A Nest of Another Kind

I have found that I have a slightly peculiar interest in some various biologically related things (well, have you ever tried to watch your blood clot under a microscope?). One of these interests that developed not too long ago with me is for wasp nests. Believe me, I dislike wasps, and I strongly despise yellow jackets and all other stinging insects (I had an experience around six years ago that has scarred me for life, although my phobia has dissipated a little), but I hold a certain admiration for their nests, provided they are empty. I found a wasp's nest lying on the ground a year or two ago and promptly claimed it, and it sits quite proudly in my room. However, this would have gone on and I would have mentioned nothing if something did not happen recently.

It was Craig who first noticed it. Right under the eaves, and not too far from our front porch it loomed, quite menacing. It didn't look exactly like a wasp's nest as I know it, for it was rounded with a long pipe coming out of it, like a bottle. My mother was quick to take action. Instantly she grabbed the wasp spray can, which she had recently used on spiders, and doused the nest thoroughly. So, with a nest right at my fingertips and supposedly empty of its occupants, I readied myself. I first tried a fly swatter, trying to nudge the nest from it's firm lodging under the eaves, but as a fly swatter is generally flimsy, this didn't work. Embracing a new tactic, I grabbed the yard stick from behind the fridge, and tentatively prodded the nest, ready to fly if the nest's owner should come out to pursue me. All was calm with the nest as I broke it from its clinging spot and plopped it into a whipped topping container and put the cover on, just to be on the safe side. With a little trepidation I opened the container and gingerly picked up the nest, peering cautiously down the pipe to see what lay inside. It was dark in there, but I could make out a small honey comb area, similar to a wasp's nest, and I could vaguely see two small white balls. Then it occurred to me that I could use a flashlight, so I snatched that and once again peeked inside the little hole.

Something was in there.

It was a pinky white
small,
fat,
and wriggling!

Ew, gross!

It was definitely larvae. There were probably at least two other smaller siblings of this first one, plus the white, spider-web-like balls. After my first moment of slight panic, I looked again and watched the grubby little thing with a huge mixture of disgust and fascination.

Now what was I supposed to do? I wasn't ready to relinquish my prize nest just yet, so throwing it into the woods wasn't quite appealing. So I did whatever any sensible person would do in my situation. I put it in the freezer. There it remained for a day or two, until I finally got around to taking it out again and once more examined the inside. The larvae were still, as I probably would be too if I were frozen. But were they really dead? Of course wasps last the winter somehow, though whether as eggs or as larvae I know not, so could these little guys just be dormant, ready to unfreeze, grow, and wriggle their way into wasphood? (or whatever it is that made the nest) But if they were dead, how would I get them out anyway?

Timidly I took a wire cake tester (don't worry, I put it in the dish washer when I was done with it) and poked the solid larva. Hmm. Dead or not dead, I didn't really want them living in there. Then I took the next possible solution. Going to the base of the nest, where it had been attached to the eaves, I started to tear out the bottom. Oh, what agonies the-whatever-you-call-it would have suffered to see me tearing his beautiful, hard labored, carefully chewed home! It almost hurt me as much. Well, maybe not that much. The nest was built in layers, and I tore through about two until I came to the actual nest bed. Then I extracted it, its occupants still snoring or dreaming dead dreams, and took it outside to chuck it into the woods. So I got the basic shell of the nest, it's sitting on my bookshelf and we're living happily ever after.

The End.

For the want of a nail

Perhaps you've heard this one before, but I thought it was neat:

For the want of a nail the shoe was lost,
For the want of a shoe the horse was lost,
For the want of a horse the rider was lost,
For the want of a rider the battle was lost,
For the want of a battle the kingdom was lost--
And all for the want of a horseshoe nail.
- Benjamin Franklin, a version of the statement from Poor Richard's Almanac

Reach for the pedals

About a week and half ago, I had my first driving experience. Yeah, scary huh? And yes Craig, my feet can reach the pedals!!!

To begin with, let me inform you that my experiences in driving have been very primitive. I'm not sure if that's a good thing or not. After all, I have heard about a thirteen-year-old who led a car chase and got arrested not only for speeding, driving under-age, but also driving well! I suppose they would have dropped that last charge if he had crashed into five cars or something. That would have been quite excusable, and what do you expect? Anyway, as I was saying, my driving experiences have been very primitive. Of course I've had the delightful past time of when I was about seven sitting in Craig's lap as he let me steer around Fairwood, and then I have done the same thing when I was thirteen with my dad, but on a tractor.

Of course I have driven my cousins' golf cart before, but since a certain dear friend of ours drove it into the ditch a few years ago, I haven't gotten to drive it at all except on the ball field.

Lastly, I have driven a go-cart before. However, I am quite aware that one of those times when I did it I drove rather slowly. Therefore, when Cara and I took a second drive, I fully intended to speed up more and have fun. My good intentions were crushed immediately when I made the poor choice of choosing a go-cart at the back of the line. If I had thought properly, of course I would have realized that there was a reason for this! But naturally I make it a point never to think properly, so I clambered inside only to realize to my great dismay that it was a crawler. I assure you that I had my foot floored on the gas and I could barely keep up with the last of the stragglers. Dear oh dear! My prospects are sorry indeed.

