I believe in spontaneous generation

Of all the classes that I've ever taken in science, the one that I probably succeeded most in was biology.  I could never envision myself going into the biology field, however, because I just couldn't imagine "beings" such as plants and bugs as being just plants and bugs.  For example, do biologists form personal attachments to certain animal or bug species, even giving individual "specimens" common people-like names?  I seriously doubt it.  Do they feel personally hurt when stung by either a wasp or the even more easily-despised yellow jacket?  (Seriously, who likes yellow jackets - they're so selfish and mean?!)

It's so easy for me to improvise on-the-spot biographies for the anonymous creatures with which I come in contact.  In a related way, my empathy or animosity toward them appears to align with no system of logic.  I can verge on tears as I watch a bee methodically moving from one pretty-colored flower to another gathering groceries for the hive; I think to myself, "Oh, honey bee, you probably  were sent out today with no understanding of GMO's and pesticide-laden plants and whatnot, with the simple mandate, 'Don't come home until you can satisfy us all with an adequate store of nectar; and it better be the good kind!'"  So, watching honey bees, so earnest and purposeful, makes me sad.

Not so the fruit fly.  Not one bit!  All summer long I labored to be more environmentally sensitive; I upped my recycling, upcycling and repurposing game; squandered less; and ultimately tried to be genuine in my reverence of Mother Earth.  But I swear, a single family of fruit flies must have been given a contrary directive, one that would thwart my over-arching goal (of saving the Earth).  And you know fruit flies - they're biologists' best friends.  Biologists don't name them with people names, of course, because they - the biologists, that is - are too busy charting the family trees, and, unlike me, must resort to issuing identifiers that consist of alpha-numerical combinations, or so I imagine.   Fruit flies, for all their genetically-important purposes, brought me to my knees this summer.

My lovely kitchen counter compost bin became the "Place to see and be seen" amongst the local fruit fly jet-setting subculture.  As curator of discarded vegetable and fruit peelings and dinner scraps, my frequent "waste removal" trips to the edge of the property made not the slightest bit of difference in the vexing problem of population control.  I was most thorough in my efforts to keep my kitchen clean and disinfected, employing a vast arsenal of mostly toxic solutions  (Mother Earth be damned, sad to say).  Be that as it may, those little buggers-  with no sense of morality - carried on with their shameless orgy all summer long.  Each time that I thought I had thoroughly erased "The Family", whoa! another generation had been spawned.

I couldn't help, then, but pay attention when - on one particular commute to work - I tuned in to an NPR report on recent findings of scientists concerning sleep-deprived fruit flies.  Firstly, why would I be sympathetic to fruit flies who can't figure out how to get a good night's sleep?  I wage my own battle on that score.  Judging by the partying taking place in my kitchen all summer long, there weren't too many forty winks happening.  Secondly, how do I take seriously the fact that sleep-deprived fruit flies suffer memory loss (muchlikehumans) and exhibit cognitive debilitation.  Fruit flies suffer memory loss?!  What does that mean?!  They forget for a nano-second to nest on one of my banana peels?  Forget for an instant to procreate?!  And don't get me started on compromise of cognitive abilities!  How does that play out - do they not know how to perform simple math problems?  Or, how to fly from point A (the compost bucket) to point B (another part of the compost bucket)?

I just can't bring myself to love fruit flies.  Hummingbirds and honey bees, yes!  But fruit flies?  The biologists out there can have them all!  They are no longer welcome in my kitchen.

By the way, did you know that if a fruit fly is deprived of sex, it seeks solace in alcohol?  My current fear is that petitions will soon circulate, eventually resulting in a portion of my federal taxes being earmarked for intervention programs targeting fruit flies whose lives have spiraled out of control due to alcohol abuse.

Just the Ticket

As I transition back to school. . . perhaps my last year teaching. . . I can't help but smile about the things I got to do at the end of this summer.  With who-knows-what degree of patience, my brother Bob agreed to take me and Margaret out fishing.  I make no claims to veteran status, but I imagine I wouldn't sound too boastful if I admitted to hauling in the occasional 4-inch sunfish, and a smelt or two.  No sweat. . . literally.

I'm a learner.  In future posts I will humbly offer up that which I have learned, both about fishing and about Bob the Fisherman.  But for now, I just wanted to share a video.

Lake Attitash with Bob YouTube video


 And, then, a week later, BAM!  A fish!  (It only took me two Saturdays to achieve success.)

And another video capturing the tranquility of Lake Attitash:
Lake Attitash August 2015

How did I get here?

    Snap-snap in the saucepan go the green beans. While my hands methodically prepare the vegetable for dinner, I stare through the kitchen window above the sink and acknowledge a similar ritual of my dear husband; straight-turn-straight as the lawnmower paves parallel lines across the backyard.  What is HE thinking?  I know what I'm thinking:  how did I get here?  I'm standing in my dream home. . . really.  George and I designed it; we saw the lot before it had a house; we said, "We want a quiet neighborhood (check); privacy (check); we want lots of light, lots of windows (check), no worries about electrical wiring that would meet "code" (check); kitchen floor that could actually be cleaned (check), plenty of room to play for our two daughters (check).  2 Niko Way was. . . and is everything I hoped for.  I have my home.
    I'm thrown off balance, though.  Even as the lawnmower makes its steady progress across the lawn, while I'm "snap snapping" the green beans, my iTunes playlist betrays me; "Spirit in the Sky" by Norman Greenbaum expands to fill the air, and - just like that - I'm catapulted back to my high school days.  Of course it was me who PUT that song on my playlist, but that was a while ago, and I must have been in a sentimental mood when I did it.  Excuses, perhaps?

     So... I'm now feeling like that same teenager who - in the early Seventies, striving to mask a million insecurities, couldn't help but close my eyes and sway with the music.  Yes, that's what I did with no inhibitions then, and, yes, that's what I still can do without inhibition now (if no one is around). 

    Life promises and provides no script.  You can never be so sure-of-foot; sometimes you're here and now. . . and then - just like that - you're there and then, seeing the world as if it were 1970. . . 1974.