Peggy's Jibber-Jabber: Makin' Good

I cut our visit short last time with a promise of more photos and more jibber-jabber and now I’m here to make good on that promise.

This guy flew away before I could get a decent shot of him. Nonetheless, I do know what he is. This guy is called a Scape Moth.

Technically, he’s called a Yellow-Collared Scape Moth, even if his collar is more orange than yellow. They have black wings, feathery antennae, and an orange or yellow collar. Unlike most moths that are active at night, the Scape Moth is one of the few species that fly during daylight hours. These guys resemble a wasp which serves as protection against predators.

This guy looks like a little stubby-tail bumble bee until you look at his wings. Bees have four wings and this guy only has two. His eyes are different, too. He definitely has fly-eyes which helped me identify him.

“What is it?” I know you wanna know.

This guy is a species of Hoverfly.

This is another fascinating critter. This one is a Long-tailed Dance Fly. One of the most notable aspects of this fly is the sex role reversal during courtship. Females put on exaggerated displays and congregate in leks to attract males. It's usually the males that dance and display to attract females.

A lek, in case you’re wondering, is what they call it when a group (usually males) gathers in a specific area to display and perform courtship rituals for the opposite sex.

The female Dance Fly cannot hunt. Instead, she depends on the male to bring her a nuptial gift.

“Why are they called Long-tailed?” you ask.

My photo must be of the female because the males have the "tail" which is actually his genitalia.

I will never look at these dew-kissed spider webs and not think of my mother. She called them “fairies wash.”

“I wonder why?” you say.

I know, right! I wonder the same thing. I never asked my mother. I just assumed it was because it looks like the fairies hung their lacey laundry out to dry.

Check this out.

It might look like a severed four-finger hand with long nails (which is what I thought when I saw it) and that’s partially right. It is severed, but it’s not a hand. It’s a chicken’s foot.

It kinda grosses me out.

One of the Blue Heeler pages I follow on Facebook showed a picture of the supper someone made for their dog and one of these things was in there.

It’s perfectly safe to feed your dog uncooked chicken feet (according to everything I read) and they’re nutritious. They’re rich in protein, glucosamine, and chondroitin, which benefits joint health. The crunching action of chewing through chicken feet can also help clean their teeth and support gum health.

I looked for a long time before I found a Walmart that carries them. I hope they still carry them when I go back for more because both my girls love them! It’s the first thing they pick out of the bowl.

Speaking of the girls, I know I don’t often show photos of Bondi, but here she is, photo bombing when I was trying to get a picture of the Cinquefoil. We’ll talk about them some other time.

Just three more photos and you're all caught up from what you missed seeing and hearing about from last time.

Do you remember the reason I cut our visit short last time? It was because I took Saturday and went with those fabulous neighbors of mine, the Kipps, to the around-town yard sales. The first place we stopped was at a barn sale. I bought a roll of sandpaper for fifty cents and sandpaper is something I use in my crafts. The Kipps were still shopping when I went out and wandered around. Don’cha love old barns?

The gentleman that owned the place came out of the barn and I talked with him for a little while.

“I see someone patched a hole with an old advertising sign,” I said.

“Yep,” was all he said.

“And you have a bat house. Do you have any bats?”

“Not anymore,” he said as he walked over to where I was.

“I’d love to have a bat house,” I said in passing.

“My dad made that. I think there’s another one in the barn. A new one. Made out of cedar.”

He didn’t offer to go get it and I probably didn’t want to pay much for it since I have a handyman who could build me one if he wanted to.

“What was this for?” I asked indicating a big rock lying on the ground.

“It’s a hitching post,” he said.

“I wondered if maybe it’s where you used to tie up the bull when you brought him up out of the pasture.”

“It used to stand in front of the barn. I can’t pick it up. I’d sell that,” he said.

Again, I didn’t ask what he take for it because Mike wasn’t with us and I didn’t know if that was something he’d be interested in.

His wife came over and joined us.

“How about a picture of you two?” I asked.

They were happy to pose for me. I love people like that! Aren’t they a handsome couple?

The Kipps found a few treasures of their own and from here we went on into town.

One of the best things about living in a small town and being involved in the community is that you get to know people. I’m always a little envious of people who have lived in the same area all their lives. They grew up with many of the people. Went to school with them. Work with them. Attended the same weddings, the same funerals. They have roots.

The Kipps have roots and because Miss Rosie taught school here most all of her career, she (and Lamar) know many of the people.

As we went around to the different sales, we met quite a few of our church peeps. These handsome young men are the sons of our Pastor Jay and his beautiful wife Mary.

