And, I love the word tizzy. Learned it as a young child quickly because it rhymed with my sister’s nickname–Lizzy. And, although my sister Elizabeth refuses to allow people to call her by her childhood name, I cannot give up, at least, the shortened name, Lizz. Which as you can see, I’ve only dropped the Y and left the preferred double-Z, or Zed as they say in Merry Olde England (she strains out saying Zed with her neck muscles taut to the point of cramping).
So, I use tizzy as often as humanly possible and especially when bombs go off masquerading as fireworks around our neighborhood. See, we live in this lush island setting that normally only grows sounds of nature, such as a flitting red-winged blackbirds, a perched Cedar Waxwing and the occasionally swooping barn swallow. Yes, of course! Every now and again we’ll hear the snarling snit of a raccoon scavenging for a morsel of food or the deep lowing of a doe in pursuit of her misplaced fawn but other than that, the days we spend in this pristine and pastoral setting are serene and lazy…
EXCEPT around holidays and ones that promote bombs bursting in air and rockets red glare! And, no, it didn’t start in the late evening on the holiday itself, the one and only July 4th. It started the evening before when our neighbors (she strains her neck muscles again) started igniting and setting-off what sounded like, no lie, C4 explosives. In fact, the explosions began around 8:30p, when Bob and I normally scramble up to bed, and lasted until after 10p!
I hate sharp blasting noises. And I loathe days when officers of the law allow these sharp blasting noises to persist. Sometimes it feels like we’re living in the movie Deliverance, where the law not only looks away but participates in the free-handling of statutes and ordinances.
Of course, I’m from Phoenix originally and most days there it sounded like we were living in a war zone. With the pop-pop-pop of snub-nosed semi-automatic handguns and choppers hovering with spotlights glaring daylight brightness over entire city blocks. So, I scurried away to paradise. SHEESH!
Sometimes, it seems we’ll never shed our need to hike up our jock straps and pee in a circle, around ourselves, to show territorial purchase. And, why? Who knows. Muscle maybe? To re-assume that old haggered “he-man” persona that has become completely passé and boring in this day and age? I mean, really, folks, even we out here in the west, it ain’t Tombstone and Frontier days anymore. Come on! Get a life!
In a world where we can, literally, become self-educated geniuses just by ingesting the vast tomes of information about anything we could ever want to learn about–zoology, icthyology, astral projection, spirituality, philosophy, psychiatry, dentistry, law, geology, geography, the entertainment industry, art & literature, science & nature, sports & leisure, history (and, really, all the Trivial Pursuit pursuits!), we end up selecting “blasting caps” for crying out loud.
Are we really content with living a trailer park, red-neck existence here in the U.S? Or, is there any chance in our lives that we’ll see our nation rise above all the noise and destruction it seems so content with.
Gah! I’m SO in a tizzy.