Purple Rain

The rain of terror has begun. The children have been hurried inside against their ignorant objections. The toys have been hidden under the eaves. We will have to wait it out, in hopes that this time it will be brief. Until then, all outside activity, at least in our parcel, will cease. The Spring has brought with it the annual Privet-shit fest.

There is, at the fence line of our home and our bordering neighbor behind, a Privet bush, that is now a tree. Untended and unpruned for many years, it has achieved its full potential size, or at least I hope it has. Every year it produces berries, enormous quantities of fruit that drag down its branches and beckon the swarms. Flocks of birds blacken the sky and land on the Privet to gorge themselves on its bounty. The birds move en masse - flying in and flying out of the tree. When they have had their fill, living up to the credo, don't shit where you eat, they move on. Their favorite resting spot apres meal is, unfortunately, the grand Mulberry tree that shades our patio. From there they twitter and primp, but most of all, they shit.

Like hail it hits upon our patio and roof, click, flick, ping. A great purple rain of privet seeds that bounce off the pavement, scattering this direction and that. It lands on the tables and chairs and the kids' toys and, well, everything. The patio resembles a Pollock painting of splatters and swirls. It is continuous and will go on for a week until they are sated or they just get bored with the taste.

There is little that can be done save hosing down the patio and covering your head. I have cut away particularly fruitful branches in the hopes of cutting off the supply but nature is too abundant and the birds never seem to be without. How those avian feeders can survive when they seem to pass so much is beyond me. It can't be terribly efficient. I have tried to frighten them out of my Mulberry with loud noises and thrown objects but that only serves to, scare the crap out of them. Then, of course, they're hungry again.

After five years of this I understand its cycle and no longer fret that it will never end, but the kids don't understand why, with the arrival of beautiful weather they must suddenly be shut inside. The Boy just keeps picking up the seeds and delivering them to me. I can't seem to make him understand that they are icky. He has become, however, a bit more wary since being hit in the head; "Ow! Daddy, it raining... hard."

It's only for a week - maybe less - we'll live. You see this coming, don't you? Yeah, this too shall pass.