The score is official: Nature 1, Wheaton nil. This summer is kicking my bum, I don’t deny it.
Whether it’s in discussions on Facebook or the conversations we’re having at the supermarket or social events, there is universal agreement: it is steaming outdoors. Super hot. My goodness, it’s hot. Have you been outside? Can you believe how hot it is? And so forth … Since May, have you heard a single person sitting on a patio, say, “Oh, I wish I’d brought my cardigan.”?
I actually laughed when I looked up the weather report for a day earlier this week. “88°F. Feels like 107°F.”
What, I ask you, is the point? Do any of us care about the first number? If I was a forecaster, I’d have fun with this on the regular. How about “45°F. Feels like 107°F”? Or “Frying pan. Feels like fire.” I’m assuming the latter number is reached by factoring in the humidity, but that’s the only figure we all care about. The house A/C kicks in and out so often, it sounds like a life support system.
I went out to get something from the car around noon. If I hadn’t been wearing shoes, Tony Robbins would have emerged to congratulate me for Unleashing the Power Within, walking barefoot over the roasting driveway.
Thing is, here I am, moaning about having to leave the cool of my dwelling for a few minutes, while there are people working in this every day – gardeners, construction crews, beach servers … I am just in awe of them. Because, beyond the heat – as we’re all aware – the mosquitoes are heinous right now. In a time where small, independent films are smashing it at the box office with budgets of $1.50, I propose “Mosquito: Nosferatu of the Caribbean” or “Mozzies: The Big Itch”. All I need is ‘found footage’ from the garden. I’ll just sit back and let the money roll in.
I know we say this annually, but are they not the worst we’ve found them in years, or do I just have the memory of a gnat? Stepping outside to rescue a land crab from the pool, I immediately became mighty Kong at the top of the Empire State Building, swatting madly at the air while making a beeline for the door. And all you need is for one to get inside, and it’s a night of randomly swearing and clapping, trying to exterminate the little winged nightmare.
In a way, maybe it’s a good thing that our mango tree has produced a lousy crop this season. I’ve only been able to bear checking on it for a few minutes at a time, thanks to the insects, but what started as beautiful blossoms everywhere resulted in only five green pitiful specimens with skin the texture and appearance of my forehead. Not only is it hot, but it’s been pretty dry for the most part. Never good for tropical plants.
Of course, not all wildlife suffers from the heat. The chickens around my house are certainly thriving. I remember when we first moved here; we’d not experienced feral fowl around our previous residences, and so were unfamiliar with their habits. At this place, many was the time I’d pull up in my car to see what appeared to be a hen or rooster clinging to life on the front lawn. They’d be lying there, one leg sprawled out, wing extended, eyes closed. I’d gasp and cry “No, no, no!”, thinking they were about to expire. Not the case. They were merely sunbathing, catching some rays, and then here comes this gallumping British woman, yelling and sobbing, disturbing their siesta. They’d jump up and run off, keen to find a more secluded spot. Six years later, I know how they roll, but even still, it is unnerving to see them in that state.
We’ve built up trust with our winged charges since we started living in this house, which is a blessing and a curse. As I’m sure you well know, I’m a complete sucker for creatures of any kind, so we feed them daily and nightly. Puntu, who is a bit of a diva, knows we’ll wait until everyone has gone to roost, and then we feed her. She waits on the roof for the sound of the back door opening, then flaps down to have her meal in peace.
The front door is a whole ‘nother level. Any of you who have read my columns in the past will be aware of the fact that generational families of chickens sleep on raised shelves by the door, on the roof overlooking it, or in what our friend Brandi calls “The Night-Night Bush” a stone’s throw away. I don’t put Christmas lights around that one, because they would block off its branches.
Any time my BFF, Lynne, and I leave the house to go out in the evening, it’s a scene from “A Quiet Place”. It takes five minutes to slowwwwwlly, carrrrefully open the door, and I’m regularly at the hinges with WD-40. Why? Because if one chicken’s eye opens, it alerts the flock, and the whole lot of them spring to life. Flying down from the roof, the shelves, and The Night-Night Bush. The latter is the classic clowns-out-of-a-Mini scenario. You’d never dream that about 20 birds were sleeping in there.
Chickens don’t have the best eyesight, particularly in the dark, so I’ve had them dive-bomb my head; land on my shoulder; and flap all my hair out of place. Open-toed shoes are a no-no because my feet look like slices of bread and they peck accordingly.
We only have ourselves to blame (Lynne absolutely blames me). They never used to pay us any attention, until the night a couple of years ago when they looked so cute, cooing at me, that I fed them something. Now it’s expected. It’s like sneaking past the winged mafia.
Speaking of birds with expectations, I have always envied friends who get visits from Caribbean Whistling Ducks, so when they began paying us a visit, I was beside myself. Naturally, I immediately began feeding them.
Be careful what you wish for …
There is construction happening across the road from us, and I was in the living room, thinking, “Wow, that jack-hammering has been going on for a while.” Nope, not man-made. Nature.
The ducks, who happily cavort in our pool when they’re not lazing on the tiles, were relentlessly banging away at the French doors with their beaks. Oi! Where’s lunch?
Make that Nature 2, Wheaton nil.
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