Day 12: We’re Turning into Wendy! Ack! (1/17/22)

 Phil’s Grandma Weemhoff lived in a sedate neighborhood in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where people pretty much toed the line: neat yards, snow shoveled promptly, leaves raked, weeds pulled. They kept an eye out for each other. Having such neighbors had its advantages…and disadvantages.

During one of our visits, Grandma looked out the living room window and frowned. “There’s Wendy again. There, see? Now she just moved behind the curtain.” She pointed to the house across the street. “She’s wondering who’s visiting.” Grandma sniffed. “That woman. She has nothing better to do all day than look out the window at her neighbors.”

We all firmly disapproved of Wendy. 

Until, that is, we began turning into her.

In a way, we can’t help it. Camping is by and large a life of leisure. Phil and I often sit at the table to read or write, and any movement outside the window catches our eye. We watch a humongous rig pulling in to the campsite across from us and speculate as to the age and physical condition of the owners. 

We grin at the large tricycles with baskets that the “really” old campers use to slowly circle the park. We hear raised voices from a nearby trailer and imagine various scenarios. We see a woman from one trailer bringing food to an RV several spaces down and wonder why they’re having dinner together (and why we weren’t invited).

In short, we’re becoming an old pair of gossips. We’re Wendy, peering out from behind our curtain.

One way to remedy this is to stop looking at people from a distance. And instead, go up and talk. Strike up a conversation. Make a connection, not a critique. More on this in a later post.

In other news, I have finally attempted bread-making in my Instant Pot/Air Fryer (a qualified success):

A bit dense and chewy, but still a welcome change from store-bought bread.

And I found doodle bugs (aka ant lions—surely one of God’s more delightful and imaginative insects) on the trail to Catfish Cove this evening. I paused to drop a large red ant in one exceptionally fine ant lion trap, then felt intensely guilty as the bug grasped the ant and started tossing it around, preparing to kill and eat it. The cruelty of nature.

And I shared in that cruelty, by precipitating the gruesome event. 

In my defense, however, I will say that as a gardener I have suffered numerous bites from hordes of red ants swarming my sandaled feet. So I do confess to feeling a twinge of revenge.