I Fought The Yard and the Yard Won

Once upon a time, my husband and I were very diligent about keeping our yard up. We have moved many times over the years and have always made sure our yard had a modicum of curb appeal, in case we ever had to sell. Well, I guess we are never planning to leave this home because we have done a sorry job of yard maintenance over the past four years. Our excuse is that we are hooked to our computers like a ball and chain and can't get outside long enough to accomplish anything. You'd think we'd hire someone, but you have to watch them like hawks to make sure they don't murder your azaleas. I keep thinking that if I have to supervise them, I might as well do it, but then I don't. A conundrum to be sure.

My men-folk were gone for the whole week. So, I took it upon myself to rehabilitate my yard. For several evenings, I tore myself away from my computer work and donned yard working clothes and put my hair in the requisite ponytail. I dragged the lawnmower all over the yard, weed-eated the weeds out of the cracks of the sidewalk, gave bushes a haircut, planted flowers in pots, and pulled weeds out of beds. Bugs, mainly mosquitoes, were attacking me for putting them out of their homes, but I forged on. I was so proud of my accomplishments. I even did this on Saturday evening when everyone else was going out to dinner and a movie. I dug into the weedy jungle under a large oak tree in the front yard. There were vines growing all through the mulch and weeds, weeds, and more weeds. I put on some gloves and began to excavate the gnarly invaders. When I stepped back all sweaty and dirty with an aching back to look at my yard, I was indeed proud. I had made a dent in the overgrown mess. I went inside, cleaned up, got a glass of wine and glowed in the knowledge that I had done good.

Alas, my friends, the yard was laughing at me. It had a secret. It had hurled upon me its most evil villains and I would soon realize its wrath. The next day I noticed a black spot on my elbow surrounded by an angry redness. I didn't know what to think about it. Was it a tick? Did a rock hit me while I was weed-eating? Hmmmm. Slowly, in the recesses of my mind, I began to recall some articles I had read long ago about spider bites. The pictures with those articles showed something very similar to what I was looking at on my arm. Also, there were clusters of red spots trailing along my forearms. Blasted! I had gotten into poison ivy and a brown recluse spider had gotten me! It was not pretty!

I have suffered dearly over the past week. My arms have been on fire and I had to get two shots in the bum to kick start some heavy duty anti-biotics and steroids into my system. I am very thankful to my friend, who is a doctor, for helping me so quickly after I discovered my battle injuries. My arm might have rotted and fallen off without her expertise. I'm not sure how I would have explained to my family upon arriving home to find me missing a limb. I'd have to explain to them, "Well, what had happened was..."

So, as I am typing this blog, my forearms still itch and I am constantly fighting the urge to rake my finely, manicured nails across them. The yard won and gave me scars to prove it. I'm thinking I might sit on the porch with a glass of sweet tea and just supervise others from now on. Although, if I have to supervise, I might as well do it myself! I think I see a weed...

The Seamstress Made Me Do It

I'm tired. My mother-in-law would cringe that I wrote this for the public to see. How puny and whiny of me! But, I am. I work more than full-time running a business that employs several others, plus I keep my husbands' appointment and travel schedules. I am a single-mom (because my husband travels the globe). I have a 100 year old house in constant need of repair. I have two dogs and a cat, plus various other critters that keep invading my home through invisible holes. I have a teenage son involved in every sport in his school - need I say more?

Today, I determined that I am going to have to learn how to hem a pair of baseball pants. The horror! The last thing I have time for is sewing! I was forced to take Home-Ec in middle school, but I swore that I would never touch another sewing utensil again - God as my witness! The sight of a sewing machine makes me cringe. It's like math, it makes no sense to me. Give me a paint brush and some paints and I can make you a lovely picture. Give me a cookbook and some ingredients and I might be able to make something edible - although my son might beg to differ, I think most days I could do it fairly well. But, don't make me sew! My husband has made the mistake of approaching me with a button in one hand and sport coat in the other while stating, "Honey, you can just sew it back on for me." He withered quickly as I looked at him completely bewildered at his silly assumption and said firmly, "I most certainly will not. I do not sew! I do not, do not, do not SEW!"

I have managed all of these years to keep my commitment not to sew intact. But, today, I may have been undone.