I sometimes left the Kipps to shop and walked to the next sale. I was going past a beautiful old house and stopped to take pictures of their pretty cat, sunning itself on the porch.

The dog jumped up on the door and barked at me, even though I was a respectful distance away.

The door opened and much to my surprise, out walked one of the gals that works at the office of our vet.

“Do you live here?” I asked Kelly.

“No, my friend does. We’re going plant shopping,” she replied.

I arrived ahead of the Kipps at a house that advertised an estate sale. As I stepped up onto the porch, there was a guy there looking at old insulators and talking on the phone. He must’ve been doing a video call because I heard the guy on the other end say, “Now that one’s worth some money, and the third one down is worth some money, too. Get them for me and I’ll pay you back.”

I finished browsing the porch and went inside, leaving him to his call.

I’ve seldom bought anything at these kinds of sales because stuff is often priced higher than other sales and because I really don’t need a thing. I’m old. I have everything I need in twos and threes. Mostly I was looking for anything I might use in my crafts.

I was on the way out of the house when the Kipps were entering. “Watch the floor,” I warned Miss Rosie. “It’s buckled in places.”

The guy on the porch must’ve bought the insulators because I heard the gal running the sale say that she had a box inside. I went down to the Kipps' car to wait and guess who was parked right in front of them? Yep, the guy who bought the insulators.

“Did you get a good deal?” I asked as he came down with his box.

“I think so. I bought all twenty-four for a buck a piece. I got them for my boss. He collects ‘em and most of the ones he has are broken.”

“You could charge your boss a buck and a half and make a little money. You know, transportation charge and all that,” I suggested.

He laughed. “Nah. He’s a good boss. He takes care of me.”

About this time, I see Rosie and Lamar coming out of the house. Lamar stops at each step and waits as Miss Rosie puts her hand on his broad shoulder and carefully steps down. She’s having trouble with her knee.

In my head, I have this conversation.

“Now that’s love!” I’d say to Lamar when they reach the car. In my mind’s eye — ear, I can hear the melodious laugh of Miss Rosie as she stands beside him.

“I just don’t want her to fall because then I’d have to take care of her!” he’d say mischievously and laugh.

That conversation never happened.

They were holding up traffic but the two ladies behind them chatted amicably as they patiently waited for Miss Rosie to navigate the steps.

Me? I don’t know that I’d’ve had that much patience. I would’ve been tempted to pass in a no-passing zone and take the bank.

At the bottom, they posed for me.

One of the other places having a yard sale was at the house of the lady who has the most beautiful birdbath I’ve ever seen. I showed it to you last year but I’ve picked up a couple of new readers since then so I’ll show it to you again. This thing is huge! It’s not too deep and the birds love it.

Other pictures of her yard.

The last sale we went to was way out of town on Turkey Path Road. I bet we drove a hundred miles to get to it! Okay, okay! That’s what’s called hyperbole. Pronounced hi-perb-bow-lee. I’m telling you this and I’m smiling because Momma never heard the word pronounced and, in her head, she called it hyper-boil. Momma knew what it meant because she was an avid reader. I love my Miss Rosie’s definition best.

“It means exaggeration for the sake of emphasis.”

The nice thing about a drive through the country is I got to take road pictures for you.

I didn’t buy a lot at the sales. I bought a bunch of art supplies from the first sale we were at. I bought the roll of sandpaper that I already told you about at the second one. And I picked up a set of four oval dishes for a dollar at the next one. I liked the shape and I thought they’d be the perfect size to make a new whirligig for one of my friends (whenever I can get to it). I got a bundle plus two big rolls of burlap from one of the sales. She charged me five dollars but I love burlap so I paid it. Who knows what I’m gonna do with it but I’ll have it if I ever need it! And at the very last sale we went to I debated with myself over a 13x19 sheet cake pan. It had a bent side and it was dirty.

“That would be handy to make sheet cakes for church functions,” Me says to Myself.

“Yeah, but you don’t need it! You could use one of your big cookie sheets,” Myself admonished Me.

“But it has higher sides than your cookie sheets,” Me justified.

I walked around the other tables and, in the end, I came back to the sheet cake pan. “Will you take a dollar for it?” I asked. I didn’t want to pay much for it because I really could get by without it.

She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

I washed it up when I got it home, asked my handsome mountain man to take out the bend (he did a fabulous job at that), and it looks good as new!

The very next day I used the pan for the first time. As a church, we’re watching The Truth Project. Sunday evenings we gather and watch one of the twelve one-hour episodes and since I like to bake, as do others, we have snakes — oops — snacks. Where did that come from‽ Oh, yeah, the last photo I posted was a snake sunning himself on the road until a passing car woke him up. I’m so glad he didn’t run him over. You may not like snakes but they have a valuable place in the ecosystem. Without them, we’d be overrun with mice!

