…where we find the author, a bit overwhelmed by important things in the actual news, turning his thoughts to matters of questionable importance in the space between his ears…
How Hard Can It Be, He Wonders…
…to pronounce a simple word? Didn’t is “did ent”, pronounced so fast it could almost be one syllable, not “did-dent”, pronounced like someone driving over a speed bump.
Likewise, “tournament” is turn-a-mint, not toin-uh-munt. When the talking heads at ESPN mispronounce tournament it makes me want to toin to another channel and watch a Rambo movie.
And when you’re driving in the left lane, and cars are passing you on the right, how hard can it be, I wonder, to catch the hint, that maybe you’re the tortoise in the hare lane? Plus, you’re jacking with the revenue of speed trap towns.
As For Hummingbirds and Heaven…
Streets of gold, pearly gates, but nothing said in the Black Book about whether there will be critters in heaven. Being a dog dude, this concerns me.
I know cat people and horse people and every one of them would be disappointed if there wasn’t an eternity with Callie the calico, Mustache the gelding, and even Bubbles the goldfish, who swam in the bowl on the first grade teacher’s desk.
Hummingbirds are currently on my mind. These little buzz wingers are migrating through these days, and some recent observations have convinced me that they are not right with the Lord.
Concerned About Their Eternal Prospects
I bet the people at Boeing have a love/hate thing with hummingbirds. I once met an aviation professional that said he couldn’t be an atheist because of hummingbirds. Said you could throw the entire Pentagon budget at it, and you couldn’t make a plane do what this tater tot with wings could do going from one feeder to the next.
Quick. Fast. Stop, in midair. Go backwards, left, right, up, down, instant, gone –
And they’re just ate up with cute…
…but I am convinced they are not Christians.
Hummingbirds don’t share. They don’t do unto others. They don’t turn the other cheek. They’re clearly did not heed the Sermon on the Mount, for I have yet to observe even one needle beaked peacemaker.
They’re too quick to tell the boys from the girls, but I see nobody opening the door for a woman, or helping the elderly cross the street. It’s about as me-me-me as a pack of hyenas fighting over road kill wildebeest.
Thank Goodness They’re Small
Years ago National Geographic ran a cover story on hummingbirds, and right off the bat the author said something to the effect of You best be grateful that they’re small…
Ever watch a mockingbird chase a hawk? Ever looked over your shoulder for a mean barnyard rooster? Ever run from a goose? I have. And none of them are as aggressive as hummingbirds.
If hummingbirds were the size of a Wal Mart parking lot crow we’d be living in a Hitchcock movie.
Out in my place in the country I’ve got three hummingbird feeders. When there was one, there was a bully, who ran off the others. So I bought a second one. And somebody claimed that one. With the third one, we’re finally getting to a place where everyone can grab a bite, but there’s no pulling up a chair and taking a load off, not with these martini olives with wings.
No Peace On The Porch
‘What a beautiful day,’ I was thinking, inside, where it was safe. ‘Let me go out to yon porch, sip a cup of coffee and enjoy some nature.’
Verily, I say unto thee, it was not like church.
They were pecking and pushing, chest bumping, dive bombing, chasing and claiming. Finally I had enough, and flipped my coffee in the grass and went back inside.
But then I had an idea.
I went back outside and took the hummingbird feeders away for a little bit.
Buzz, buzz, buzz, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, looking, looking, looking…I have no idea how big a hummingbird brain is but it seemed that they were having an existential crisis about the meaning of being, and the randomness of food sources.
When I returned I held a feeder in my hand. Within a minute here came a brave one. Closer, watching me, one sip, then back, then to me again, his little wings going so fast that I could see through them, the green on his back a gorgeous metallic, the tiny feet, the needle beak, and ooh, the air stirring from the wings, like a micro fan, blowing the hair on my forearm.
Oh yeah, there’s got to be hummingbirds in heaven.
Maybe they’ll all have their own feeder, and not need to be so possessive.
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This edition of Uncle P’s Bedtime Stories is brought to you by Eighty-one, where cute goes a long way.
Other Bedtime Stories can be found on the Eighty-one Facebook page. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.