Phyllis loves Glade Road! Phyllis loves her life in Blacksburg, VA but also enjoyed her career as a Public Information Director for Wake County (NC) Sheriff's Office.
Other career adventures in Raleigh, NC included freelance writer, editor, political consultant, and Special Assistant to the NC Commissioner of Banks. Her hometown, Milan, Tennessee, also allowed her to teach 7th and 8th-grade English, an experience where she is certain she learned more about life than her students did about Language Arts.
Most of all she loves her husband, son, sister, extended family, and dear friends who make her life a joyous journey. Come along with her as she reflects on Glade Road Living, close to nature (sometimes too close, more on that later) but not too far away from Kroger and Starbucks.
How can I bring a sense of peace into my day? Rarely do I respond to Word Press writing prompts. This prompt, however, I could readily address.
Last week in my local Kroger, I noticed this elderly gentleman. He seemed to be struggling–to walk, to find the grocery items he needed, to think.
Very quietly and cautiously, he approached a produce clerk.
“Can you tell me where you find the plastic lemons and limes?” At first, the clerk hesitated, cocked his head, wrinkled his forehead, but then smiled. Understanding flooded his face. The elderly gentleman meant Italia Garden Lemon Juice, in the yellow plastic, lemon-shaped bottles.
“Follow me,“ the produce gentleman said with a wave of his arm that signaled “Forward ho!” “I’ll take you to them. They are right over here by the avocados.” And off they went.
My heart smiled. What a kind gesture by the produce gentleman. Earlier he had gone back to the stock room and found us fresh celery. Now, he had once again stopped filling his red bell pepper bins to help another customer.
Two gentlemen of Kroger. The one gentlemen saddened me because he seemed lost. The second gentleman made my heart smile as he helped another human find his way, at least for a moment.
I yearn for more gentlemen, gentlewomen, gentle people. The world scrapes me like rough grade sanding paper across already too irritated flesh. But then, I witness this exchange. Two gentlemen sanding the world down to gentleness, at least for today.
Well, no, I am not talking about Stephens King’s Pet Sematary. The book’s theme that “Sometimes dead is better” rings true for this saga.
Pest Cemetery refers to the interior of our home. It has become an eternal resting place for brown marmorated stink bugs. Armed with a shield-shaped body, these insects have overwhelmingly invaded our house. They suddenly land in the strangest places—on my windowsill, the edge of my wine glass, in my wine glass.
But more than their flying around and landing on my nose while I’m asleep (which can be beyond annoying), they die in weird places. Expiration can occur on the edge of a door frame. They cling vertically as if velcroed to their final resting place. Some meet their maker on my bathroom mirror looking into their own dead eyes. Others give up the ghost on the shower floor prompting me to yell, “Not another one!” I gingerly step around them but vehemently catapult them over the shower door. I do not want to test the reason for their name.
I do admire these odorous, in-your-face insects. While I politely escort them outside, leaving their fate to Mother Nature, my husband throws them in the toilet. “Sink or swim,” he commands. Down they go to a watery death, shrouded in two plies of Charmin Ultra Strong.
Actually, they swim more often than sink. One stink bug endured three flushes before it finally succumbed to the toilet’s whirlpool. Time after time after time, it had slowly crawled up the porcelain bowl. One of its six legs almost touched the outer rim—so close yet so far away. What determination, what grit.
Once when I wasn’t very stink-bug-compassionate because they had grown fond of my glasses, I tried vacuuming one up. It was nonchalantly cruising the hallway, checking out our dust bunnies. My Black & Decker failed to suck up this determined stink bug. What it was holding on to or how, I have not a clue. But it clung to the hardwood floor as if gorilla-glued.
Slowly compassion or maybe exhaustion set in. I carefully transported it to the front walk in hopes that some wren would swoop down for a quick snack. Okay, not the most compassionate move for the stink bug, but I didn’t want another corpse to avoid stepping on. I, might, though, have made a wren happy.
Hopefully, our bugs do not rise from the dead to embark like Pet Semetary’s Gage on a deadly rampage. I’d hate to be in a headline that read, “Elderly couple devoured by Zombie stink bugs.” Might the resurrected bugs come bounding out of our septic tank, ready for revenge? Maybe.
But this entomological nightmare has caused me to think about how we treat creatures that do not have Insta-worthy, “Oh, they are so adorable” bodies or personalities. I’m not sure just how important they are to the ecosystem, but they are alive.
These nuisances do not hurt humans although in Ten-Commandment-plague numbers, they can ruin crops. Many people eagerly feed the cute deer even though an oversized herd can die of starvation or cause devastating car accidents. But an innocent stink bug? Just flush it down the toilet or relegate it to the whims of nature.
Which then makes me wonder—how many people do I flush down the toilet? They don’t look like I think they should look—flush. They “bug” me—flush. They don’t behave as I think they should behave—flush. They don’t believe as I think they should believe—flush them out of my life.
The next time I’m about to quickly misjudge or stereotype someone, before I flush, I will take a moment. Yes, some folks must be flushed from my life. Others will need a trip to my front deck where they can start their search for a more welcoming home. Many, though, I will patiently consider, maybe meet for coffee, perhaps share a walk. Will they flush me or I flush them? Not everyone has to be my BFF or I theirs, but we owe each other respect.
I also owe my stink bugs that respect—if they promise to stay out of my hair. When they die, I will gently pick them up. Their grave will be one of my wastebaskets, neatly lined with Best Value garbage bags. No more watery graves or soggy shrouds.
Glade Road Living 