Frass, etc.

Last week I picked a few flowers from the garden to put on the kitchen windowsill, kind of a cheery-homey thing.

Soon tiny black balls littered the windowsill.  I knew what this was:  bug poop, otherwise known as frass.  I learned this years ago from Jerry-the-entomologist. 

Note the tiny black balls

I wiped away the disgusting black balls, searched the flowers for the defecating worms, found none, and left the flowers on the windowsill.

Next day, more frass.

I complained.  Jerry examined the flowers and found a worm.  Then he explained that the reason the black balls were some distance from the vase is because the worm possesses something called an "anal comb," which enables the worm to fling frass.

Then he coaxed the worm into a vial because he's going to raise it and identify it.  He's pretty sure it's a tortricid, a group of moths he specializes in.  The frass-shooting behavior is diagnostic.

                                                                                2.



A few years ago, I took a drawing class at the local adult school.  It was a revelation.  Drawing turns out to be something you can learn.  I always thought it was something art majors were born with.

Very hard

We drew eggs, oranges, ladders (tricky).  I found it was very meditative.  It's almost as good as swimming for taking me out of my dreary, worry-obsessed self.  True, it's time-consuming, but it's also engaging, and if you can give yourself over to it, it's very relaxing.

Drawing makes me look at the world more carefully.
 

This took ages and let's face it, it's crooked.  Don't care...

                                                                               3.

Yesterday, I got into the car with my friend Anne to drive to the pool, and she told me that her nephew, in his fifties and recently diagnosed with a brain tumor, is not doing well.  He's had surgery and radiation, but the tumor is growing again.  Anne's preparing to drop everything and fly to Chicago, if necessary.

Damn it!  And an acquaintance from high school--Pat Monahan to Del Martians--just found out that the chemo she's been on for advanced breast cancer hasn't worked.  She's switching to another one, per her doctor's recommendation.  She quotes a fellow cancer patient's doctor:

"You can wake up each morning and worry about dying, or you can wake up each morning and celebrate living.  Before you know it, several years may have passed.  Do you want to waste that time with mourning, or use your time to celebrate?"

Brave, brave, brave.  She's celebrating--zip-lining, cruising, working on her bucket list--but I can't help thinking that I'd take more of a Woody Allen-depressive approach if I were in her shoes.


                                                                          3.

Also yesterday:  the pair of sisters who bail us out every two weeks by cleaning the house--God knows how much clutter would accumulate if they didn't come--appeared promptly at 1 pm.  They're always cheerful and kind.

The older one, Sonia, told me that she's 56, much older than she looks, and that she recently took a 10-1/2 hour Greyhound bus ride to Tijuana for medical treatment that she can't afford in the U.S. because she has no health insurance. She's looking forward to buying insurance under Obamacare. 

She rarely goes to the doctor, even though she has high blood pressure.

                                                                           4.

We have new neighbors, a family of five who moved here from San Francisco.  They're renting the house next door.  The boy, an eighth-grader,  is a fan of insects and spiders, and Jerry's already supplied him with a vial to collect things for identification.  The kid is very polite.

There's a spider in there from one of our new neighbors

One of his sisters plays soccer and practices in their backyard.  The other day while I was unloading groceries, a missile of some sort shot past me.  A soccer ball.  I tossed it back to the girl, who was peering over the fence and apologizing profusely.

                                                                         5.

Jerry and I watched a documentary we loved: "Undefeated" (2012 and an Oscar-winner).    It's about a poor high school in Memphis with a losing football team that's  taken under the wing of a volunteer coach, who inspires, preaches, and whips them into shape.  Even if you don't like football, it's moving and instructive.

Most of the players don't have their father in their lives and virtually all have a relative who's in or has been in prison.  College is a far-away dream, accessible only if they manage to win an athletic scholarship.

                                                                           6.

A friend wants me to talk to her  daughter today about insomnia and what I've learned about it. No reading in bed, same bedtime every night, no TV or computer within an hour of bed, limited caffeine.  It works.

Also, drawing, pool time, and walks in the Berkeley summer fog.  It's been one of those summers.