There is only one place in my 'blink of an eye' town to get alterations done and I'll be darned if I can ever catch them open! Their sign states they are open for business Tuesday through Friday from 9am to 5pm and on Saturdays by appointment. So, I was there at 9am this fine Tuesday morning with my son's baseball pants in hand to be hemmed by this fine seamstress. The doors were firmly closed and the "Closed" sign still in place next to the hours that stated they should be open right now. There wasn't a car in the lot. I was confused. So, I thought I'd wait a few moments, maybe she got delayed. Then, another car drove up and it was another customer who said she had spoken to the seamstress only the day before who promised to meet her here promptly at 9am. No seamstress. We waited. Ten minutes later, still no seamstress. I left to do other things. I came back 30 minutes later and the same customer was still waiting - no seamstress. I gave up. I called the business number several times only to get a message that said the mailbox was full and "Goodbye." I went by again later in the day and this business had never opened up. I guess she doesn't need our business. To be fair, maybe she has the flu. But, it seems strange that some misfortune occurs on exactly the same days as I have something for her to mend. Because, this has happened several times when I try to take garments to her.

Now, woe is me because I have to pick up the dreaded sewing needle! I have a thousand other things to do, but tonight I'll spend hacking off extra material from my son's baseball pants and proceed to make a crooked hemline on each of the legs. It's likely one leg will be longer than the other. My son will look at me with total disgust, because in his eyes, I am just dumb and old. That part's nothing new, so I can probably stand it. I hope the other mothers won't judge me too harshly. Remember, ladies, I'm tired and lacking the proper skills for this. Sewing just isn't my thing, my Home-Ec teacher would attest to that, if she's still alive. But, my Art teacher would tell you that I sure could paint a pretty picture. Maybe I should just cut off the bottoms of those pants and glue the hemline! It's sort of like painting - problem solved! One leg may still be longer than the other, but my son will just have to stand crooked. I think he can make it work, he can just say he's tired!

The Accidental Cat Lover

In early July of this year, the heat was unbearable and I had been keeping my cat, Izzy, inside more often. One night I put her out but she didn't show up for her breakfast in the morning as usual. By the 6th day of her absence, I was panicked. I had a mini-breakdown when my husband dared to say to me, "Well, Honey, she is an old cat. I don't think she's coming home." Suddenly Izzy was my beloved cat and how awful for him to say she is dead and never coming home! I couldn't bear the thought! I cried myself to sleep worrying about her thirsting to death and lying helpless under a porch somewhere. My husband slept on the couch.

Anyone who knows me knows that I hate cats! Dogs, I love. Cats, I despise! I thought it unfortunate that my husband chose to bring me a kitten ten years ago after we'd had a massive disagreement. He had come home from a trip to Miami and claimed the mother cat had been "eaten by an alligator" (we lived in South Florida) and the poor thing needed a home. That night, he and the cat slept on the couch together.

For many years I have tolerated this black-haired, green-eyed cat we named Izzy. She has some behaviors I find annoying, like pawing and clawing the spot where she intends to lay, which is typically on MY lap or stomach. I thought it particularly obnoxious that she gravitated to me when I was the one person in the house who glared at her. My son loved her and wanted her to love him, but she merely tolerated him carrying her around like a sack of potatoes. My husband reminded me on a regular basis that her mother had been eaten by an alligator and we should love her. I glared at him, too.

I berated Izzy to anyone who would listen. "She is a weird cat, who has lazy tendencies and appears to be a bit on the mental side." And, "she is not at all clean! She sheds clumps of hair all over the place and licks herself raw!" Her presence in my house was a constant thorn in my side. Dogs are loyal companions, bark at strangers, come when you call and look at you with adoring eyes no matter what you've just muttered under your breath. Dogs are useful!

As Izzy got older, she developed a skin condition that causes clumps of her hair to fall out in the summertime so that she is very nearly bald by August. She also developed food allergies so that she hacks up her food regularly. I've tried changing her diet and keeping the fleas at bay, but nothing stops the mass exodus of her hair. In fact, she resembles Bill the Cat.

Now, I could have left her in Florida when we moved and no one would have been the wiser. I could have mumbled some vague untruth about her escaping from my grasp on moving day. Instead, I gave her a heavy sedative and drove her 550 miles to our new home. I was sorry though when the drug wore off and she started howling in the back seat. I stopped at a Rest Area on I-75 and seriously considered opening the door and pushing her out! I didn't.

After we reached our new house, I kept hoping she would try to find her way back to our old home in Florida because I heard cats do that sometimes. She didn't. She laid on every outdoor chair we have - leaving a body print of herself for good measure. I was stuck with her.