I asked Copilot, my artificial intelligence buddy, to modify my favorite cheesecake recipe so I could bake it in my new sheet cake pan instead of the standard springform pan. Of course, I had to taste it! Then I decide that since a piece was missing, I might just as well take a strip out, open the middle, and use it as a divide between cherry and plain. It worked out rather well that way and there were still twenty-four of each flavor, more than enough since I wasn’t the only one bringing a snake — snack. Ai-yi-yi! See if I ever let my fingers type on autopilot anymore!

Speaking of crafts...

“How are the cats coming?” you ask.

Much better, now that it rattled around in my head for a while. I used a file and filed off a lot of the concrete clay I’d put on and made them off balance. Then I sanded them. They still hang a little wonky, but you know what came to me? I could find a branch with a slight bend in it and make it look like the front paws are higher on the branch than the back ones.

“It’s going to be okay,” Me says to Myself.

I found short branches that’ll work as perches and started prepping them. Taking off the old bark, sanding them down. I still need to decide if I’m going to color them or just use tung oil and let their natural beauty shine through.

I painted my lizard fairy house this week and gave it stained glass windows.

“How did you do that?” I know you want to know all my secrets.

Originally, I thought I’d use glue, which dries clear, and ink, which would be translucent. Then, luckily, I remembered I had a set of glass paints. They dry translucent, too. I may try to add another coat of paint to give it a deeper color but this gives you the idea. Plus, I don’t mind sharing my secrets with my friends.

Oh my gosh! Speaking of you, my friends, do you know the lengths I go to get pictures for you?

They, the township, sprayed a thick layer of tar over our dirt road as dust control. Hours later, when I left to go to the church for Vacation Bible School, I was crossing the bridge of our pretty little creek when I see, not one, not two, but three King Fishers sitting on the log! Three! I didn’t want to stop on the bridge for two reasons. One, if a car comes, I’d have to abort my picture taking mission and move the car, and two, I was afraid stopping would cause the King Fishers to fly away. So, I got to the other side, pulled over, and stopped. Gingerly, I walked in the tire tracks where the tar was already set until I reached the bridge. They didn’t spray the concrete bridge so I stopped being ginger.

I took a bunch of pictures, stepped back from the side of the bridge and my shoe made a sucking noise. I looked down and there was a great sheet of tar hanging from the bottom of my tennis shoes. I looked left, I looked right, and sure enough, there was a stripe of dust-covered tar along the length of the bridge. Those stinkers! I scraped off as much as I could, but I have to tell you, some came off but it wasn’t much. I scuffed my shoes as hard as I could and still couldn’t get it off. I resigned myself to having tar on the bottom of my shoes and I’d just have to deal with it. Walking back to the car I could feel the gobs of tar underfoot, a reminder that sometimes I’m just not very careful. Ask my husband. He’s been telling me that for thirty years!

I reached in, grabbed a stack of napkins, and spread them on the floor where I’d put my feet. When I got to the church and stepped out of the car, the soles of my tar-gobbed shoes were now coated in gravel. I thought that might help get the tar off so I scuffed my feet more. It wasn’t enough. I just ended up with gravel imbedded in the tar. I spent the rest of the night in the church in my stocking feet while my shoes waited outside for me.

You know something? It’s almost like the Holy Spirit was watching out for me.

“How’s that?” you ask. “You got tar all over your shoes!”

I know, right! But when I was getting dressed, I opened my sock drawer and as I reached for a pair of my old, no-longer-white socks, my hand hesitated and reached for the bag of new socks in the back of the drawer. I love new socks! I covet them, and I’m stingy with them, only breaking out a new pair when I really have to. No-longer-white is not a good enough reason to get a new pair out, holes or tired elastic are the only acceptable reasons. Even though I got tar on my most favorite tennis shoes, at least everyone who saw my socks saw nice, clean, bright white socks and for that, I am thankful.

On the way home I got to thinking about it. What if I put my shoes in the freezer and froze the tar? Could I bang them together, crack the tar, and have it fall off?

I put my shoes in a plastic bag and put them in the freezer overnight. I was able to get some of it off but there’s still a lot on there. I guess when I have time, my shoes and I have a date with a vat of gasoline and a stick or old brush.

“Throw them away,” Mike says. He would buy me new shoes — and as many new pairs of socks as I want! But I’m frugal and not wasteful. I think that’s due in part to growing up the way I grew up. I don’t take what I have for granted.