Well, last week Clyde and I were driving back from Keene one evening. Suddenly, after turning at the top of the church hill in Fairwood, he stopped the car and got out. To my bewilderment and astonishment he opened my door and told me to slide over. Oh my. With a little protest, I slid over, behind the wheel. It was dark outside, and I found as I came right to it, driving is a serious thing. Okay, which one is the brake and which one is the gas? Uh, I don't know anything about gears. Painstakingly Clyde directed me step by step on what to do. We crawled forward. When we got to the hill by the Hansen's, I stopped. "I guess I should press the gas pedal now," I said (I admit this now rather sheepishly). I couldn't see where the pedals were when I needed them, so my brother patiently switched on the lights. Up, up, and up we went, then down the other side. I am happy to learn to drive, but I felt like on my first lesson I didn't want to risk running into the ditch, as we came up on the threatening sharp turn into our driveway. Clyde helped me. So that is how I ended my first driving experience, as I rolled timidly into our lower driveway. Safe.

Now I do inform you that I fully intend to like driving. I think I'll try to work on my self confidence next time I'm at the wheel however. In case you haven't figured it out yet, I have to tell you with a mixture of frankness and embarrassment that I am very pathetic. . . . but at least Clyde was bursting with pride that he had been the first one to show me how to drive!

The Princess and the Clock

Here's an unusual story for ya! This is a little something that Cara and I had fun writing a couple years ago to send to Klara when she was in Israel. I just sort of rediscovered it today.

The Princess and the Clock

Once upon a time there lived a little girl named Authoria Sweetness− Sweetness was her last name of course. She was nine years old, and had hair like sunbeams. She had a quick laugh which sounded like silver bells tinkling in a winter breeze.

Anyway, one day Authoria went over to the castle’s great, grandfather clock. She noticed that it was ticking rather strangely. Authoria stuck her face right in front of the clock and watched the hands go round and round. Suddenly, she was caught by surprise as the clock swallowed her, first her head and the rest of her followed. You see, the clock had a magic spell cast upon it by the evil wizard Tic-Toc. The spell was that anyone who put their face a centimeter or less away from the clock face would be swallowed and sent to a faraway land.

Authoria flew through the air in a tunnel of confusion… until she saw a faint light at the other end. She went plummeting towards it at a great speed. The light got brighter and brighter and then she came to the end. She emerged and saw a beautiful rainbow colored land. The color was too much for her and she popped. She blew into a bubble and floated away, never to be seen again.

The End

Updates

*Puff* *gasp* *huff* *inhale* *exhale* The sound of my gusty panting sounds steadily in my ears. I have always been of the opinion that whenever you run or do any strenuous exercise you should give yourself as much oxygen as possible (none of this recommended *sniff sniff puff* thing), because I have heard that part of the reason why you get muscle cramps is from a production of lactic acid, which is a result of a lack of oxygen (I learned this is seventh grade so if my knowledge is somewhat twisted, then you will understand). Therefore, in my point of view, panting is not always a sign of being out of shape, although this is often also the case. So it should surprise you little if you lent your ear and heard my muted wheezing while I pump my way uphill on the one-mile trek to the lake. Frankly, I am also exaggerating.

All that to prepare you for my telling you that I biked to the lake and on to Dublin's tiny Memorial Day parade with Clyde. The first mile is the toughest, though not the worst in the world, and then it's cruising around the lake in delightful relaxation. If you want to relax, that is. So anyway, we made it to the parade, waited, watched, marched (or rode ever so slowly), listened to my dad's speech on patriotism, then whoo-hoo turned around and went home. Man, I just taught you the way to make your events sound the most exciting. But really, the ride back was fun, especially the last mile because guess what? It's almost all down hill. It's very thrilling to have the wind whistling in your ears and whipping in your hair, and keeping a tight motorcycle grin to avoid getting bugs in your mouth (you just get them in your teeth instead). The pavement was whizzing by underneath my tires, and it can make you feel dizzy if you're not careful. We arrived home safe yet happy.

That afternoon, after some debate, we left for Cape Cod. Yes, of all the places in the world, I finally made it to that beloved spot. Sure, I went there when I was two, but when you don't remember a thing about it, it doesn't really count. We took a hotel, and the next morning we set out to explore. When my dad is at the wheel, you know you're going to have a nice, slow, relaxing drive. As long as that's what you want. My dad has a funny way of wanting to explore new roads in ways that sometimes found us lost, but now, although "I once was lost, but now am found" we have the all-new, ultimate, extreme Strips and Treats!!! At least that's what we like to call it, although its real name is Trips and Streets (or is it Streets and Trips?), but my dad called it the other name by accident when he opened his Christmas present and we just haven't gotten over that laugh. Anyway, my point is that basically we can never get lost as long as our software is functioning properly and the satellite is accurate.

