TV wasn’t especially thrilling last night, except the “documentary” on old Hollywood stars. The “celebratory” shows they have these days are classless noise in my opinion. Obviously, they’re geared to young people, not grizzled old geezers like me. The missus ended up watching a rather gross show called “Dr. Pimple Popper.” Since I was worn out on the computer, I ended up watching some of it with her in the very wee hours of the morning, since I wasn’t sleepy yet. I can’t remember ever having spent a more disgusting New Years.
I’d had all that I could stand by 2AM and went to bed, after taking out the Mighty Dachshund to drain. By 8:30AM she still hadn’t made the missus wake me up to take her out again, so I got up. It was about 45F here, but windy, so I put on my hoody and took a towel along for her. After she drained, I had her lie on the doormat, then I folded the towel in half and covered her with it. I’d no more than sat down in the swing when my ankles told me that I should have put on socks.
There seemed to be no smaller birds around, I suppose the wind had driven them into the hollows. There were some crows cawing and sailing in the wind in the distance. The whine of truck tires on pavement a couple miles away came blowing from the west. The only other sound was the quiet singing of the invisible cicadas that live in my ears, probably the result of not using hearing protection in my youth.
Not quite down to the first bench on the point to my west, behind the house, stood a lone pine, the only one left of several that once lived amongst the second-growth oaks and maples on the slope. Virginia pine is a “pioneer” species and often pops up when timber is cut. Once the hardwoods get big, though, the pines smoother out. That last pine isn’t long for this world; if it’s still living in 10 years, I’ll be surprised.
Looking down through the winter woods, bright tan splotches of leaves showed where young beech trees were growing. They hold their dried leaves all winter until swelling spring buds force them off. Huge hollow beeches once grew in the main hollow here. Sadly, they all finally died off, rotted and fell over. I’ve heard no more hoot-owls since the big tree’s demise, only the smaller eight-hooters that I once heard only in the mountains. I miss the big owls of my youth asking, “Who? Who? What are you?”
After about a half hour, the pooch was still happily ensconced in her terry-cloth wrap, but my cold ankles were screaming for mercy, so we went in. Copyright 2019