Category Archives: Essay

So Long, Irma

By nightfall, the gentle daytime breezes intensified. The winds pushed, slammed, and whipped against the house and stockade fence and made trees and shrubs dance a weird tarantella. Greenish-blue lightning glowed at varying intervals, and the night sky had an eerie, almost gothic, feel.  

A lone gecko took shelter on the screened porch.


The hurricane’s eye passed over the neighborhood during the night, and morning from my front room windows revealed no damage, except for some neighbors’ fences that were pulled up or twisted. The chug-chugga-chugga-chug-chug of a neighbor’s gas generator in his driveway was the only non-nature sound in the neighborhood for hours. Wind gusts through the afternoon managed to send fences creaking grotesquely.


The electric was out for almost nineteen or twenty hours, and restored in time for when the mandatory curfew expired. This period was an eye-opener on how much we depend on electricity: No coffee maker, no laundry, no cellphone-charging.

I did, however, read a few chapters of a good book that was made into a movie. It’s sure to become a favorite of mine.


Life seems to be getting back to normal here.  

Note for future power outages: Remove and empty the ice maker and tray so melting ice doesn’t drip across the kitchen floor.  
©2017 Susan Marie Molloy and all works within.

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Harnessing the Silly Walk

It’s a dreary day today. The skies are grey and murky. The air is heavy with humidity. The barometric pressure is making me and the dogs a little draggy.  No photograph from me to share with you today. We’ve all seen blah days like this. Why overemphasize it?

So — how about a positive and fun story from me instead?

I noticed that today is National Dog Day, and I have a dog tale.

When I take one of my dogs for a walk, he pulls on his leash as if he is towing a block of stone for the Great Pyramid of Giza. Oftentimes, he pulls with so much gusto, he becomes bipedal. He gags and chokes and walks on his hind legs for several feet with all the grace of Monty Python’s silly walk.

This problem was solved when I fitted him with a fashionable brown leather harness. He took to it right away, and walking with him is now a pleasure. It’s more of a side-by-side stroll and less of a contest to see how hard he can pull on his collar.

I used to dread walks with him. Now it’s pleasant.

And normal-looking.©Susan Marie Molloy, and all works within.

 


Insect Attack, and the Juicy Deceased

Seven o’clock this morning.  The sun’s pink and yellow rays above the horizon.  Fat, puffy clouds across the sky.  At the kitchen bar.  Second cup o’ joe.  Newspaper opened.  Page turned.  Interesting story headline.  Funny photo caption:

 

First, as we see in the headline, insects are killing crops in swarms — swarms!  swarms! I tell ya — in the West.

Meanwhile, a Mormon cricket, as shown in the photograph, is —  groan — feasting on a dead cricket, allegedly killed by a car.

Allegedly, because how do we know a car killed it?

Reliable witness(es)?  Anyone?

According to the article, the crickets, when hit by a car, are juicy.  Dead Dora doesn’t look squished to me; just stiff.  More like either dead stiff or scared stiff.

Could the already dead cricket been dead by the time the Mormon cricket got to it?  It could have had The Big One, theoretically, when it saw the honkin’ size of that Mormon cricket hanging around the shoulder of the road.

And then, just look at the position of Dead Dora and Lively Larry in that photograph.  Larry may be doin’ a little CPR on the prone Dora.  After all, crossing the street with massive cars whizzing by can put a diminutive cricket in a state of shock, don’t you think?  Think of Hoppity trying to cross the street in Fleischer Studios’ 1941 cartoon, Hoppity Goes to Town.

It’s that heart-stopping.

So, it’s hard to say.

It’s hard to say which part of this story is fake.

I’ll go with the cricket being killed by a car as the fake; my ten dollar bet is that the swarming cricket crop-killers in the West is the real story.

(c) Susan Marie Molloy, and all rights reserved.


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