Tailgaters

I decided to work on the Friday before Memorial Day but I was still out of sorts with my decision when I hopped on I-5 headed south for the 40 minute commute.  The road was packed with vacationers, big rigs, boats and trailers and quads in trailers all behaving themselves in the slow lane, making an early getaway.

A minute or so into the commute I noticed a big rig driver in the fast lane. Hmmm, that's strange, I thought: I like truckers and they are usually awesome and courteous drivers to share the road.

This guy hung out in the fast lane like he owned the whole darn road. For over 10 miles as commuter cars stacked up behind him, he lumbered along.  He was nose to nose with the truck on the right - were they friends? playing a game? - for miles.  I was convinced he'd move over when he eventually passed, but he didn't. There was a truck a ways in front followed by a pick up pulling a boat, but there wasn't room for me to pull to the right and pass the truck before having to slow to 45 or so.

I was first behind the truck and everyone knows rules for the front car to try and dislodge the clog if possible.  I moved a little towards the center to catch his eye, flashed my lights, smiled and gestured for him to move over.  Hello?

So much for my A-Game ... so I got close, moved a little to the left so I could see him and laid on the horn a little.  HELLO?

A company name.  No. None of those 'To report my driving, please call ... numbers'. Not even a license plate. Hey...

By now the cars were 50 deep trailing tight like bumper cars on a rail. They wanted me to do something.

The Causeway was coming up, and the Veteran's Bridge, and I knew the truck had to slow to make it up and over, so I prayed he'd find someplace to squeeze over. And that is when I got a clear shot of the miles and miles of clear open road the trucker was hogging by being in the fast lane.

On the downslope, a guy in a Camaro had had enough. From midpoint in the pack he roared into the slow lane, swerved in and out inches from other cars and flew past me to create an opening in an almost-too-small-for-a-car space between the trucks. Truck right and truck left braked ... and for the first time I saw the driver glance in the mirror.

Several cars charged into the slow lane and raced forward to follow the Camaro, not realizing until it was too late the gap had closed and they were trapped in the slow lane watching us sadly trail by.

When we finally neared the 99 interchange where the road opens to 3 lanes, he turned on his blinker and began to move over.  But that was too late for me: I floored it with the windows down and fist raised in the air, and something else too, yelling some very unladylike things as I sped past.

I glanced in the mirror to see the commuter colony jettison past him with similar gestures and comments. Road rage. So that's what it's like.

I see 'em no see 'ums

Black gnats / no see ums. They are a blight to our idyllic life here in the country. They are as small as the head of a pin and not often noticed or felt until an impossibly itchy bite swells to an inch or more that lasts a couple of weeks.

What began as a general interest in repellents and organic alternatives quickly became a serious and urgent desire to do something about those damned bugs.

UC Davis and other reputable research organizations say there is no repellent on the market that gives relief from no see ums.  We did some research and checked it out for ourselves. We bought about 15 products and spot tested. Sure enough: Deet.  Picardin. Skin So Soft. - even the chemical, bad for you repellents didn't work.

The farmers and staff really suffer from the first week of May until the weather turns hot enough to kill them -- several days in a row over 100 degrees. With wide brimmed hats pulled low over their ears, the farm hands wear long sleeve shirts buttoned to the neck, long sleeves, gloves, jeans turned into boots, and Vaseline along the wrists and at the neckline. It is only moderate protection. For those of us not forced outside except by choice, it is almost unbearable.

We pray for a short hot spell in May.

This year we cornered ourselves by not getting the garden drips done before gnat season, so last weekend was a gnat fest as we hurried through that project. Epsom Salts help soothe the welts.

A couple of years ago, we made the first repellent formula from a recipe on the internet. We thought it would save the world and everyone would smell like vanilla and lemon zest. It works in a pinch, but is more of a party favor.

More serious versions followed, more oils with repellent properties, but the Hubs returned after a day on the tractor coated in oily mosquito repellent that had picked up layers of caked dust, bits of grass, and carcasses of gnats and mosquitos. He looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

The next version involved less oil and natural citric acid which the bugs didn't like, but were attracted to, if that makes any sense. They landed and walked around and we itched like crazy. We spent half the time brushing them away and in the process wiping off the repellent which gave them a spot to bite.

At some point a promising version was tested at UC Davis and we got some tips on staying on the track we were on and how to research further into the topic. He gave us access to UC Davis published papers and promising developments in the field. This lab tests most of the country's repellents and they said most repellents do not test their product before taking it to market.  (!!)

By now we are in an all out war with the gnats so we continually work with adding more essential oils, taking others away, adding more carrier oil and alcohol and then incrementally decreasing them, back and forth.  Each time, God love him, the willing Hubs sprays up and heads out into the world to see what will happen.

And I head to the kitchen to make something good for dinner so we can talk it over, write notes in our journal, and move on something else.

Mom's Brass Bell

Today's story is about a bell. A brass bell.  My mother carried it along with her for her life, and when I was old enough to be responsible for it, it was passed on.

I remember having my tonsils out as a little one and the bell being the means to notify the troops if I needed another popsicle or a sip of water. I remember having Mono and using it then to summon help. Colds, the flu. And when my mother had a Hysterectomy, she used it to summon me.

And in my 20's, I remember tossing it in a box and donating it to Goodwill.

Years passed, and so did my mom, and about 10 years ago I started missing the bell.  There is something about the physical connection of things between us and I wanted it back. (We do really get smarter as we age.)

The Hubs and I spend time nosing around antique shops and I started quietly looking at their bell collections. I'd find a lot of interesting bells, but never what I remember to be a Dutch girl with a wide skirt, wearing a Dutch hat and with a tinkle so melodious that it would call my mother from anywhere in the house.

Out of the blue a couple months back, we travelled to the neighboring small town of Dixon to spend some R&R at a small, folksy antique fair, and blow off steam. The Hubs and I walked through and found some great finds ~

... an old ammo box with great patina that we re-made into a first aid and mosquito repellent storage box;

twenty or so sterling silver spoons and serving pieces that will do well to stamp for garden planting markers;

an old watch and a couple of Edison Gold molded record discs for Grammaphones

and ... a little brass bell.


In the corner of a display cabinet facing away from me, I spied a little brass bell. I picked it up. It was the face of a little Dutch girl with a wide brimmed skirt. I tinkled it, and clutched it to my heart. How strange that memories of the past rise up so strong when you hear them. That was the sound.

The connection to my mother touched my heart. I want this for my children and their children, for them to know this sound. And the vendor who gave the bell to me after hearing the story touched my heart, as well. 

Hey, Mom.