Owl be seeing you in all the old familiar places

Spring has sprung
The grass is riz
I wonder where the owls is?

Forget it. I found them.  They’re on my roof.  All night.  Every night.  Hoot, hoot, hooting to eachother.  All spring.  And did I mention that part about all night?  Oh, yeah, I did, didn’t I?  But what about that part about all spring?! That too??

Seems like every spring in recent memory starts the same way. Twilight descends and I catch a glimpse of Mothman Prophesies flapping through my backyard.  It also scares the crap outta the dog who’s out for his last peep-peep, poop-poop before bed, so he has to spend the rest of his outdoors time hiding under the trampoline and barking in the direction of the pinetree.

And then it begins from our roof. Hoot, hoot, hoot!

Followed by another Hoot, hoohoot, hoot from one house over.

Really? Sonny’s been to cotillion and he knows how to make polite introductions.  Could I just send him out, have you two owly-y types meet and then you can huddle up on the same roof and quiet down already?!

1 a.m. Hoot, hoot, hoot! Sometimes I mistake it for my children calling to me in the night, so I get up.

2:45 a.m. Hoot, hoohoot, hoot! Sometimes I think it’s the dog whimpering loudly to go out, so then I get up.

5:30 a.m. Hoot, hoot, hoot! Sometimes I think it’s just mean people in the street pretending to be owls way too early in the morning.  But now it’s time to get up, so then I get up.

Whereupon Hubby rolls over and mumbles, “Guh. Did you hear the owls all night?”

Oh?! Owls?  Were those owls??  Yep, I noticed that a little bit.

But because I’m groggy and tired, yet intrepid and clever-‘til-the-end (not to mention a WINNER at this “80’s Song for Every Moment in Life” game we play), I will now close my owl blog with some lyrics from a song titled “Where Do The Children Go” from the 1985 album called Nervous Night by…wait for it…the HOOTERS!

So frickin’ clever, right? It’s a gift really.  Or maybe it’s a curse.  Either way, bug off so I can go take a nap.

Surrender into the night, Silently take my hand. Nobody knows what’s inside us, Nobody understands.
They handed us down a dream, To live in this lonely town. But nobody hears the music, Only the echo of a hollow sound…
Where do the children go? [Substitute ‘owls’ here for children, it’s funnier.] Between the bright night and the darkest day?
Where do the owls go? [See?  Funnier.] And who’s that deadly piper who leads them away?

Happy Mother’s Day, Ma!

When we were growing up, my mother would call us by a variety of names – each other’s mostly, but sometimes her own brother and sister’s names, though I was never lucky enough to be on the receiving end of that.  That honor mostly went to my younger brother and sister.  Being the middle child, more often than not, I got called the dog’s name.

And on my end, I would pilot my own names for Mom – mostly all were from literary works since we were a reading-ist kind of family.

Fresh off The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew series, Mom became Mamsie Dear.

As I lived the excitement of the Civil War years right along with the March Sisters in “Little Women” Mom became Marmie.

And after plowing through all the Little House on the Prairie books, there was even that failed attempt to start up a whole “Ma” thing.

But nuthin doin’ on that. I think she mistook what I had intended as a plucky, pioneer “Ma” for more of a Vinny Barbarino, wise-cracking New York “Ma” so she nixed that right outta the gate.

Where I’m really going with all of this is:

Hi Mom!

Thank you for being the best Mamsie Dear/Marmie/Ma ever. All you’ve been and done for me I can only hope to be and do for my own children.  (Except that part about being so sharp when they try to call me “Ma.”  I won’t do that 😉 

Happy Mother’s Day!

Love, Lady