The wind has been blowing like crazy today, just as the Weather Folks predicted with their Super Duper Doppler Look In Your Bedroom Radar. They actually did predict high winds today, which makes them 1-for-45 this month.
Last time we had winds like this was last May. I had just put out three new containers of ladybugs, one for each garden, and the wind blew them all into the Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor's Yard next door.
By the time the wind died down, I just had Mortimer, who threatened to leave if I called him a ladybug. (Touchy masculinity issues, I'd wager.)
Furious George suggested we brand our ladybugs from now on for identification purposes. Problem is, he wanted to use HIS brand and the damned thing is about four inches high. Mortimer took one look at that and booked it for Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor Land. He obviously wanted to retain what touchy masculinity issues he had.
Mrs. Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor, who we were convinced was buried under that fresh concrete patch in their garage, stuck her head over the fence and crowed, "Oh, Mr. Bitterman! You wouldn't believe the ladybugs we have this year!" Bitterman was not amused. Nor was I as that was just about $30 dollars worth of ladybugs gamboling in her pansies.
The problem this year is not ladybugs -- yet -- but fresh topsoil in the gardens. It's flying into the neighbor's yard like nobody's business. I had just put down six bags of Cow and Compost (Richlawn -- again, not a plug for freebies, but a damned fine product that I could certainly use more of ...) and have watched it sail nowhere near gently over the neighbor's fence.
Also flying today is the fertilizer I put down yesterday. (Tractor seen is not to scale, as it is just a big Tonka I stole from a kid down the street, but, the fertilizer is true to scale as it covered me from head to toe as I tried to keep it in our yard, rather than let it jump the fence to freedom.)
By the way, did you know that there are images on the interweb of "German Girls in Manure?" No, really. It is amazing what modern technology can bring to us these days. My education is now complete and I can die happy. I found the site while I was looking for the above pictures. I only stopped for a minute. And only for the articles.
What President Trump was doing in a few of the pictures, I don't know. Maybe he was the Manure Magazine Interview of the Month. That guy is everywhere.
The newly rediscovered wife of the Bat Shit Crazy Neighbor (whether actual or a "crisis actor" brought in to replace the one buried in the garage) leaned over the fence this afternoon to exclaim, "Oh, you wouldn't believe the top dressing the good Lord left us this year."
Yes, I would. I would. And I would also hope that the good Lord would blow $147.35 into MY yard to pay for his neighborly largesse.
As for us, all that's blown into our yard is the expansive sand box for the grandchildren four houses down, fourteen newspapers with the puzzles completed, and, a copy of "Girls of Manure Magazine" (really, it exists!) But, Becky said that she would take care of that nasty magazine and I shouldn't worry about it anymore.
I wasn't worried. I just had my "concerned husband face" on for protection. I was just wondering who in the neighborhood gets it.
The guy I needed to really predict this high winds stuff is Buck Matthews, who did the weather for WOOD-TV8 in Grand Rapids, Michigan, for nigh onto 42 years. (I don't know how long he was there, but as 42 is the answer to life, the universe and everything, I thought I'd just toss it in.)
Matthews, or Buck, as my mother called him, didn't use fancy-dancy electronics to tell you the weather, he drew on a glass board with a marker and made it look all the more real and impressive. It's easy when you've got a computer doing all your drawing for you. He did it by hand and he was right a lot more often than the guys we've got now -- especially that one locally I just can't stand.
(Go ahead ... try to figure out who I'm talking about ...)
And, believe me, the computers get confusing. All these computerized wind gusts suddenly resemble little spermatazoas heading toward some mystical Ovum of Denver. (In Milwaukee, that's pronounced Spermatosa and it refers to a small suburb on the west side of town.) I think its a shameless attempt on the part of the liberal media to induce viewers to stay up past the latest news of the Great Orange Circus Peanut and watch the weather.
Buck didn't need that nonsense. All he ever had to say was, "It's going to snow tomorrow, friends," because it was West Michigan and that's all it ever did there.
Until next time, kiddies! (When we might actually have some gardening to talk about ...)