I Wish I Were a Lark

--one of those people who wake up alert, smell the coffee and want to carpe diem.

Instead, I resent the early morning bird twittering, believe alarm clocks are evil inventions to enslave a conformist population and I wish only to carpe dormire.

The thought of eating in the morning makes my stomach queasy. I do have next of kin who can wolf down Grand Slams, coffee, biscuits and gravy and go all day on it but I don’t know how they face that in the morning.

I have never cared much for coffee and would rather get my caffeine from a cold Coke but somehow it is unseemly a drink in the morning—suspect of being more as if I were adding rum or something. I dare not drink tea, having recently become a member of the Tea Party and need to save my tea bags to attach to my hat for the April 15^th event this year.

It is true that the sun coming up over a meadow with early morning frost can be quite beautiful and I can look at those photographs all day long any time after 10 a.m. I love to be present for sunsets and their sweep of never ending colors and variations across the sky over ocean or even roof tops and watch as the sky turns purple and night time takes on its mystery.

Lark friends tell me that they love the quiet of the morning starting their day around 4 or 5 a.m. They even exercise. Three words you will never hear me say together are “brisk morning walk.” How do they do that when it’s all I can do to crawl out of bed?

Early risers do have the advantage of being able to call businesses on the East Coast, but then as morning wears on daytime fills with crowds of people tying up phone lines as well as streets and freeways on their way to school or work.

Because let’s face it, owls are out of step with the rest of the business days activities and that makes scheduling appointments or surgery more difficult. It has been suggested to me—more than once—that I just go to bed earlier and voila, I will wake up with the rest of the larks, rarin’ to go. No, it doesn’t work that way, I will lie in my bed and stare at the ceiling--as well as I can in the dark--for several hours, thinking of all the useful things I might be doing.

As it turns out, there truly are larks and owls and it all has to do with an individual circadian rhythms. Normal rise and fall of body temperature determine rhythms of sleep and wakefulness. If like my sister, or my friend Kittie, your body temperature drops at 10 p.m. you are lights out and “up and at ‘em” first thing in the morning even on weekends thus allowing you to tout your wonderful garage sale finds or any other worm that early birds catch. The only thing that ever got me out of bed for sunrise was the rim of the Grand Canyon. Why would you want a worm anyway?

I got up early one other time. Since I wasn’t waiting for the coffee to brew or breakfast and didn’t need to call New York, I didn’t know what to do with foggy-headed self and I went back to bed.

Being a relative or friend of an early riser can be particularly difficult. For some reason they don’t understand that I don’t want their eight a.m. calls anymore than they want my midnight calls.

I have been told by a few close friends that they don’t call me early, not because they understand my circadian rhythms but because I am incoherent. I don’t remember that and I probably don’t remember the phone call either. I am eternally grateful for e-mails and so are my larky friends.

Something I have noticed about Larks is that they like to note the time stamp on e-mails and probably posts to Facebook. Why? Maybe I can get one of them to explain this to me. So I’m up late, very very late maybe, how do you know I didn’t just wake up very, very early, huh?

I love the night time. It is so quiet and cool. The phone is not going to ring unless it is another owl friend calling. The door bell almost certainly isn’t going to ring unless it’s the police. All the noises of the day have settled down, interruptions are far, far fewer. Children are sleeping--hopefully. Pets don’t mind keeping you quiet company.

There are no cars at the drive-thru to slow your burger down, there are no crying children in the markets or restaurants and no one trying to sneak through the 12 item line with 13 items. People up at night are usually not rushing to get somewhere else. Hardly anyone honks their horn at night. Movie theaters are nearly empty for very late shows.

Expectations are less at night. No make-up, who cares? Not driving hand’s free? Who can see? Forgot to change out of your slippers... no funny looks (unless they are the duck feet slippers). You can put on an old sweater or sweat shirt to go out--one that you wouldn’t dare wear during the day. Night time is a time to be comfortable, informal, cozy even.

Furthermore, my muse keeps erratic hours and always will unless I train him or her to show up only at appointed times, but where’s the creativity in that? My muse is no lark either.

Well, I seem to have talked myself out of wanting to be a lark even if it were possible to change. You can’t be a member of the Lark’s club anyway if you are not a Starbuck gift card totin’ coffee drinker and I’m not.

I enjoy being an owl. I almost never get to talk to the East Coast though. The only thing that troubles me is my perception people who don’t know me might possibly believe that I am lazy, slothful, a miscreant or have a drinking, gambling or other problem since I go to bed late and wake up late. Shoot, they ought to know and I’m here to tell them, I’m not having that much fun.

