Morning all:

“One day when I was walking down Bond Street thinking how impeccably dressed I was in a well cut brown suit, a very distinguished-looking man shouted at me, ‘People like you ought to be shot!’” — Cecil Beaton

Only seconds after signing the purchase agreement for our new waterfront cabin in the rustic north-woods of Canada our lives exploded. The event has taken over our discussions, thinking, scheming, and planning—our very lives. Marcia is wearing ruts on I-75 running ‘to-and-fro’ between our house and Ikea picking up ‘stuff’ for ‘the’ cabin.

And me? I am busily planning the complete re-do of the place. Too bad I am not gutsy like Broadcom co-founder and billionaire Henry T. Nicholas. Reading about his legal problems I noted that this sterling fellow had an underground party room installed in his mansion that his wife didn’t know about. Now really, just how awesome is that!

Wouldn’t it be stunning to pour my Saturday morning mug of coffee, lift a secret trap door in the cabin, one that only I would know about, and slink into my secret party room wearing a silk Hugh Hefneresque robe and lounge pajamas, where I then slide into a very oversized Papasan chair? Wow!

We’ve also got a family-wide “name-the-cabin” contest in full swing, everything from “Pastoor Palace” to its Dutch variation, “Pastoor Palijs”. Soothingly suggested by Cathy is “Northern Comfort”. Even the grandkids are involved. At age five Derek, exploring a new world filled with bugs and places, came through with: “The Beetles that Fly to the North Pole House”. On the other hand, Kellen, not yet two, is fine-tuning his potty perfection. Therefore, his entry of “Peece”, “Peas” or “Peace” (a little difficult to make out) makes perfect sense.

I have had it with Cicada’s. A few years we got inundated by hundreds of millions of the 17-year variant. The entry-ways had to be swept every morning to clear a carpet of cicada carcasses. Tree trunks were covered with abandoned shells, and the ground was a pock-marked with pencil-thick sized holes. This year another ‘family’ has emerged north of us and this time my office is at the epicenter.

In the cool of the morning it’s a non-issue. However, the afternoon heat allows their emerging wings to dry. The overpowering screech of the mating ‘song’ kicks in and they take to wing. The walk to the car means flicking off several of the two inch long critters caught making a rest stop on hair, shirt or slacks. Normally staid folk are seen gyrating and spinning with arms flailing about. Women have taken to a Hillary Clinton clothing style—pants suits only.

But, what is the worst is the commute. At highway speed the windshield quickly becomes a polka-dotted pattern of large, yellow and white, gooey, gobs, impossible to wipe off with the washers. Therefore it’s a peek-between-the-goo drive followed by a washing with the garden hose as preparation for the next day.

Some know-it-all group has recently suggested that the very survival of mankind mandates that to save ourselves and the planet we have to adapt to a diet of insects. Their argument is that insects have less negative impact on the earth than, say, a cow or a chicken. If you spot any of these individuals walking about send them my way. I will gladly give away, free of charge, large nets for their first harvest—cicadas.

Later this week I have to head out on business travel to Buenos Aires, Argentina. Since I only have one free day, Saturday, and since Marcia is coming along on this trip we want to do something along the lines of sight-seeing. Initial thoughts are that we take a high-speed boat ride for a day trip to Uruguay. Next week my regular Saturday rambling post will probably occur on Sunday—you’ll understand won’t you?

Make it a great week. Sing a song to your mate, just don’t call it a ‘ritual’.

Cheers,

Dirk