We moseyed our way along down the coast through various towns, stopping for a lighthouse, a thrift shop, or a little break at the beach. I did find something out though--Cape Cod is just like any other place! Well, almost, with the difference of a few higher prices, more hotels and mini golf places, and a more laid-back lifestyle, since it seems like much of the place is built around touristry. But that's just from my perspective.

When we wound back to our hotel, Craig, Clyde, and I decided to go for a bike ride on one of the scenic trails in the area. It was unbelievably smooth--take it from me, if you live at Fairwood where it's mostly hills, you will be astonished when you come upon a few miles of flatness to bike on. Craig's luck wasn't so great. . . his tire popped near the beginning. Poor guy. I knew he shouldn't have eaten that pastry for breakfast. . . (haha, Craig) but it really wasn't his fault. You can't exactly hop on your dad's bike that hasn't been used for a little while and has lately been overblown with air; it just doesn't work. Still, eventually we came to a scenic area and we pumped on leisurely, admiring the ducks in the pond or the pink flowers, sandy beach, and aqua ocean. Clyde lent his bike to Craig for a little while and we did get to hike it through the woods, past an arbor, and a house with the aromatic scents of their cookout wafting by to beckon us temptingly. I wonder what they would have thought if we had asked for a bite?

The next day found us sitting outside on the deck of a ferry while the foghorn blasted its way through the mist to Martha's Vineyard. Then we were dumped onto dry land and found ourselves inside a rental car (which was cheaper than taking our own vehicle), ready to blaze a trail. What new adventures would await us? We were actually on an island, which is practically the same thing as a foreign country, when we came to a shock. Martha's Vineyard is just like Cape Cod!!! Bummer. No Norwegian countryside for us. And yet there was still something extra fascinating about the touristy place, and we managed to enjoy ourselves, even if we did have to buy gas for 3.52. Lighthouses are still something intriguing for us picture takers, even though they are getting a little old ("I think I'm beginning to get sick of lighthouses," Craig commented dryly, and then he only took like two pictures of one lighthouse which tells you something really is wrong), and we visited them faithfully. The water was gorgeous, and by mid-afternoon we stopped for another little break at the beach and I got to get my own little sunburn.

Probably the highlight of Martha's Vineyard for me was Oak Bluffs. It's a town that used to hold camp meetings in its center (and still does), where there is a very large pavilion or tabernacle set up that even has stained glass. People used to come from all around and set up camp (Grant and Harriet Beecher Stowe, to name a couple), until before long they decided to be build cottages. These were the wonders. I guess since then they have decorated these many houses into the elegant Victorian style, in varied colors of pink, purple, orange, red, blue, and so forth. Intricate eaves, sharp trimming, and quaint porch decorations complete the gingerbread house look, and the cottages are often given names like Mulberry, Oops, Over the Rainbow, Alice's Wonderland, etc. What's more, people actually live in these houses, which must be an absolute pain because they have to keep their shades down most of the time, they can't leave normal looking junk on the porch, they have to keep up the house's beautiful looks, and endure touristy picture snappers like us. That didn't keep me from enjoying the place, however, and film was soon being spent like water as we admired the charming buildings along their quiet, pedestrian roads. Aaahhh. . . . .

Thursday evening found me sweating in my concert. Excuse me, but I mean literally. Not only were we playing a song that I had to skip a whole measure in because it was going so fast, but if that weren't enough it was a sticky evening, we had hot lights flooding onto us, and I was wearing a black skirt with cosy dress shoes. Aaaaahhhh, agony!!! Now do you blame me? But before we knew it our pieces were over (hurray! no more string ensemble until the fall!) and I got to enjoy the rest of the concert. Well, at least some of it was enjoyable. It just so happened that it was the band concert and not everything the percussion ensemble plays is my favorite thing, though they were pretty good. The concert band did play Raiders of the Lost Ark (Bria, it sounded a lot better when your orchestra did it), which gave us inspiring wishes to watch Indiana Jones. There was also a really cool piece called The Golden Age of the Xylophone. Supposedly it is a song that was written in the early nineteen hundreds and it cost $200 dollars for the band director to rent it, before it came out a year later so he could buy it for like $120. So he bought it, but while he was teaching at another school, so he got to borrow it from them and not use our money (which he pointed out with much glee). Also I guess it's a song that he has never heard without cuts because it is so much long, fast music to memorize he wasn't sure how easily it could be done. However, despite this obstacle, Conval's two best percussionists, who are also seniors (and FYI one of them is going to the Hartt School next year) have done it! Before we knew it, these two guys, with the accompaniment of the band, were pounding away on that xylophone for all they were worth, astonishing us to the utmost. Spellbound, we watched them as they took turns to play this incredible piece (all memorized, remember!), and then as they both got up there and played together the impressiveness was complete. You could rarely have a more fanatic audience.

So now you've got a little update on my recent life, and now I am having some of my first normal summer days. But if you're still reading this, I am quite impressed.