Jesus Bees

I told Big Guy that his Jesus Bee trap was wobbling. I pointed at the edge of the trap hung from the roof outside the screen porch. One carpenter bee carcass lies curled on its side in an upside down water bottle, part of the trap. Big Guy assured me that the trap was fine. It perplexes him that I call carpenter bees "Jesus Bees," but who except Jesus the carpenter could cut such perfect circles? I rarely refer to Jesus or ask for things in His Name as so often I've heard others spout Jesus or Mohammad or Allah with the certainty that they alone know what Jesus or another Holy One would want. My Jesus, or by whatever other name a deity exists, simply wants carpenter bees to be carpenter bees. I also think he, she or whomever, wants poor people to be thought about, families to be right-sized and healthy, and women to be treated with respect. But those are bigger issues than Jesus bees. And they, I might add, have their own set of problems to worry about. Big Guy's got a trap. And one Jesus bee found out the hard way, it works.

Bacon Weave

Two years ago, at Christmas, Big Guy--one of the most ardent lovers of bacon--gifted the I Love Bacon cookbook to one of the world's greatest cooks Mom, who doesn't eat bacon. That she doesn't eat it never entered Big Guy's gift-giving strategy. That she could, and would, cook bacon did. Much to Big Guy's disappointment, Mom hasn't used I Love Bacon as anything more than a paperweight. But I know she can't flip over a one-pound package of Oscar Mayer's best without thinking of her son-in-law. Recently, Big Guy received a letter from Mom. Inside, a recipe ripped from a local southern newspaper, headlined: Bacon Explosion For Super Bowl Parties. Handwritten across the bottom, "For the bacon king in this family." Big Guy got excited, as the recipe only calls for four ingredients: 2 lbs. thick cut bacon, 1 1/2 lb. Italian sausage, barbecue rub and barbecue sauce. Then he quit reading, probably figuring I would take up the bacon cause on his behalf. I didn't. But I did enjoy reading the recipe. It starts, "Using 10 slices of bacon, weave a square lattice." The instructions then call for frying the rest of the bacon, cooking the sausage, then rolling up the cooked slab of cholesterol inside the tightly woven bacon lattice, and dipping it in barbecue sauce.  I don't know if a bacon lover or an artistically challenged cook developed this bacon bomb. I am sure it was a Southerner. And should Big Guy choose to try the Bacon Explosion, he'll be the one weaving the strips.

Eyes of the Beholder

Being beautiful takes work. Or so I've heard. But the beautiful people aren't pounding on the treadmills and stair-steppers at the YMCA. That is what I thought as I perched and pedaled on the stationary bike in a room full of jiggly sweat. Then I looked to my left, at Birdie. She perched and pedaled on a similar machine, while reading a paperback book. To my annoyance, I noticed she was racking up more miles at a faster pace than me. So I looked for Big Guy. I cranked my head a bit to the right to peer around the column blocking my view. I caught a fleeting glimpse of him flailing on a grasshopper-like ski machine. He appeared to be covering a lot of miles or at least beating the machine to death. I found my beautiful people, I recognized. Then in a moment of largesse, I gave myself credit, too. I upped to three the number of the beautiful people at the Y.

Dino Santa

When the going gets tough, the smart move on to something else. That's why I lay aside tinkering with media lists and thinking about tedders and articulated wheel rakes long enough to costume a dinosaur in a red felt Santa suit. In November, I rescued the extinct fellow from his position propped against an alley dumpster. The two-foot tall mechanical reptile's innards were tumbling outward. It lacked batteries and a remote control. Plucked from ruin, it rode around my minivan for a few weeks. Then I dumped it in the basement, where it lay forgotten until Christmas passed and 2011 turned to 2012. In the harsh light of January, dino didn't look keepable. I tossed it in the trash, then relented. If dinosaurs were good enough to walk with Jesus, surely this cast-off creature deserved a resurrection. Hence, the Santa suit and a midnight trip to Brad and Angelina's doorstep. Like a match made in heaven, a pact with the devil or something in between, they took in Dino Santa. That's not my elegantly dusted table that it rests upon, crowding out Freud, Mozart or Mr. Vogt. Now that Dino is placed, I return to thinking about tedders. I'm not certain what they are, but somewhere someone wants one, regardless of if they know it. Kind of like Dino Santa.

