Smokey Mountain Breakdown

So, Saturday I go pick up spaghetti dinners to share with my friend. Her son bought us tickets. It's okay--the standard sort of spaghetti dinner one expects from a charity event. It's not vermicelli, it's those big ropes of pasta. The decision is made for me to go earlier than later.

"It's sort of hard to mess spaghetti up."

"I've seen it done."

But it's nice to share a meal and it was good. Particularly since I went early.

There, down the cliff in the road are the guineas. This is where they disappeared to. The locusts started up right around the time they disappeared. Locusts are what we call cicadas here. I think the guineas went in search of them--imagining in their tiny brains buffets of fat juicy cicadas emerging from their shells like oysters.

What they found was potato beetles and larvae. They'd been in the neighbor's garden gorging themselves. I despaired of seeing them again. I felt certain they'd just keep on chattering their way to Del Rio--aimlessly wandering and every once in a while wondering where they left their car keys.

"If you have to shoot them, that's fine. Just bring me a carcass. There is a dish I want to try."

"They've got blue meat, you know?"

"Really? I knew it was dark. Blue? Really? Gotta see that."

Sunday, I wake up and they are perched on the roof of the house like turkey buzzards. I wanted to give them some feed to reward them for miraculously figuring out they belonged here. But Max and Shadow harassed the two who were not on the roof and the entire lot flew up to the safety of the chicken shack. They've been up there eating bugs. I really need them here in the yard eating ticks. But the dogs just don't know what's good for them.