Oh my gosh! Since we’re talking about my frugal ways and since I like to make things and since I don’t like waste, remember I told you I was making my own dish soap? Not only is it economical, there are no more plastic bottles to recycle.

“How’s it work?” you ask.

I’m so glad you asked! I found out pretty quick that my soap doesn’t cut grease very well, so I’ve taken to adding half a squirt of Dawn to my dishwater. At that rate, a bottle will last me a year. But I’ve found several instances where my homemade soap is far superior to store-bought.

When I make eggs, my spatula always seems to end up with egg yolk on it. You set the spatula down when the eggs are done and eat your breakfast. By the time you get around to washing it, the egg is stuck on tight. You put it in the bottom of the dishwater and let it soak while you wash all the other dishes — or at least that’s what I do. Even then, I’d have to get the scrubby out. No big deal. It’s a little elbow grease and not the end of the world. When I started using my homemade soap, the first time I washed the egg-encrusted spatula, it all came off with just the dishrag and little effort. I was pleased.

This week, I was washing Mike’s tea cup and noticed it was white! There’s no stain in it! I was surprised, shocked even! Tea stains are the worst to get out of cups and really, practically, there’s very little reason to spend all that time and effort to scrub it back to white. It would just be stained again in a day or two. Once a month or so I’d scrub it. I don’t know when it happened — when it got white again. I don’t pay a lot of attention to it when I wash his cup. The only thing that’s ever in it is tea. It’s not like I have to look for or feel for stuck on pieces of food like I do with other dishes. I’ll swish the rag around inside, take a trip around the rim, rinse, and put it on the drainboard. I don’t know if this happened over time as I used my homemade soap or if it happened quickly.

Speaking of dishes...

I like to wash — oh no! There my fingers go again, typing what they want to!

I like to watch the birds while I’m washing dishes. I was pleased to see that a Downy Woodpecker felt safe enough to bring her baby to my feeders.

Then I saw something that I’d never seen before. A Red-bellied Woodpecker at a jelly feeder while an Oriole waits his turn. Since then, I’ve seen him at the grape jelly a few more times. Whether it was the same woodpecker or a different one, I don’t know.

It’s interesting to watch the birds and I found myself thanking God for giving me birds to watch while I do such a mundane chore as dish washing.

My friend and editor, the Kipps' older daughter, Jenn, was editing for me last time and suggested I might like to show you the before picture of the chicken board she gave to her mom.

“I wish I’d’ve had the picture sooner,” I told Jenn. “I would’ve used it. But now it’s too late.” For one, I was tired and time was short, and two, it would’ve meant I’d’ve had to add another page. A few lines and a picture on a mostly blank page would’ve driven me crazy! I try to use up all the white space, going so far, even, as to skipping pictures and jibber-jabber so that didn’t happen.

“I can do an update next time,” I told Jenn.

So, here’s the before picture of the chicken board and Miss Rosie’s fabulous paint job.

“Would you believe she called and asked me if she could paint it?” Jenn told me. “’Silly lady....’ I said ‘you own it, do what you want!’”

Mike and I did several jobs around here this week. One of them was cleaning out the part of the kitchen that needed to have the subfloor put down and then we put the subfloor down. There’s still more stuff to move but it has a floor under it, so we’ll move it out a day or two before the installers come to lay my extra-heavy-duty linoleum.

“You’ll be sorry!” Mike’s said more than once.

“I will never be sorry! I don’t want carpet in the kitchen!” I’ve replied every time.

We set up outside the garage door to cut the plywood. A swallow has her babies in a nearby birdhouse. I was surprised that she was brave enough to come and feed them while we were there.

Mike was using his brand-spankin’-new carpet knife to cut the aluminum sheet we put under the plywood and cut his finger.

“Oh man!” he moaned. “It’s deep. I think it needs a stitch or two.”

I knew the answer before I asked, nonetheless, I asked anyway, “You want to go to the ER?”

“No.”

It was tricky getting the Band-Aids on. As soon as he let off the pressure for me to slap on the bandage, it dripped blood like crazy. It looked like a mass murder took place here! Okay, okay! That’s hyperbole again. But there was a lot of blood. The next day when we changed the Band-Aids, pulling off the old ones started it bleeding again. By the third day it didn’t bleed as much and by day four Mike left the bandages off so it could “air out,” he said.

Another job we did was to put chicken wire around the lawnmowers to discourage lawnmower tire-chewing by a certain Blue Heeler. Yeah, she’s been at them again.

I was out there the other day and saw the wire was pushed up in the middle. Methinks someone, whose name is Raini, pushed her way under the fence. I guess we’ll have to reinforce the chicken wire.