Ants, and that 10th circle of hell

And the ants went marching through. Right through the house. Of course they did. Because we’ve had it all this year. Termites. We tented them. A critter under the downstairs tub. I ran him off. Now ants. Big, gnarly fire ants. The size of ponies. All marching through. As with most invasions — Martian, zombie, whatever — it started out innocent enough. A few scouts wandering around the house, looking at the curtains, making toast, using up all the toilet paper and not putting out a new roll.

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A letter to that guy in the future … me

Dear future self, I am writing you this letter in hopes that you will learn something from your past self — me. Next year you turn 40, and as such, I think it time you grow up a bit. Shake up that bag of rocks on your shoulders. Overcome some of the obstacles that always get in your way. I’m here to help you with that. So here are some things I think you should always remember: • Don’t do major outside projects in August. See, August is the middle of summer. The height of summer. By “height,” I mean your hindquarters will spontaneously burst into flames if you go outside. You’ve lived here long enough. You hear your neighbors say things like, “So, you’re not going to be a dang-blasted fool again and do that fence in August, are you?” Heck yeah. ‘Cus I am a dang-blasted fool. But let’s show ‘em. Let’s do a project in … I don’t know … July. When the heat won’t melt the elastic in your underwear. When the mosquitoes haven’t set up blood donor tables for you. Just think about it.

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And the graceful, gliding hurdler went BAMMMM!!!

Graceful. Gliding. Effortless. Precise. Powerful. Poetic. Beautiful. See, these were words going through my head. I was watching the Olympics. Hurdlers, actually. A special breed, the hurdler. They are like no other. Don’t categorize them with track and field athletes. No, they belong in a special grouping of adventure-seeking sportsmen. Like hunters who wrestle bears. Motorcyclists who jump through rings of burning gas. Snowboarders who race avalanches down mountainsides. You know, idiots. But in a good, thrill-seeking, “hey-look-my-pants-are-on-fire” kind of way.

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Old house living and the thrill of critters

The thing about an old house is it’s built like a block of Swiss cheese. There are holes everywhere. Nooks and crannies. Gaps. Entryways the size of mountain road tunnels. Critters climb through them. Invite friends over. Order pizza. There are many wonderful things about an old house. Critter holes are not one of them. We’ve been in our Lincolnville house for almost 15 years (if the counting on my fingers is correct.)

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