The other night, a few minutes after 3:00 a.m., I woke up, shoulder and lower back aching, and decided to adjourn the bed for a session in the living room recliner. Unfortunately, between creeping time, the arthritis that runs through my paternal family line like a blood curse, and several decades of self-inflicted though mostly accidental abuse, getting what now amounts to a good night's sleep regularly entails such moves.
I have gotten pretty adapt at managing to shuffle at fair speed, without a light, from the bedroom, through the kitchen, to the living room in the post-midnight darkness—without whacking my hip on the cookstove, taking out a kneecap on the media table, or tripping over the dog. It helps that Moon-the-Dog is predominately white; I've learned to avoid the furniture through painful trial and error.
I can make it from bed to chair, grab a blanket and pillow from the couch, and be comfortably kicked back and returning to sleep in maybe 90 seconds…except when there's a demented cricket or katydid sharing the room and frantically repeating its monotone rhapsody at a volume capable of shattering tooth enamel!
This happens more often than you might think. At least twice in the past ten days…er, nights.
After a few minutes of such torturous screeching I'm usually thinking of retrieving the thirty-aught-six and firing off a few rounds in the critter's direction—until it occurs that unleashing 180 grains of high-powered lead to possibly go pinging around inside a stone cottage, probably isn't an appropriate response. Certainly not the safest, anyway. Not to mention the fact that, if a ricochet didn't get me, Myladylove—apoplectically startled from her enviable deep sleep—just might.
Hey, don't get me wrong. I enjoy a good insect fiddler as much as the next guy. Like my fellow Boomers, I grew up singing along with Jiminy Cricket on When You Wish Upon A Star. But Disney's debonaire fellow knew where and when to sing!
The common meadow katydid I shared the room with the other night didn't know to shut up. A sweep of the flashlight, and later a hurled cushion, provided only a temporary fix. In the end I buried my head under the blanket, tried to ignore the barely muffled intrusion, and somehow, eventually, managed to get back to sleep—admittedly taking a sort of perverse glee knowing a few more weeks of chilly nights will put the quietus on such disruptions.
His engagement is blessedly limited.
Then, I'll have only Moon's snoring, those noisy stars twinkling beyond the clerestory windows, and my own aches and thoughts to keep me awake.
8 comments:
Commiserations. My husband recently joined the stars and I no longer have to tip toe through the tulips in the dark. Bumping into anything withe me means heavy, lingering bruising.
Glad you have learned to avoid the major obstacles, insects are another matter. My sleep is tenuous at best and the resident cicada outside my window that only takes a few weeks break in mid-winter, is not the greatest help either.
What a pity that our bodies learn to complain with age.
Sounds rather like me, but I dont have noisy insects to contend with.
Aches and pains are just that, a pain.
Kali and I had flying squirrels in our attic that performed similar nighttime rituals, Grizz. They love to gnaw...and gnaw...and gnaw (you get the point) right above your bed. After banging on the ceiling and pounding on the walls for a few nights (which only provided temporary relief), we had to call Critter Control, which humanely removed and excluded them. I think that cold temperatures would only have exacerbated the problem for us, not like it would deal with your problem.
I shall now suggest to the farmer that he might transfer his aching, arthritic shoulders to somewhere other than our bed when he is tossing and turning in the early hours of the morning Grizz.
Arija…
I'm so sorry to hear about your husband.
Sleep is "iffy" for me, too. Some nights better than others. I'm luck to manage more than a couple of hours in a row before one ache or another demands attention, readjusting, etc. And between herons squawking on the river, raccoons running across the roof, coyotes yipping through the yard, and the frogs and crickets and katydids and whatever else of summer, it can be tough.
Penny…
You got that right…pain is a pain!
Scott…
Only about half our house has an attic…though some of that half extends above the bedroom. At one time or another various critters have gotten in and gone scampering about. No flying squirrels, however. But I swear, that katydid three feet from my recliner was deafening! A sweep of the the flashlight only caused a temporary pause. And you can't make much of a warning stomp on a stone floor. Throwing things works best, providing you consider what you're about to hurl and have a handy supply of such objects. Ahh-h, the fun of living with nature…
Weaver…
I believe you should, indeed, make such a suggestion. Although if you'll pardon my saying so, and not tell the farmer, it seems the gentlemanly thing to have done already. The way I figure, when I get to hurting and tossing, if I move, at least one of us can get some sleep…and I'm pretty sure the readjustment allows me to get back to sleep a lot easier, too. Plus I'm not worried and feeling guilty about keeping Myladylove awake.
Nope, route the restless rascal out!
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