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Dead Crickets Society

Dead Crickets Society

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I’m alone for a few days, which means the house is far too tidy and I’m the only one on bug patrol. Given that these are the first crisp days of autumn, wild creatures are seeking a comfy place to spend the winter, and there is brisk cricket traffic in here.

I have nothing against crickets, as long as they know their place, which is outside. But when they — especially the branch of the family known as cave crickets or sprikets, with their hefty bodies and long, spidery legs — hop into the house, they need to be dispatched quickly.

I know women whose husbands have a soft spot for bugs and will not kill them. This is not my situation. If I run into a spriket on the kitchen floor, I have eradication backup.

But for the next few days, I’m on my own. I have pressed heavy books into service — yearbooks, cookbooks, whatever is hefty and on hand. Since the critters hop toward whatever is frightening them, I generally just throw the book at them. So far, it’s Anne 2, Sprikets 0. I hope my winning streak continues.

(No spriket photos here!)

Coming Soon

Coming Soon

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A new sign greeted me on my early-morning walk. “For Sale: Coming Soon” read the sign on a house across the street. 

In retrospect I’m not surprised. The house is looking primed and polished these days with tidied landscaping and a newly sealed driveway. 

I barely know the occupant; his tenure has been relatively short, as residencies are measured in this neighborhood of long-lasting owners. I feel the lack of contact as a failure of sorts. We knew the previous owners of this house quite well. Their youngest daughter was one of our youngest daughter’s best friends. 

Still, times change — and neighborhoods do, too. This one will be changing again soon.

Going for Gold

Going for Gold

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The Olympics end today. What a run it’s been! From the rainy opening with the torch carried across the rooftops of Paris to the final games and heats, there have been thrills for sports fan — and for couch potatoes, too. 

It’s enough to make me tackle my chores with Olympic ardor. I already do my own form of race-walking, though with significantly less hip swivel. But yesterday I found myself vacuuming, cleaning and doing yard work with medals in mind. 

A bronze in dusting, a silver in weeding, and a gold in baking. It’s not a 3:51-minute 1,500 … but it’s something.

The Paper Towel School

The Paper Towel School

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I’m of the paper-towel school of house cleaning. Though I also employ a vacuum, dust cloth and broom, the humble paper towel is one of my chief weapons against dirt and grime.

Is it the most sanitary? Absolutely, you just throw it away when you’re done.

Is it the most environmentally sound? I’ll plead the Fifth on that.

But when you need a smudge remover, counter cleaner, or spill picker-upper, it can’t be beat. I’ll be taking six rolls to the cabin tomorrow, and I’m not sure it’s enough. 

(Beatrix Potter’s Mrs. Tittlemouse, who would never use paper towels.)

“Open Door Policy”

“Open Door Policy”

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The term sounds vaguely familiar, like something I learned long ago, and a quick search tells me that it was a system of equal trade and investment in China in the first half of the 20th century. 

I chose the title with another thought in mind: the way it feels to leave the front door open on a perfect June afternoon. An open door policy made possible by a screen instead of glass, and perhaps only good for another day or two. 

So far, we’ve been able to get by without air conditioning in the house: opening and closing windows at strategic moments, gathering in the morning coolness like an arm full of crisp line-dried laundry.

They’re calling for much higher temps by week’s end, so we may have to give in and close up the house. But it’s been lovely to leave doors and windows open, to breathe in and out with the day.

Busy, Busy

Busy, Busy

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It’s mulching season. Actually, it may be past mulching season, though I suppose it’s still mulching season somewhere, especially if you still have mulch to spread. 

Speaking of that, as I walk through the neighborhood, I spy much mulch. There are piles of it in driveways, waiting to be shoveled and carted to the backyard, and bags of it strategically placed under trees or beside garden beds. 

I’ve decided that having an array of mulch bags deposited around the property is the perfect way to look busy. It’s proof positive that mulching may occur in the future if it hasn’t already. 

When we first moved to this tidy suburban neighborhood, I had a thing about mulch. It seemed the epitome of uptight lawn care. But through the years I’ve come to understand its value: the moisture it keeps in, the weeds it keeps out. If nothing else, it lets neighbors know we care. 

Rose Time

Rose Time

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The climbing rose peaked a few days ago, but the plant is still weighed heavy by blossoms, and when I sit on the deck to write the air is filled with fragrance. 

When I look out at the yard through its flowers, it’s a little like looking at the world through rose-tinted glasses.

But at some point, I must squeegee off the glass-topped table and abandon for a minute my journal or laptop to sweep up petals with the old broom I leave outside. 

What better way to enjoy the rose than by immersing myself in its detritus, still soft and pearly pink?

Religious Recycling

Religious Recycling

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For years I collected palms from Palm Sunday. I grew up learning that they are a sacramental, something sacred that you can’t just toss in the trash.  I brought them home from church, tucked them up high on a shelf in the closet and there they stayed, collecting dust. 

In the old days, in the homes of an earlier generation of Catholics, I remember them being displayed behind sacred art, paintings of the Sacred Heart, the sorts of iconography I don’t have.

But in the last 10 years or so, my church has put out a call for old palms a few weeks before Lent begins. They burn the palms and use the ashes on Ash Wednesday — a lovely example of religious recycling. 

I was able to shed a large backlog of palms that way. Now, my house is almost palm free. The “almost” is because … I picked up another palm yesterday.

Laundry Day in Funchal

Laundry Day in Funchal

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Into every traveler’s life some errands must fall. And by yesterday it was more than time to do laundry. 

We’re lucky to be staying in a little apartment with drop-dead gorgeous views, a tiny balcony, and a small washing machine under the cabinet, where a dishwasher might be in the U.S. 

The machine’s buttons were mysterious and there was no information in the apartment that might explain how to turn the thing on, so Tom looked up the owner’s manual online. Even that didn’t tell us what we needed to know. But he tinkered with the appliance until it came on … and it stayed on for the next couple of hours. 

I wasn’t sure if our clothes would ever be dry again, but I was pretty sure they would be clean. And in fact, they are now both. The drying rack fits over the balcony railing, and, with a little ingenuity, over two kitchen chairs, as well. So by this morning, we had clean, dry clothes. 

It was an adventurous laundry day, Madeira style. 

(Clothespins: a laundry day essential)

This Old Door

This Old Door

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It’s installation time: the long-awaited day when the new back door becomes a reality — and the old wooden one becomes history. That one is in such bad shape that I won’t even include a photo of it in its entirety. But it’s served us well and is worth a backward glance.

The old door wasn’t professionally installed, but for decades it has shielded us from snow, cold, wind, rain and heat. It has kept pets and small children inside, or swung open to let them run across the desk and down the stairs. 

The door has been slammed by teenagers — and snuck through by teenagers too, although they preferred the basement window for their late-night escapes. 

It has been gouged and scuffed by pets, starting with our old cat, Basil, whose claws were much sharper than his sweet temper, followed by our dear departed doggie, Copper, who might scratch the door a dozen times a day to keep us apprised of his needs. 

In other words, the years have not been kind to the back door. The glass is mottled and wind whistles through a gap at the bottom. But it’s our door, and in some strange way, I’ll miss it when it’s gone.