So that’s how it is

Say hello to one of several turkey vultures hanging out in the woods back of our yard. I know they only eat dead animals, but the cats have nonetheless lost deck privileges for now. I’m a little edgy out there myself.

Twisting the night away

Some folks might think spring starts at the vernal equinox; others might need to see the first robin. Where I am right now, it doesn’t feel like spring until the tornado siren has sent us to the basement, which it did last night.

The advantage of having two cats who follow me around like dogs is that they didn’t need any coaxing; they trotted right down the stairs after me. It didn’t hurt that I’d grabbed the kitty treats to keep them entertained. Once we were all in the bathroom, though, I’d started wishing I’d grabbed some momma treats, too, namely my book and the open bottle of sauvignon blanc.

The tornado didn’t come that close, so it ended well for us. It wasn’t even that unnerving. As a native Midwesterner, I’ll take a twister over a lot of other natural disasters. Earthquakes? Too unpredictable. Hurricanes? There’s the question of should I stay or should I go. (Also, our house in coastal Georgia didn’t have a basement, which made me nervous as all get out.) But with a tornado, it’s pretty simple: Get to the lowest point, away from windows, and don’t come out until the all-clear. Either the top of your house is torn off or it isn’t.

Since the forecast is for more of the same today, it’s time for me to prepare. Stashing a flask of bourbon in the bathtub might be evidence of a drinking problem to some, but for me it’s just another sign of spring.

Lean green mowing machine

Since the resident lawn-care person is otherwise occupied for the next year, it’s fallen to me to attend to the yard. It’s not terribly big -- three city lots plus a right-of-way that we keep mowed. This wouldn’t be a problem, except for three things:

I don’t like our riding mower.

The push mower is in storage, thanks to the now-delayed move overseas.

I have zero interest.

Gardening and poking in the flower beds, I enjoy. But encouraging grass to grow tall and lush just so it has to be cut again? Not so much.

I decided the answer was an old-school reel mower -- quiet, low-maintenance, and green. It’d be good exercise, as well as perfect for any yard we might have in Germany. I wheeled my newly assembled purchase out of the garage for a spin and didn’t even have it off the driveway before the guy next door called over, “I haven’t seen one of those since I was a kid!”

This leads me to the fourth thing I don’t enjoy about yardwork. I can’t remember a time when I’ve been toiling outside that our neighbor hasn’t been lounging in front of his house, chain-smoking and getting his drink on. Not that there would be anything wrong with this, if he would stay quiet. And stop leering, as long as I’m wishing. Anytime I’m doing anything he considers man’s work -- raking leaves, washing the car, mowing the yard -- he keeps up a running patter of hilarious (to him) commentary. Once in a blue moon he offers concrete help, but it would come at a price I do not want to pay, so I politely decline.

Back to the mower. I only did the front yard, because I was running out of daylight and the grass didn’t need cutting in the first place, but I was excited about the new toy. (Besides, the back is full of sweet small violets that I don’t have the heart to mow down.)

The downsides are that if you hit a stick at the wrong angle, you stop extremely suddenly. It’s no small amount of work; my out-of-shape arms were getting tired after half the yard. And the blades are too quiet to drown out the neighbor telling me that I’m almost ready for Ranger School.

Those issues aside, I think it’s going to be all right. I don’t miss the racket, or fiddling with an engine, or kicking up rocks with window-breaking velocity. I’ll no doubt be gasping a different tune come August, when it’s 98 and humid. But for now, I’m feeling a little Earth Day spirit.

Flaming bacon lance of death

Although I learned my oxyacetylene welding in rural Iowa, no one ever told me I could integrate pork into the metal-cutting process. Another missed career opportunity.

If you wonder what in the sam hill I’m talking about, here’s the Boing Boing story. The video is worth watching just to hear the mad scientist refer to prosciutto as engineering-grade bacon.

Taxed

Back in the day, I could knock my taxes out in less than an hour, longhand. But living in one state, working in another, and accounting for a rental property complicates matters, and neither I nor TaxCut has felt up to the task in the past couple of years.

Paying a CPA is money well spent for someone as paranoid as I am; I don’t want to cough up one more cent to the gubmint than I need to, but I don’t want to shirk my tax-paying duties, either, especially with that cabinet appointment imminent.

My sweetie and I have been using the same accountant, so this year I took both our files in, since he was overseas. After the standard pleasantries one exchanges in a small town, she asked if anything had changed since last year. I mentioned the new truck, the sales tax on which is written off in our state. Anything else? Nope, nothing, nada. Not a thing. No changes.

A couple of days later I got an e-mail from her, asking if by chance we’d gotten married. Why, yes. I’d forgotten to mention our marriage.

Do me a favor, y’all. Next spring, will someone remind me to tell her my husband’s deployed? That combat zone exclusion might be worth something.

Get a job*

I’ve been so busy being either mopey or pissed off here that I haven’t given a proper shout-out to Left Face, a blog for and by military spouses and significant others.

Although it skews liberal (and doesn’t apologize for that), there’s a lot of good information for anyone who’s in the civilian half of a military couple, regardless of political persuasion. The thoughtful and thought-provoking 5-part series on milspouse employment is an excellent example and starts here.

You may even see my byline there occasionally, once I nail my life back together into some sort of routine. (And once I survive being on the altar guild during Holy Week. They didn’t mention this in the recruiting video.) Until then, however: Happy Easter!

*Sha na na na sha na na na na (with apologies to the Silhouettes)

When the levee breaks

This morning in the cold and dark, I hugged and kissed my sweetheart one final time, told him to be good and to do good, and sent him to war. I started to well up, but he asked me not to cry, so I didn’t.

I got back to our lodging, packed up his things and mine, and got on the road home. Still no tears. It was a silent trip. I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t have NPR on. I didn’t play any of my carefully chosen CDs. I didn’t even sing to myself. Just drove, dry-eyed, until I couldn’t drive anymore.

A pleasant surprise in the southern Illinois town where I stopped was an Italian deli a few blocks from my hotel. I walked over there to stretch my legs and pick up some dinner, and because the proprietor was friendly and probably bored, he struck up a conversation as he made my sandwich.

I hadn’t planned on telling him my life story, but he kept asking questions, and pretty soon he knew where I’d been and why. He talked sympathetically about how hard it is for the families left behind, even though I assured him I was as prepared as I could be.

He finished up my sandwich, I fished out my wallet, and he informed me that he was not taking my money. “That’s crazy talk!” I said. “You have to make a living.” He kept refusing payment, and I finally gave up. Then I broke down bawling.

I was so embarrassed; the first time I cried all day, and I did it in front of a kind stranger. I apologized through my sniffles, and he told me not to worry. “If you get a chance to talk to your husband, tell him an old burned-out Marine says ‘Semper fi.’ ” Of course that started me crying all over again.

On the weepy walk back to the hotel, I was ashamed not only because I was blubbering in public (Iowegians don’t do that!), but because I had accepted the free food. I have a decent job. I have 6 dollars for a sandwich.

But I don’t think this was about whose business is doing better, or whether I was wrong to take charity. It was one person trying to show, in the most tangible way he could, some encouragement for one sometimes scared, often crazy Army wife. It would have been wrong not to accept that.