto the kitchen counter. The cicada, we’ll call him Lucifer, stared at me with his buggy, red eyes.
Lucifer sat nervously near the front of the refrigerator top. I approached slowly, not wanting to startle him. I got close enough to touch him and reached out to make the capture. I held the towel in both hands and extended my arms so that the towel was directly over Lucifer.
As I began to drop the towel, Lucifer came to life. He leapt into the air with a horrible rattling buzz. In an instant he was flying. Flying directly at my head. I closed my eyes and recoiled my hands. The buzz zipped past my head.
ENNNNHHHHHH!
Suddenly I detected a sound louder than Lucifer’s rattle. It was a blood curdling, girlish scream. And it was coming from my mouth.
I screamed and leapt from the counter top. I barely caught my balance before crashing to the kitchen floor.
My children laughed. They began to mock my horrified scream. They mocked me? These, the same children who quivered and protested at the mere thought of a cockroach crawling near them, mock me for fighting a gallant, courageous battle against a menacing foe such as Lucifer.
Quickly, I composed myself and relocated my prey. He sat on top of the cabinet above the stove staring at me menacingly.
This time I didn’t move slowly. I was through being careful. Lucifer had declared war, and I would answer his call. I jumped onto the counter top and lunged for my prey.
Once again he flew. Once again I screamed and hit the floor. Once again my children laughed and mocked me.
I don’t remember how many times we repeated this series of events. I only know one thing. At the end of the night, whether it took 5 minutes or 3 hours, Lucifer was outside and I was in. He may have triumphed in those few battles, but the war belonged to me.
And maybe, just maybe, my kids woke up to giant cockroaches on their pillows. If so, I have no idea how they got there.
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