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You never know when you might need some, and when you get over 50 there are more and more times that your supply of it seems to be about a quart low.
So when I am walking somewhere, and there is no pressing appointment on the other end of my walk, I tend to amble along.
Up to this point in time I have gathered no moss, which proves to me that I must resemble a rolling stone more than a stationary one.
There are naysayers for every opinion though, and I honestly believe that some of my beady-eyed acquaintances have checked me out for moss a few times.
Speaking of beady-eyed, a recent development in my life might bear mention at this time; I think a crow is haunting me. I agree that they all look alike, so it could be that they are taking shifts. Only one at a time spies on me though, and I get the feeling it is usually the same guy doing it. He could be the one who put the “B” in beady-eye too, and he’s giving me the creeps.
The first time I saw him was when I pulled into my parking space at home. I got out of the car, heard a flapping noise, and looked over to see a freshly landed crow sitting on a small wishing well. He was peering at me intently, either suspiciously or curiously, and I waved at him and went into the yard. I’ve always liked crows and thought that they get a bad rap. It’s not really their fault they eat garbage, dung and rotten things. I mean, duh, they are crows. That’s what crows do.
The next day, same old story, I park and he perches on a limb 20 feet away and eyeballs me. It seemed weird, but he’s a city crow so I didn’t think a whole lot about it. They are an odd bunch, kind of like an inbred, hillbilly, inner-city gang. Once again, I waved at him and walked away. He did not wave back.
I had the relief of no beady-eyed welcoming committee for the next few days (except for customers at the post office, I mean). Then I had take the dogs for a walk and on the way I hear a rustling sound above me. I look up, and what do you think I see? Yep, it was the crow, sitting on a limb about ten feet away staring at me hungrily.
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When I returned home I analyzed my tale of being followed around by a crow. A fiendish ex-coworker listening to me claimed to have a simple explanation. Since I (supposedly) have one of the slowest paces in human history, the poor crow obviously thinks that he is only a few steps away from a hearty meal, if he only keeps me in sight.
I harrumphed and went back outside. Carrion indeed!
A little research during lunch did concern me, however. Throughout history crows have been considered mythical creatures, both good and bad. It seems fairly consistent that one crow by himself is not good news, and is often a downright hex.
One old ditty says that when counting crows;
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One’s bad Two’s luck Three’s health Four’s wealth Five’s sickness Six is death. |
I guess I should feel fortunate that five or six crows aren’t hounding me. Oddly, a group of crows together is not called a flock, a gaggle, a covey or a herd; it is called a murder. That’s right, no lie, there is a murder of crows hanging out in your field.
Some sharp-eyed dude long ago noticed that crows will gang up and kill a single, dying crow. I don’t know if they are putting him out of his misery or fixing lunch, but I have my suspicions. Anyway, that’s how murder came to have a second meaning.
I do not find that reassuring, nor do I like the idea of being scouted out as a prospective crow banquet. So far though, my luck is not any worse than usual, so I might not be cursed. I do find myself looking around for that pesky crow though.
Just in case, I have also picked up my pace a little bit. It is now more than an amble, though it might not be up to a saunter yet. Perhaps it could best be described as a stroll or a mosey.
Regardless what it is, and even though there aren’t too many turtles around to race, I’m betting I could pass a three-legged one like it was standing still.