Purple Rain

"Are those blueberries?" inquired Mr. Ginley, peering out the kitchen window.

attribution below

"I'm not sure what they are," I replied. "But they are not blueberries. Just another weed in the jungle."

But, of course, it didn't end there. The questions kept coming, and I was compelled to contact my expert on the topic (aka, my sister, Diane). I went out and took a few snaps and texted her the best one (which, sadly, wasn't good enough to use here.)

Her reply was quick. Of course, she knew what it was. 

"Pokeweed," she replied. "Critters like it. Definitely an acquired taste. Will spread if happy. Yours looks mighty happy. Could end up with purple poop."

I was momentarily puzzled by the ending, until she continued a minute later.

"Droppings, that is...the critters, not you."

And so I was not surprised when I observed purple splotches on the ground outside the back door. 

As I've said before, I'm trying to be kind to birds, bees, and bunnies. (Thankfully, "woodchuck" doesn't start with a "b".) In return, I'm getting thanked with colorful driveway markers.

Of course, there are other perks. I get to watch squirrel antics in the tree over the fence. I've seen a few monarch butterflies. And fireflies. I've heard mourning doves and cardinals. Cicadas and crickets. 

The only downside this year has been the invasion of lantern flies. I've killed hundreds of the ghastly beasts. Thankfully, with the cooler weather, they are dying out or laying low. Either way, I'm glad their numbers seem to be receding. 

Soon, I'll have to go out and start chopping away at the now-denuded blackberry bushes, the dried up weeds, and yes, the pokeweed (once the berries are finished). 

For now, I'm going to enjoy the last remnants of summer, the cooler weather, and the crickets, which are still creating a lovely evening soundtrack.

Heaven knows, I won't be ready to shovel snow anytime soon.

Photo attribution: Cbaile19, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons

School Faze

In my youth, Labor Day was a time of mourning. Because the next day, we had to return to school.

Mom cut my bangs.

Who will my teacher be? Will I get lost searching for a classroom (high school). Or, once uniforms were out of the picture, will my wardrobe pass muster or will I be humiliated by my peers? Who will I sit next to on the school bus? Will that cute guy I've had a crush on since last year be in any of my classes?

To this day, I occasionally have nightmares about roaming the halls of my high school trying to find my locker, then forgetting the combination and missing class. Sometimes I find myself half-dressed, running to catch the bus. Other times, I'm trying to take a test but I can't suss out any of the answers.

These things come to mind when people talk about the carefree school days of their youth. Surely I wasn't the only child who was anxiety-ridden, worried about whether I would be able to make friends, if my teachers would be nice, or if I'd get good grades. 

Nope, "school days" and "carefree" are two phrases that definitely do not go together.

I suppose if I weren't such a misfit toy, I'd have had an easier time in school, and maybe I would have carried a few good memories into adulthood.

Mr. and I were talking about the milestone class reunion coming up in two years and whether we'd attend.

I am honestly interested in what happened to some of the kids in my class. But I really don't need to talk to them in person. A "Who's Who From the Class of 1977" would be nice.

All the info, none of the social interaction. 

What I call a win-win.