If you’re of a certain age, you will most likely remember the television ads of the 1970s that showed the Native American crying over the trash left in what was a pristine setting.
A child of the 60s and 70s, I was taught young to try to conserve energy by turning off all of the lights in the house when I wasn’t in a room and not to litter.
That’s why it is so maddening to walk down our road with the dogs taking in as much unspoiled nature as possible and see trash.
On a half mile stretch of our road yesterday, I picked up no less than a half dozen newly tossed cigarette butts and the remnants of a blown out balloon on a string.
Today is World Turtle Day, so I think it’s fitting that we were able to save a box turtle yesterday.
Dale called me yesterday morning and said, “I have a box turtle in a box.”
Ok, I’ll bite. “Why would you have a box turtle in a box?”
“He was in our bathroom, and I’m going to bring him home and let him go.”
“In your bathroom at work? That’s weird,” I said.
“Better than the skunk they found in there a few years ago,” he replied.
It was a fine idea to bring the turtle here, considering that there are busy roads all around his job and not only that, he works with some really immature and evidently cruel people.
Some of the other men at his work tossed a huge snapping turtle around a couple of years ago until it died.
When I told a friend about this, she said, “Grown men?” Yes. Sadly.
You know the old song, “Working for the Weekend”? Operative word is for, not through.
I have never been the one to answer the call of housework when there is something else I could be doing, and this past weekend was no exception.
On Saturday, we did have to go and do grocery and bank errands early in the morning, but we got sidetracked as well visiting a couple of antique stores and pawn shops. We rarely buy anything, as we didn't on Saturday, but I still like to go “junking.”
On Sunday, we had a zillion things we could have been doing around the house – spring cleaning, finishing the clothes rotation, laundry, yard work, installing the window air unit…the list goes on.
I have a new theory: All I have to do to ensure one of our Six Pack gets hurt is start a big project.
Tuesday, I was rotating the closet from winter to summer clothes. It was unbearably hot that day; we hit record highs in the 90s, just two days after hitting record lows.
I heard Dale pull into the drive and Sade run off of the deck to greet him. She loves lying in the sun on the deck. About 5 minutes later, he called for me to come outside.
I climbed over the mountain of clothes ready to be packed away and found him standing with a shovel over a snake.