samara season
You know that feeling when, every time you barely start to doze off, another wall-shaking boom jolts you into high alert? That hopeless, helpless sensation when you're still staring at the ceiling at four o'clock in the morning like a deer in the headlights who has been sleep deprived for so many consecutive nights she's lost her will to live? Welcome to America on and around the Fourth of July, when neighbors assault neighbors with endless hours of blatant discourtesy in the alleged name of patriotism. But I'm not here to complain about the noise and flashing lights, the crackles, the squeals, the illegal thunderous explosions overhead that have not ceased in the last four days (or nights) around our home. I'm here to say that all that commotion--and the resulting fatigue--is like a slice of good-old-fashioned American apple pie compared to jumping out of our blankets--and simultaneously our skins--to the early-morning blare of the smoke detector.
Happy Sixth of July to us, indeed. Anyone know where we left the defibrillator?
On a positive note, we are relieved to report that there was no actual fire. No. Our ten-year, sealed, photoelectric alarm was merely announcing its displeasure to have reached the ripe old age of nine and insisting, with an uncalled for level of aggression, that we aid it on its way into the light. After forty-five minutes of ear-piercing agony, we were convinced that said light referred to the flames enclosing the lesser known tenth circle of Hell, a special place in the Underworld dedicated to various forms of sinister tech masquerading under an aura of benevolence. (VCRs that could only be programmed by watching an instructional VHS tape, were, I suspect, the inspiration behind the tenth circle.)
The reset button essentially accomplished nothing, no matter how long we held it down. The unit doesn't have a replaceable battery, and all indications suggested--short of a C4 blast--it was not likely to come apart. After numerous, thoroughly unhelpful internet searches, periods of trying to dampen the din by bundling the alarm into a towel and shutting it inside the bathroom, and the overwhelming urge to smash it with a hammer (we didn't, and you shouldn't), Dennie finally emerged triumphant. Armed with an assortment of tools and the determination of a hangry shark, she'd battled her way through and between the outer casings of the shrieking apparatus. It was there, in a place you could neither see nor easily access, that the manufacturer had so obligingly printed instructions for deactivating the device. Definitely tenth circle material. Nearly an hour had passed, tension filled the air, and our nerves had been frayed utterly raw, but I do like to look for the bright side whenever possible. In this case, the perpetual auditory assault may result in a gentler, muffled experience when today's fireworks commence. AND THEY WILL.
I'm sorry. Was I shouting? Who among our household could even tell after the morning's extended eardrum-rattling cacophony?
Our holiday weekend has been a quiet one--in terms of our own activities if not the ambient noise levels. Though today we enjoyed a long, rejuvenating turbo-charged "stroll" with our dog, post-alarm, in order to keep Maisie safe, we chose to forego our daily walk on the Fourth, taking her out, instead, for some quality family time in the backyard. It was an afternoon replete with sunshine, laughter, and frozen treats. And while I was photographing my gorgeous girl (which I am prone to do, in excess), I zoomed my camera in on something curious and nostalgic, one of nature's little marvels known as a samara. As a child, you probably called them whirligigs or helicopter seeds after they'd dropped from your yard's maples, elms, or ash trees. Who among us wouldn't be tempted still to cast them aloft and delight in the motion of their delicate double wings spinning through the air? Beauty in simplicity: that beats fireworks any day, and there's zero chance of disturbing our neighbors.
As Shakespeare once wrote, "Samara, and samara, and samara..."
Oh, wait...that was tomorrow, in triplicate. And, unlike the promising new life these seeds will sprout, the Scottish play's soliloquy, well, it was really rather bleak. Why dwell on Will's laments of dusty death, when we can still light his metaphorical candle in celebration of the hours yet to come? After all, no matter how bleak--or deafeningly loud--things get, our maple tree has graciously reminded us that these things will pass, and samara's another day.