Monday, July 11, 2005, 19:59
Peace and Quiet
Sunday afternoon it was 95 degrees with a dewpoint around 70. Since it was so hot and sultry, we decided to wait until after sunset to take the dogs for a walk. By then, it was 10 degrees cooler although still very humid.
Just when we were almost back to our driveway, we heard a vehicle coming on the other side of the hill. Randy grabbed Charlie, and I told Pixie to sit and stay. If I don't remind Pixie that she needs to sit and stay when a vehicle goes by, she would like to try to chase it.
The vehicle pulled to a stop next to us, and it turned out to be our neighbor who lives three-quarters of a mile away.
"Are you out of electricity?" he asked.
"I don't know," Randy said, "we've been out walking for 45 minutes."
I looked toward our yard and realized I could not see the security light, which automatically comes on at dusk.
"Yes," I said, "we are out of electricity. Our security light isn't on."
"I thought so. I wanted to see who else was out before I called the electric company," our neighbor said.
And with that he drove down the hill to the "Y" so he could turn around.
When we got inside the house, it was so still and quiet. No refrigerator running. No air conditioners. No fans. Nothing. Just complete silence.
"It's still cool in here," I said, "so I don't think the electricity has been off very long."
"Maybe not," Randy said. "Let's unplug everything."
We went around and unplugged and turned off various appliances so there wouldn't be a huge draw all at once when the electricity came back on.
Then Randy called the power company. And got a recording. As it turned out, crews were working on the substation, and the electricity was expected to be off for an hour.
"Let's go sit outside," I said. "It's not hot in here, but at least outside, there's some air moving."
We sat outside in lawn chairs by our "rock table." A few years ago, we hauled a huge flat rock into the yard and set it up on smaller rocks to make a table.
By now it was dark -- except that it was not dark. A sliver of moon hung in the western sky and faint light came from the horizon where the sun had set an hour ago. And the only sounds we could hear were a light breeze rustling the trees and the chirping of a few crickets.
"We don't get to enjoy this very often when there's no light coming from anywhere except the moon and the stars," I said.
"No," Randy replied, "we don't."
You wouldn't think a yard light and a few lights from the windows of our house would make much difference. But it does. A huge difference.
The moonlight. The starlight. The breeze. The crickets.
Nothing to do but to enjoy the moment. So peaceful. So. . .
"Hey!" Randy said. "The electricity is back on."
And so it was. And with it went the peaceful quiet of the moonlight and the starlight. The crickets were still there, of course. Along with a few mosquitoes that had discovered we were sitting in the yard.
"Well, okay, now I suppose I can finish spinning out that load of clothes and fold up those other ones," I said.
"And I guess I can straighten up the kitchen," Randy said.
People who study such things say that we get much less sleep nowadays than people did a hundred years ago. That's because we have electric lights to help us see after the sun sets, and we think that because we can see, we should do more and more and more.
When the electricity was off, I was content to sit in the yard and enjoy the moonlight and the starlight and the crickets.
As soon as the electricity came back on, I immediately thought I ought to be "doing something."
I would like to spend more time with the moonlight and the starlight. Just as long as the mosquitoes leave me alone. Although, if they don't, and I'm swatting mosquitoes, then I guess I am "doing something," aren't I.
LeAnn R. Ralph
Saturday, July 09, 2005, 18:50
Sticks and Stones
The other night I went to the sink to fill a glass with water, looked outside, and -- you guessed it -- the raccoon was in the bird feeder.
I set down my glass and tiptoed down the hallway to the bedroom where my husband was lying in bed, reading.
"Randy, the raccoon is in the bird feeder again," I said.
Over the past several months we have chased the raccoon across the yard countless times. Randy has fired caps from his muzzle loader to scare it away. I have yelled at it and have beeped the truck horn. Our dog, Pixie, has chased it and barked at it. The raccoon keeps coming back. Sometimes we won't see it for a few days or even a week, but it always comes back.
The other night when I told Randy the raccoon was in the bird feeder once again, he got out of bed and came to the kitchen. He reached behind the door for my walking stick (I use it in the winter, mostly, when I am snowshoeing) and then pushed open the door.
"ARRRRRRRGGGGGGGGHHHHH!" he yelled as he charged across the porch.
The raccoon took one look at the noisy, yelling thing that was brandishing a big stick and took off across the yard, running for all he was worth.
I stood there, unable to believe my eyes.
I mean, really. I had *no idea* he could run that fast.
Not the raccoon.
My husband.
Randy stayed a foot or two behind the raccoon the whole way before the raccoon disappeared into the brush, and might, in fact, have caught up with him if he hadn't slipped on the dew-soaked grass. And lost a slipper.
Isn't that what every best-dressed man wears to chase a raccoon across the yard? Pajamas and slippers?
My husband returned to the house a minute later, panting and gasping.
"I had no idea you could run that fast!" I said.
"Of course I can run that fast," Randy replied. "And I might have caught up with him, too, if I hadn't lost my slipper."
"But why did you take my walking stick?" I asked.
Randy held up the walking stick. "We've tried catching in the live trap. Yelling at it. Chasing it. Pixie has chased it. And barked at it. You've honked the horn at it. I've shot off caps in the muzzle loader. This was the only thing we haven't tried yet."
My husband put the walking stick behind the door again.
"Next time, I'm taking off my slippers first," he said.
And with that, he headed down the hallway to go back to reading his book.
Personally, I'm hoping there won't be a next time. Mostly because I'm afraid someone could get hurt.
And it might be me.
From falling down, laughing.
(Now don't take this the wrong way, Randy. I'm not laughing *at* you. I'm laughing *with* you. You know that's one of the things I have always loved about you, that you can make me laugh. . .)
LeAnn R. Ralph