It’s a resigned, anxious feeling getting ready for a disaster for days at a time. Batteries, check. Gas, check. Halloween decorations in, check. Small gestures, really, when Frankenstorm comes knocking. Sort of all pitchforks and flickering fire sticks.
Overheard in downtown Towson:
Two women walking:
“So, she has an iPhone and an iPad and . . . ” one woman says.
“Yea,” the other interrupts, ruefully. ” She has all the ‘i’s.”
One block away, one man says to another: “They took down our building with 250 people working there, and only three or four people were hired back.”
Well, we carefully watched over our grass seedlings. And, in just a few days, green shoots starting sprouting. I called my husband at work: “The grass is coming up!” (The seeding of lawns always seems to spawn waiting-for-offspring anxieties).
Then I noticed our seedlings seemed a bit wider than usual. The back of my brain told the front of my brain that maybe this was not grass. But the front of my brain refused to listen.
Turns out, that straw we bought at the last minute at Michael’s Craft Store, that cost just $7.99 for a small bale, was not such a good idea.
It was chock full of hay seeds. So our trusty straw scarecrows have been guarding their own hayfield squarely in our back yard.
My husband, Brian, planted some grass seed in the back yard and found three small scarecrows in the shed. They now stand, in a relative phalanx.
“Sentinels of the Seed!” he paid tribute, “Guardians of the Grass! Friends of the Fescue!”
I knew that master’s degree in poetry would come in handy someday.