Film at 11…
Happily, all lawn improvements seem to have been accomplished. I hope Lawnmower Man and Wood-chipper Chum are enjoying a nice cold beer, and possibly viewing one or another of the various televised sporting events in which Manly Men such as they so delight. I’m sure there’s something on. (If they can bear the sound of the vuvuzelas.)
Just as peace descended, my glance happened to fall on our bird bath, which sits on a corner of our porch, and was at the moment bone-dry and filled with crusty scum. How sad, I thought, that our birdie pals will go without refreshment, since I am today focusing on creating prose and undertaking acts in support of the creation of prose.
But, I could at least put some water in it. That would take hardly any time at all from my immersion in creativity. Birds have a rather high tolerance for scum, really. And it’s going to get very hot later. Have a heart.
So, I was about to pour some water into it… when I got a good look at the crud.
Hm, says I. It seems to be moving….
Now, I am a friend of nature, and enjoy all sorts of critters most people go “eww!” at. But I feel I must draw the line at thousands of tiny worms in near-microscopic writhing clumps.
Seriously, it was like a miniature Syfy-channel movie. (And with about as much plot.)
Detatch, put on the grass. Hose down. Brush. Bleach. Brush hard . Hose down. Bleach. Brush. Hose… All the time, my skin crawling, and me muttering “ew, ew, ew,” under my breath.
An hour later: sparkly clean birdbath, lots of fresh water! And those little medusa-like clumps now just a bad memory.
Plus: I am freezing up a block of ice to put in the bath later, which is a nice thing to do on very hot days. Keeps the water cool for a while.
And now back to your regular scheduled programming.