Today, it's been three weeks since her assumed demise and I was thinking that it's nice not having cat hair congregating in all the corners of the house. I was checking on my garden around mid-day when I heard a familiar "ik, ik" on the other side of the fence in my neighbor's yard. I looked around and my eyes landed on a pair of large, green eyes staring back at me through the bushes.

I said,"Izzy?" She "ik-ik"ed, then "YOWWW"-ed at me more vigorously and, I thought, 'I'll be darned, it's my Izzy!' I went around the fence calling to her and she ran to me like she was as surprised as I was. I carried her into the house and was grateful I had not given away her food. She was terribly skinny and in need of a good meal. There were no indications on her about where she'd been all this time. It's a complete mystery as to what happened to her. But, she seemed happy to be home and spent the day stabbing everyone's laps with her nails and cleaning herself in her ill-mannered way.

I just smiled and thanked God to have her home. Tonight no one is sleeping on the couch, Izzy may get to sleep on the foot of my bed. Perhaps, I am an accidental cat lover.

Nightmare on Milledge Street

Over the summer I had been hearing mysterious noises in the walls of the second story of my house. My husband convinced me it was birds for a while, but I had this foreboding feeling that it was something else.

Last month I hired Handyman Dave to do some much needed repairs to my office and house. While he was replacing a light fixture on the second story landing near my office, I heard his ladder shudder in a way that wasn’t very safe. Then, I heard him say in a murky tone, “Mrs. Blount, You have rats.”

I peered around the corner at him, “Rats?”

“Yup, one just ran across the vent here.”

“Ok. Well, I’ve got rat poison. Will you put it up there for me?”

I got it for him and he found the access door to the attic just outside my son’s bedroom, poked his head up there to place the box of rat poison as I supervised from several feet away. Then, I heard his muffled voice say, “Mrs. Blount. You have bats.”

“What?!” I exclaimed. “What are you talking about!?”

“I can smell the guano and … hear that sound?” He pulled his head from the access and replaced the door. Sure enough, I heard the sound I'd been hearing all summer long - scratching, fluttering and muffled screeching sounds.

I stood there in disbelief as I pondered what to do next. Action. Yes, I needed to call somebody. Luckily, my sister gave me the name of a pest control company to contact.

I made the call and within a few days a pest control truck arrived in front of my house. When the man got out of his truck, he stood there a moment and said, “Yes 'mam, I smell ‘em. They’re all over the neighborhood.”

I said, "Are you the bat man?"

He responded, "No 'mam, I'm the Bat Specialist!" Then, he whirled around and I noticed he was wearing a cape with the letters “BS” emblazoned on it! Those particular letters didn't impress me much, but I had to hope that Bat Specialist is what they meant.

The Bat Specialist walked around the house and immediately discovered the bat access on the roof. A plan was made for his return to insert some kind of contraption that would allow the bats to leave the house but not be able to return. Then, once they are gone, he would return to plug the bat hole completely to prevent the bats from coming back to roost in my house.

The day finally arrived when the Bat Specialist (cape billowing) installed the bat pipe to my roof. He encouraged me to go out at dusk and watch the bats leave for the last time that night. I was so intrigued by this idea and at dusk I did exactly that. I ran out to my backyard to watch the bats' mass exodus. I waited and waited. Finally, I heard some scratching and screeching at the roof line, but nothing was exiting through the pipe contraption. I was worried. Why weren’t they leaving yet? More scratching and louder screeching. Horrors! They were trapped! Not one bat managed to get out that night. I went back inside and bit my nails and worried about what was going to happen next. My husband wasn’t home and my son’s bedroom is upstairs.

I made my son sleep downstairs that night – just in case. I slept with one eye open and listened as the bats continued to screech for most of the night. It was a horrible sound.

The next morning, I crept up the stairs to see if any had gotten inside. Sure enough, there was one fuzzy, black bat clutching the edge of the attic access exactly where Handyman Dave had been last week. I ran back downstairs and called the Bat Specialist. He was asleep! And, at 9:00am, he seemed rather unconcerned at my plight and said to call him back if MORE got in! More!!! I was a wreck.

Thank goodness my accountant was coming that day so I wouldn’t be all alone with the bats. In fact, the accountant proved to be a hero by removing the bat for me before he left for the day. Imagine that?! An accountant as a hero!

That evening I attended my son’s football game, so we weren’t home at dusk. We were excited and carefree after a big team win upon arriving home. I had forgotten all about the bat problem and had begun to settle down with my computer to continue working in the living room and my son had gone upstairs to his room. In my peripheral vision I thought I caught some movement in the hallway. I looked up just in time to see a large winged thing swooping past the doorway.

