Sunday, 4/17: beautiful sunny, clear, cool early May day. Wild Mustard is about to flower in our last-year’s tomato patch, and on cue, a Cabbage White is fluttering drunkenly around the area looking for a good host. First butterfly of the year; so much for the little Blues we used to have to start the year off. The Periwinkle and early Bugleweed are in flower, but not a single Bumblebee to be seen. That’s not encouraging. Perhaps the reports of colony collapse affecting wild native bees as well are disturbingly accurate.
Monday. Taxes. Appropriate. I’d feel less angry about it if the wealthy were pulling their weight, but here I am slipping into the “working class” and no matter what my “taxable income” happens to be, I have to pay more every year. $800 right now, $1500 property tax, part 1 in 2 months and another $1500 property tax, part 2 at the end of the year. On take-home pay of $650/week. That’s about the monthly cost for the kid’s school, even after financial aid. Meanwhile, all I hear is that the poor, down-trodden super-rich need even more wealth, because that’s what Jesus wants. Feh. Oh, well – blame it on the “work-crew effect” (except in this case, I really _am_ doing more than my fair share..)
Tuesday, 4/19: even though the day has turned dreary and drizzly, the Chimney Swifts were back in town today. That always cheers me up, although it also reminds me that the Nighthawks are gone for good. Times change, some good, some bad.
Almost forgot – this morning showered with the window open, and listened to some White-throats quavering in the fence-line. In past years I’ve had both Swainson’s and Gray-cheeked thrush this way, so I’m always kind of hopeful when I pop the window and prepare to get sprayed into relative awakenessosity. Usually just the same stuff, but hope springs eternal in the human breast – what oft was thought before Pope, but never so well expressed. Funny how I like Pope; it’s like liking baroque music, I guess; I just find the rhythms and patterns in his stuff both soothing and refreshing. Like beer, I guess.