The owls aren’t what they seem...they are far more interesting. Just ask Robin or Snowy.

All God's Creatures

Previously printed in the Anthology She Writes which was published March 2011 by Windflower Press.  http://www.windflowerpress.com/

I like to think that I have a “live and let live” attitude toward life in general and that comes to little lives too.

However, if you are a fly or a spider or a damsel fly and I open the door for you and invite you back outside, I shouldn’t have to ask twice.

I have been known to capture a small critter, especially spiders in a jar, and throw them outside. I’m always surprised they make a sound when they land. If I’m upstairs they are on their own ‘cause I’m not doing the stairs for a spider and all the windows have screens.

I ought to mention here that the only thing I dislike more than uninvited guests is uninvited-guest poison spray. For pity sake, we walk on that floor too!

Lately, we have had more flies than the Amityville house. Reason tells me that they are coming in through the sliders having hatched over at the horse stables. Clearly, they considered themselves too good to hang out for long there and come looking for more refined accommodations. They seem to really enjoy the patio and the patio set with the umbrella covered table. It’s like a little Meet-Up place for them.

You have a chance inviting one fly to leave but when they get that mob mentality it’s a whole ‘nother story. So, I went to get some natural, doesn’t-harm-children-or-pets flying insect spray. It does seem to help them fly and they may do a loop through the mist that’s quite impressive but not the effect I hoped for. I have children, dogs, a parrot, a guinea pig and a husband to consider so I can’t use anything stronger. And everyone complains about the spray’s smell.

I just haven’t figured out how to explain all this to real people type guests. I don’t mean the children’s behavior, I mean the bugs. Sometimes--I have to admit—it’s all out warfare and I want you to know that I do not send them on their heavenly journey without a little prayer or at least a “go see God.”

There is a creek behind our house. We hear coyotes and see them too, rabbits and skunks and raccoons. Recently, I asked a neighbor about the punishing tree trimming taking place next to her house and she told me that the raccoons were climbing the tree onto the roof and staring at her children through the bedroom windows on the second floor and scaring them. That’s a twist on the children who stare out.

Every summer there is a portion of the creek area that gets mowed when the grass turns brown. This is a signal for the mice to pack their little bags and head north ahead of the oncoming scythe. If they can make it alive across the street, and they all seem to, they must see a little sign on my back fence that says “kind woman leaves water and dog food free for the taking.” They really like the Kirkland’s lamb and rice.

These mice are not like any others I have ever seen. They have Dumbo ears set low on their heads. Are they mutants? I don’t know. It does raise the question of the well water quality in my mind.

Their presence in the house was the last straw. I went down to Denault’s hardware and bought the strongest rodent killing poison cakes I could find. I placed them in strategic locations around the kitchen including in the cabinet under the sink. I forgot my daughter thought it was clever to teach our dogs to open doors. One day I come home to find a gnawed poison cake on the stairs.

My husband had passed by it earlier and “wondered” what it was. He has his own philosophy about don’t ask, don’t tell. Don’t ask if this wool sweater can go in the washer. Don’t tell that I used your best bath towel to clean up a grape juice spill. Don’t mention that son fell off his bike, chipped a tooth and now has a severe headache. He thinks this philosophy will keep him from getting yelled at but he is sooooo wrong.

Did I say that I have three small dogs--any one of which could be the rat-poison chewing cupboard door opening culprit? I called the vet and he told me to bring them down right away. I stuffed them all into a small dog crate. You can do that with Chihuahuas and I took them down. I apologized to them for what was about to happen. Two of them were innocent, I was sure. My dogs were fine. The vet was happy to tell me that he thought he got everything up from their stomachs even carrots. They do like raw carrots. It was only $150 for that information and a few more days of careful watching.

I did not relent in my waged war on Rodentville. I just made sure that the poison biscuits were well out of reach of my pets. The mice obliged me by eating the stuff and not chewing through the dishwasher water line like they did once before prompting a service call expense and leaking under the sink. In the all out battle they have gotten their licks in too. My husband was then able to bring his one unsprung mouse trap down from the attic.

You know writing about this has raised my ire. This is my house dammit. They can all go find their own places to live. I just wish they weren’t so darn cute then I could live without guilt for the sometimes unavoidable chemical warfare.

The insects are not cute but still they are all God’s creatures so they will get at least one invitation to leave with the door held open before they are dearly departed. For that I am sorry but they can’t cross my path and live here for long. I do hope my now adult age children take note.