“Bat!” I screamed. I tossed my computer on the couch and crept toward the hallway. I called out, “Stay where you are, Jeb, there’s a bat down here!”

He yelled back, “I see it! I’m on the stairs. I’ll get the rackets!” Teens and weapons! Good gravy.

“No! Stay away from it! I’ll call your uncle and cousins to help! Run, run away, keep running!” (Monty Python’s, The Holy Grail) Jeb armed himself with two tennis rackets and was ready for battle. He knew this might be the one time he had license to break things in the house if in pursuit of the bats from Hell and to save his mama. I can’t say he was wrong.

Meanwhile, I was still in the living room armed with a cell phone in the right hand and snarling, mini dachshund in the left, desperately trying to call my brother in law. He is the only one close enough who has had plenty of experience battling bats along with my teenage nephews, and I needed them all to come rescue us.

As I was talking on the phone, the bat in the hallway apparently heard me. It suddenly flew into the room heading straight for my forehead! His beady, blood red eyes locked with my surprised, chocolate colored eyes. He zoomed toward me and I flung my head back Matrix-style, narrowly avoiding collision. Unfortunately, my arms also flung out dropping my cell phone and tossing my surprised dog to the floor as my feet flew up simultaneously. I landed on my backside staring up at a rather triumphant bat.

I quickly scrambled to my phone yelling, “Can you hear me? Hello!?” only to discover I had somehow placed my brother-in-law on hold. I tried to push the button to unhold the call as I commando crawled toward the dining room door, ducking my head each time the beastly bat dive-bombed me. After reaching the other room, I slammed the door shut against the screeching bat and noticed my dog, Peanut, staring indignantly at me from across the room. I could see that she was considering which shoe she would poop in later to punish me for daring to drop her on the floor.

I ran to the kitchen to find my son snickering and brandishing his tennis rackets. I ignored his mirth as he coughed that he was going in after the bat in the living room. I’m glad he thinks this is so funny. “I’ll get a wet towel to throw on it!” I said. Suddenly, I heard my phone ringing somewhere.

“Hello.” I said.

“We’re coming. What happened? I heard a scream and then a thud! I thought an intruder had gotten in and attacked you!” yelled my brother-in-law.

“No! It was the bat, you fool! The bat dive-bombed me and I fell down!” I said.
Silence. I’m sure I heard a bit of snickering on the other end just before he said, “OK. We’re on our way. Lock yourselves in a room.”

I guess I’m the only one who realizes these aren’t butterflies hanging out in my house?

I got the wet towel and Jeb and I headed toward the living room. He eased the door open. Swoop, swoop, swoop. There is nothing so creepy as a big, freakin’ bat swoopin’ in circles around your living room light fixture. Jeb moved into the room with his rackets and I stood at the door with the towel. The bat immediately swooped at him and Jeb swung, but missed. I screamed – that was my contribution.

I said, “Do you want to use the towel to knock him down?” He tried it and missed again. That thing was fast!

We left that room and headed upstairs to get more rackets. We heard a scratching sound in my office. Jeb moved in, rackets outstretched. Again, I hung by the door. The sound seemed to be coming from the closet. He slid it open and - HORRORS! - another bat flies out and straight through the other door to Jeb’s bedroom! Jeb opened the attic walk-in access door and two more swoop out of there and start dive-bombing him.

I screamed, “Get out, get out!”

Jeb yelled, “I can’t, they’ve got me trapped!”

As I considered how I was going to rescue my son, I saw him swing both rackets several times until he finally made contact and knocked one bat flat against a futon. The other bat had flown into Jeb’s bedroom to join the first one. We both ran toward the stunned bat and Jeb trapped it between the two rackets before it could get its’ bearings. I ran ahead down the stairs and opened the front door with Jeb close behind me. He goes to toss the bat outside only to discover the bat isn’t there. We have no idea where it went! Either it fell out in the house or we missed it flying off outside as soon as we got to the door. We have no idea but it was very disheartening after all that work.

It occurred to me about that time that the attic door was still open and that’s where the bats had migrated to after being trapped on the other side of the house the night before. That air draft was leading them to that door to get out! I had to go back up and close it. Jeb refused to go back up anymore and I didn’t blame him. I took the rackets from him and told him to go to the kitchen. I marched steadfastly back up the stairs and saw that three bats were busy swooping in circles around the light in Jeb’s room. I slammed his doors shut and then crept into my office and quickly slammed the attic door shut too. I went back downstairs to wait in the kitchen for help.

