September 13, 2020

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Carolyn says "why are you roaming the yard with my nail polish remover?" "Well, my love, we don't really need to go down that sticky slope do we?" With every white pine bending under the weight of a bumper crop of pine cones this year, our house has been under a blitzkrieg of cones for several weeks now, dropped by an army of red squirrels chewing them off and launching them from altitudes they know the flak won't reach so that each cone hits with the impact of a scud, showering the entire battlefield with super glue. Once on the ground, they triumphantly gather their harvest with neck muscles toned by a summer of chittering, squawking and mewing, and chew them up faster than The Champion at the Iowa State Fair Cob Off contest. The next task in this never-ending pitch-laden parade is to cleverly, and devilishly I might add, stash the sticky seeds in a variety of unfortunately mostly bob-made safety deposit boxes. And when its all done, before the next rain of cones pour down from the gummy heavens, the squirrels will gather within feet of me where they will sit and chitter with unrestrained wonder and joy, and Carolyn will watch from inside the house, head shaking in pity and disappointment, as they watch me furiously rub another nail-polish-soaked cottonball into oblivion on the arm of my favorite chair by the fire ring.