A Little Less Trash

More than a year ago, Fancy Free asked that a bag of trash be picked up in honor of her birthday. Blithely, I committed. I envisioned picking up trash alongside a creek of free-flowing water on a leafy green, early spring day--birds chirping, flowers blooming and perhaps even a rainbow emerging as God's sign of a good deed well done. In my vision, the trash would not only be clean, it would practically leap into my trash bag. And strangers woud pause midconversation with one another to compliment me on my commitment to nature. Then I forgot all about my commitment. Until December, which explains why Tequila and I slogged through half-frozen mud along a grimly chilled creek bed. I pried chunks of trash--including two, nonmatching shoes--loose from their nature-made graves. Tequila chased any sign of wildlife. No birds chirped. No flowers bloomed. No rainbows shone from heaven. No bonus brownie points from strangers--as no one else was crazy enough to stroll through the land of tossed refrigerators. But I did it. I picked up trash. Nasty trash. For Fancy Free. A promise fulfilled.

Stacy & Other Names

Daisy called to let me know: Birdie bit her while we waited in line for Disney World's Splash Mountain, not Space Mountain. "How could I mix them up?" she asked. "Space Mountain is fun. Splash Mountain isn't." I promised to correct my mistake. Then I started thinking about names. Maybe "Birdie" should be "Biter" and "Daisy" could be "Tasty." If I were to rename the girls, I should give "Big Guy" a new name. This time of year, it would be "Guy who understands taxes, so I don't have to." Some names last long after their usefulness. When the girls were little, they found a turtle and named her Ashley after the gymnastics teacher they'd met that morning. We never saw that woman again. Ashley lived in our backyard for four years. Then she escaped. And now we're Ashley-free. Bless-her-soul June, the black and orange Halloween kitty, who dug through the trash and aggravated Big Guy, was named after Daisy's kindergarten teacher. I don't know what the teacher would think--especially about the trash. But Daisy loved her teacher and she loved her cat, too. The long ago earthworms that lived in a jar on our kitchen table were "Stacy and her friends," named after Sis's sister-in-law. After one too many worms-on-the-table-while-eating-spaghetti dinners, we turned Stacy and friends loose in a backyard planter. Birdie cried. She didn't think Stacy and her pals were smart enough to avoid the birds. Chances are, she was right. But Stacy--the Sis's sister-in-law Stacy--should be honored over the tears that were shed. If Sis ever told her.

Middle of the Night

The K-Mart cashier stopped halfway through checking out my purchase to change the fluorescent light tube in the ceiling. I was already steamed as Big Guy got to drive the semi-truck and I was stuck driving the plywood clad, homemade pick-up truck camper. I began scrutinizing the other checkout lanes to confirm that I was as unlucky as I thought. Then the phone rang. And I woke up. 1:30 a.m. I grabbed the phone. It was Birdie calling the home phone from her cell phone. She wasn't holding down a bench in the emergency room, but rather tucked in bed in her room across the hall. "Mom," she whispered, "did you hear that noise? Oh my gosh, it was a really loud low note!" "A low note?" I echoed. "Yes!" she cried. "A low note on the piano! Send dad to check it out." While Big Guy can snore up a symphony, I didn't think he would wake up for a solitary low note crisis. So I committed to "listen hard" for more low notes. Birdie, her fears eased, went back to sleep. I lay still thinking about ghosts, goblins and other things that go bump in the night. Then the bedroom door burst open. I gasped. I eased the covers up around my shoulders and squinted my nearsighted eyes toward the door. I saw nothing. Big Guy slept. In my heart, I knew the low note and the wide flung door were the mischief made by cats, loose in the house and bored. But a tiny part of me wondered if criminals, werewolves, vampires or witches might tickle the ivories and then wander in search of sleeping souls. Then I realized Big Guy slept closer to the door. He would be one pounced upon, first. And munching on Big Guy's bones would take a while. Cozily protected, I went back to sleep. This time, I didn't shop at K-Mart. I knew better.