Everywhere I look lately I see Wizard of Oz memorabilia - little tin men, miniature Dorothys, signs that say things like "Things just aren't the same since that house fell on my sister." I love the movie, The Wizard of Oz. I'm not sure if I'm seeing all these things because it's getting close to Halloween or if it's just the craze du jour and I'm really kind of sad about the whole thing.

The movie, The Wizard of Oz, was released in 1939. In the 1956 it became the first Hollywood movie to be shown on network television and it continued to be shown every spring for decades. You see, The Wizard of Oz is a story about a tornado taking little Dorothy far from her home in Kansas. Tornadoes occur primarily in the spring and hence, every spring they would show the movie and I would look forward to seeing that amazing film. I looked forward to it all year long. That all ended in 1980 when the movie became available on home video.

The anticipation is gone. The excitement of sitting down in front of the old black and white, and eventually color, television and watching the movie with friends and family is no longer there. Once again delayed gratification bites the dust. At the push of a button, or two, we can view Dorothy and Toto anytime of the day or night, all year long. It has lost its allure and it's a shame.

I'm sure the producers of The Wizard of Oz never dreamed it would still be going strong seventy two years later. And I'll bet they're rolling over in their graves at the continued profits from merchandizing they're missing out on. So fly on monkeys, go get 'em!

Insecta-cide

Should you be following me as I weave down the road, rest assured, I am not intoxicated. I’m dodging woolly bears. These lovely little caterpillars are making their annual pilgrimage to the perfect spot to spend the winter. Why they feel it necessary to cross the country roads and highways to find that spot is beyond me. Why can’t they just nestle down close to home?

Woolly bears, as is so often the case, are adorable youngsters with their beautiful brown and black bands of fuzz, and become rather unremarkable Isabella Tiger moths when they grow up. As a kid, I used to pick up the cute fuzzy things to inspect them more closely. They immediately roll up into a ball when so handled, which makes them even more intriguing. Trying to coax them to unfurl themselves was a challenge that could not be passed by.

As I drove down a particularly scenic five mile stretch of country road recently, I must have come across thirty or forty woolly bears in various stages of crawling across the road. So I dutifully swerved the avoid running over the little creatures whenever I could. Luckily there weren’t any other cars, or Amish buggies, on the road with me.

I’m sure I must have hit a few of them, and that saddens me. My parents instilled in me a great reverence for animal life. Or maybe it was just some misguided compulsion about killing. In either case, we didn’t kill beetles, moths, spiders, ants or other vagrant wildlife that found their way into the house. One side note: flies and mosquitoes were exempt from this act of mercy. Consequently, I am reluctant to kill any bugs I see in the house, or any animals, no matter how big or small, outside. This is a matter of great amusement and sometimes frustration to my husband, who will gladly squash anything that gets in his way.

While I don’t actually deliver the fatal blow to various insects or arachnids, I am not above condemning them to certain death by putting them outside on a night of certain frost or freeze. Infestations of box elder bugs have been removed en masse on chilly nights when they emerge by the hundreds in the sunlight of the day. My patience wears thin after gently placing the first fifty or so outside. After that, the broom is my weapon of choice.

Beauty has is merits in the animal kingdom. I have become more callous in my desire to save all creatures great and small. Ants, centipedes and some beetles are no longer guaranteed safety. Some spiders, especially those who remind me of Charlotte, are spared while others meet their doom. Anything beautiful; moths, attractive beetles, and particularly woolly bears, are gently placed in a dry warm spot to continue on with their day as best they can.

I can’t be held responsible for passing birds who spot a good meal.

The grape harvest is well underway. After a year of worry about not enough rain, too much rain, too cold, too hot, the grapes have ripened into a bumper crop. Running over seven tons to the acre, farmers are rushing to get in as many loads as possible before the processing plants stop receiving.

The harvesters and their sidekick tractors are busy all hours of the day and night and it's not unusual for the pickers to work until 9 at night, sleep for three or four hours and go back out at one or two in the morning. The drivers of the semi loads are under similar hours. Wake at 3 a.m., haul a load to the plant, wait in line for perhaps hours, return to the field and pick up another load and repeat the process. From the growers and their employees perspective, it is intensive labor for six weeks, going with little sleep.

There is something about seeing the harvesters and semi trucks loaded with grape bins that evokes ancient feelings of satisfaction and comfort in me. I feel an unexplained pride in each truck that passes by, knowing that it is loaded with a crop grown by local farmers, going to market to supply the world with grape products, from juice and wine to pastries and jellies.

I savor the aroma of ripened grapes in the air. It's a heady smell and I breathe deeply, almost hyperventilating in my urge to breathe it in again. The harvest will be over all too soon, but there is work to be done year 'round in order to insure next year's crop will be as good.