My family did come, but were only able to find one bat and remove it. They were very disappointed and so was I. The rest of the bats had hidden themselves well to await another opportune time to attack me. I packed up myself and my son and slept at my mother in law’s house that night. Then, I went to the beach for the weekend for much needed R&R.

Meanwhile, the so called “Bat Specialist” came back and fixed his rather imperfect bat removal contraption and assured me the bats would be able to leave THIS time. I was afraid to believe him and was not holding my breath. But I was holding my back which was a little stove up after my Matrix moves.

It took several days, but eventually they did leave. We had a few more nights of battling with the leftover bats, but by then my son became very apt at slapping those suckers down (only stunning them) and putting them outside to go on their merry way.

I am completely traumatized, but my back has recovered from my fall at least. I still sleep with one eye open and listen for the telltale screeching and scratching that accompanies the bats' presence during the day. I fear I will hear that sound even when it is no longer there. Halloween approaches, bats still swoop around the street lights in the neighborhood and, our house is the Nightmare on Milledge Street.

Don’t close your eyes, My Pretties! We’re watching you!! Screech, Screech, Screech!

Last hours

When my mother died last year, it was a tragic experience for me even though she was elderly and had been sick in recent months. I lived 10 hours away and didn't realize how quickly her illness had progressed. She was good at keeping secrets about herself right up to the end.

I got the call that she was in the hospital on a Sunday afternoon. She'd been in the hospital several times in the past couple of years, but usually released fairly quickly. This time seemed different. I didn't take any chances and threw essentials into the car and headed north. I felt frantic that I wouldn't make it in time. No one had said she was dying, but I think I felt it sort of like a distant ache. The thought of not being able to see her made me feel completely desperate. So I drove as fast as I thought I could get away with on I-75 and prayed hard through my tears. I hoped that she knew I was coming.

I made it to the hospital in the wee hours of the morning. One sister was there and one was still on her way. There was no way to prepare for what awaited me in my mother's room. She looked like a child. She had been diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis only six months earlier and now could barely breathe. I tried not to appear shocked, but I was. It was all I could do not to sob for her right there.

Instead, I walked over and took her hand and said, "I'm here now, Mom. I'm here to stay with you." I spent the next several hours making sure her oxygen mask stayed put, helping her brush her teeth, wash and brush her hair, take small sips of water and small bites of food.

I hadn't slept in over 24 hours and my brain just couldn't believe this was real. I kept thinking that the doctors are going to tell me I can take her home soon. I was trying to figure out which room in my house to put her in that she'd be comfortable. I vascillated between knowing she was close to death and thinking she's gonna be fine just like always. I didn't want to see the signs that this was it. I also wondered if she knew how bad her condition was. I didn't want to upset her, so I didn't say anything. I didn't say anything I wanted to say. If I'd known these were truly her last hours on this earth, I would have. There were so many things I wanted to ask her about.

My mother, in a last burst of energy, had sent me on an errand to get some things for her from her house as if she believed she'd be fine, too. I was coming back to spend the night with her again. When I returned to her room, the nurses were all quiet just outside her room and they said they were sorry. It didn't register for me. I just smiled politely and moved toward her room. I found my sister holding my mother's hand, but the oxygen machine was silent. A priest was in the room. Mom was gone.

That scene still haunts me. I never thought it would be so hard when my parent died. We think to ourselves all along that when our parents die it will be natural because they will be old and will have led a good, long life. We think it'll be sad, but death is a part of life, right? No. It's much more impactful than that. It's hard to reconcile that my mom isn't here at all anymore. I missed my chance to say what I needed to. She'll never know.

While my sisters and I were cleaning out my mother's house, I found a picture of my mother as a cheerleader for her high school. It is the best picture of her posing with her fellow cheerleaders with their arms thrown up in the air and they have big smiles on their faces. I realized I hardly know anything about that young girl in the photo. I wish I'd asked.

I know you've heard it before, just like I'd heard it before. But, here's hoping that this time you'll really hear it. Tell your loved ones again that you love them. Listen to your parents' stories about their lives before you came along. Don't wait to say what you need to say. What if those last hours come before you're ready and then they pass you by?

Oh, that photo of my mother is sitting prominently on a table in my living room. That young girl has a smile like mine. I see her every day. I think she knows.