The Big Noise

Hello World, And so here we find ourselves already past the halfway point of the year, perched atop that slippery slope, and staring down both barrels of 2017 second half, which will be skittering past us even faster than the first half, I shouldn't wonder. From this point, the rest of the year can be summed up pretty succinctly as: Back-to-school, Hallo-Thanks-Chanu-Christmas, so long and farewell 2017, see ya! It doesn't take long, and if you blink, you'll miss it, so get prepared to strap in and ride it out, no matter what. Of course, out in the real world, it's still July, for better or worse, and while we've long since lost the cream of our spring flowers, what's left is out there plugging away. The sunny yellow primrose popped open right on schedule, in spite of needing sturdy teams of Sherpas to chop through the dense vegetation on all sides. Bill says he always knows that school is out when the hedge, honeysuckle, and pachysandra all bloom at the same time, like a heady summer cocktail with the sweet fragrance of sunshine and freedom. Our daylilies have been busting out all over the yard, while in the back, the colossal yellow tiger lilies were such a runaway success that I couldn't take a picture of them from the ground, but had to go climb up on the porch instead. Hidebound traditionalists will be relieved to hear that my grandmother's venerable persimmon-colored mini floribunda rose (which has been dug up and transplanted from half a dozen properties over the last 100 years of this family) is still going strong in the flower bed, and shows no sign of slowing down yet. It's obviously planning on outlasting all of us, and at this point, you wouldn't catch me betting against it. Speaking of family ties, anyone who knows my sister Diane can tell you that she has always been a beacon of financial rectitude, often carrying a dogged sense of frugality to what the rest of us wastrels might consider a ludicrous extreme. I frequently describe her as living a 17th century lifestyle - riding her bicycle everywhere in all weather, happily living without a home phone or electronic devices, using just enough heat to keep the water pipes from freezing, and just enough electricity to power her only appliance, the refrigerator. She eschews such frivolities as movies, restaurants, or vacations, and I'm pretty sure she takes her clothes down to the river and beats them with rocks. On the other hand, with what she has saved up over the course of time, living so far below her means, in contrast to the debt-ridden victims of conspicuous consumption all around her, I have no doubt that she could probably buy the New York Yankees at this point, and pay cash for the club, besides. In any case, on a recent visit, she looked very fetching in a pretty flowered top and a pair of matching yoga pants, which she explained that she had gotten on sale at Marshall's. In fact, she elaborated, there were two sets of yoga pants that would pair nicely with her new top, and she couldn't make up her mind between the two, so she bought both of them - wrapping up with this clincher, "After all, it's only money." I stared at her full in the face for a minute, and then demanded, "Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?" She laughed. And speaking of the 17th century lifestyle, of course Tuesday was Independence Day, celebrating the bold spirit of our forebears in throwing off the shackles of a tyrannical government, for the benefits of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. With the holiday falling on a Tuesday this year, many businesses were encouraged to make an extra long 4-day weekend out of it, and closing up shop on Monday as well as Tuesday - which is an idea I think we can all rally around, I dare say. The Flag Brigade was on its toes bright and early, putting out the flags on such a beautiful day, and even better, remembering to bring them back in again after dinner, which is no mean feat, I can tell you that. Whoever was responsible for the local fireworks did an admirable job of setting them off so we could see them from our house, thank you very much, although it must be said that the cats certainly didn't care all that much for the noise, and weren't a bit shy about making their feelings known on the subject, believe me. It reminds me that I recently saw a post on Facebook about what they described as "silent fireworks," and which I am convinced were invented by a task force of dogs and cats. Our friends at www.theodysseyonline.com have this to say about it: ================================ A town in Italy is taking big steps to reduce anxiety in animals due to firework explosions. The local government of Collecchio has introduced legislation that requires fireworks in their town to be silent, to reduce stress that loud noises can cause to animals. This can benefit all types of animals, ranging from house pets to wildlife. A company named Setti Fireworks, located in Genova, Italy, specializes in producing these types of silent explosives and can customize them for any event. Most dogs are terrified of fireworks, and they have the right to be. Fireworks wreak havoc on animals, and many veterinarians have confirmed that July 5th is the day that they experience the greatest amount of visits during the year. Dogs, with their sensitive hearing, are especially vulnerable, and may hurt themselves trying to escape or hide. ================================== Well, now, that's exactly the kind of scientific innovation that would make anybody want to stand up and shout, "HOORAY!!!" Or, perhaps (whisper) "hooray" might be more appropriate under the circumstances. Shhhhhh! Meanwhile, in what I would consider unexpected sports news, I admit that I have always regarded The Boys of Summer as the only game in town during those infamous lazy, hazy, crazy days of summer, with only NFL mini camps showing up recently as a late addition to provide any alternative to America's Pastime and plenty of it. Not so fast! Apparently there is such a thing as NBA summer league basketball, for clamoring fans of all things hoops - which in spite of the fact that it sounds like a terrible idea on the face of it (and even still after giving it some careful thought on the matter) is an actual going concern, and not just a publicity stunt or wishful thinking. In fact, it's viable enough that they are showing it on television, for heaven's sake, and I actually saw the results from the Dallas-Indiana game on the ESPN ticker, so that tells you something right there. By golly, the dinosaurs and I can remember a time when professional sports had the good manners to stick to an actual season - that started at a certain point and also ended at a certain point - and the remaining period was identified as exactly what it was supposed to be: the off-season. Nowadays, they play at all sorts of strange times and places, so that you don't know if they're coming or going, and they just about finish with handing out the rings and trophies, not to mention parades and trips to Disneyland and the White House, and suddenly here they are back, all over again. It reminds me of the age-old vaudeville wisecrack, "How can I miss you if you won't go away?" (Rim shot, please!) And finally, on the topic of going away, that's just what I'll be doing tomorrow, for my annual wander in the woods, and don't spare the toasted marshmallows, my good man! As I was leaving work today, I declared extravagantly, "To paraphrase the notorious Richard Nixon, 'You won't have me to kick around any more'!" However, since the business is owned by a family of Albanians who "are being in this country short distance," as they say, I have the feeling that the joke was lost on them, however pertinent it might have been. In any event, this is all by way of saying that my usual contribution to Internet clutter will not be taking up space in everybody's Inbox next week, and people should not be alarmed by its absence. (Or conversely, reacting with howls of derisive laughter like our old ill-mannered friends the dinosaurs in The Peanut Gallery, thanks not.) We've already packed both cars with all of the camping essentials - for sand and surf, town and tent - except for food, because as anyone can tell you, in the (almost) immortal words of Richard Nixon, "I am not a cook." Elle