Do trees have gender? I think they do, but I’m not sure. Hell, I’m no botanist. All I know is that the oak we lived under in Fort Wayne made beaucoup flowers in the spring — these pollen-y things that clogged the gutters and piled up on the porch — but no acorns. The oak we live under in Michigan made both. Especially acorns.
Every few days I must blow them off the driveway, because they imperil bike-riding and sound, when the cars roll over them, like the snapping of many small bones. But at night? Or when the wind blows, even a little? They rain down on the roof like missiles. I’ve stopped jumping a foot when they hit the skylights, although at night, when they rain down on the one in the bathroom, sleep is chancy.
If the squirrels ever figure out the weapons at their disposal, this whole neighborhood’s going to look like it was worked over with a ball-peen hammer.
Sorry for the late/lame-ass blogging this week. I’ve been wrapping up a few stories, and they’ve distracted me way out of proportion to their financial reward, but ah, such is the freelancer’s life. The last one was just sent away moments ago, and the little swoosh sound effect my departing mail makes as it leaves the outbox is the new sound of Miller Time, for me. I plan to wrap this up early, go watch Jon Stewart with all my fellow Americans and dedicate tomorrow to fiction-writing, an easy interview in the a.m. and maybe a few phone calls later.
And perhaps some blog-worthy blogging. For now I leave you with yet another clip from the inscrutable British papers: Catholic church no longer swears by truth of the Bible. Huh? When did they ever?