Finally! Finally I had found the limpkin babies at the Wetlands, though they weren't so much babies now as awkward, gawky teenagers, still a little fuzzy and all legs.
I stopped the car, rolled down the window ... and that was when the bee flew into the car.
I've known for a long time now that God clearly has a whole team of guardian angels protecting me. I know this because I'm still alive and relatively whole despite all the stupid things I've done.
For example, the time I blew out the candle with such force that I splattered candle wax all over my face, including my glasses, which thankfully protected my eyes.
Or the time when I was going seventy in the fast lane on the highway and the tread flew off the tire. Not only did I maintain control of the car, but there was a Florida Road Ranger right behind me. He pulled over with me and changed my tire.
So, yes when a bee flies into your car, maybe no big deal. When a bee flies into my car, my team of guardian angels goes on high alert.
You might assume my immediate reaction was to go crazy, waving my arms and looking like a fool, but no, that would be too obvious a reaction. No my reaction was to try and shoo the bee out of the car like I might with a fly and hope that the bee in my car was not one of the aggressive types.
And then of course when the shooing didn't work, my next response was to physically move the bee from inside the car to outside, by scooping it up with my hand and tossing it outside.
This would be the point where the guardian angels come in because even as I was manhandling the bee, it occurred to me this was an easy way to get stung, but somehow, somehow, the bee made it outside safely, unperturbed and with his stinger intact.
There were a number of people around my car at this point, not to watch my crazy bee dance, thankfully, but to take pictures of the limpkins. Normally I would have pulled over initially so cars behind me could pass, but everyone else had already pulled over and were now out of their cars and were now using my car as a blind of sorts to hide behind while they took their pictures.
And all the while this is going on, I'm not even sure if these are the limpkin babies. My eyesight is not good with details and even looking through and zooming in with the camera, I really couldn't be sure what I was seeing to the point where I almost asked someone stupidly, "What are we taking pictures of?"
Earlier, I had passed a funny shaped log in the water and had taken a picture of that, just one, because I was sure when I got home I would find it had only been a log and nothing more. But sure enough, when I got home and pulled the picture up on my computer, it was an alligator, the one who I've named One-Eyed Willy.
So when I take pictures, more often than not, I am taking pictures on faith, faith based on what I've seen in the past and faith based on the fact that so many other people are taking pictures of something and it must be something good.
And yes, sometimes my faith is completely misplaced. See picture below of an ant pile that from a distance I thought might be an alligator tail. No, it doesn't look anything like an alligator; I told you my eyes were bad, but it might have been and so for that promise of what might be, I pause a second and take a picture.
The easiest way to find something at the Wetlands is to watch where other people are, but sometimes, as I've written in the past, people may be on the same path as you, but have different destinations.
I stopped for a small alligator this morning that everyone else had ignored. It was cloudy and he was in the grass, resting, but then the sun peeked out and as the light passed over the alligator, he lifted his head, like a flower turning to the sun.
It was a reaction I was familiar with. Just earlier today, in church, the sun came out for a second and lit up the sanctuary and I found myself smiling and saying to God, "God, I love the sun."
You may ask why I'm including a picture of a closeup on the alligator's eye. I want you to see the reflection. I want you to see what moved that alligator, what motivated him to lift his head this morning. There in his eye is the sky, blue skies and clouds and a bright round light that I think must be the sun and if I squint in the lower left of the eye there appears to be the front tire and hood of my car.
Before the alligator moved, I had considered getting out of the car and walking up to him. But I decided the bee in the car was enough work for my angels today.
I stopped the car, rolled down the window ... and that was when the bee flew into the car.
I've known for a long time now that God clearly has a whole team of guardian angels protecting me. I know this because I'm still alive and relatively whole despite all the stupid things I've done.
For example, the time I blew out the candle with such force that I splattered candle wax all over my face, including my glasses, which thankfully protected my eyes.
Or the time when I was going seventy in the fast lane on the highway and the tread flew off the tire. Not only did I maintain control of the car, but there was a Florida Road Ranger right behind me. He pulled over with me and changed my tire.
So, yes when a bee flies into your car, maybe no big deal. When a bee flies into my car, my team of guardian angels goes on high alert.
You might assume my immediate reaction was to go crazy, waving my arms and looking like a fool, but no, that would be too obvious a reaction. No my reaction was to try and shoo the bee out of the car like I might with a fly and hope that the bee in my car was not one of the aggressive types.
And then of course when the shooing didn't work, my next response was to physically move the bee from inside the car to outside, by scooping it up with my hand and tossing it outside.
This would be the point where the guardian angels come in because even as I was manhandling the bee, it occurred to me this was an easy way to get stung, but somehow, somehow, the bee made it outside safely, unperturbed and with his stinger intact.
There were a number of people around my car at this point, not to watch my crazy bee dance, thankfully, but to take pictures of the limpkins. Normally I would have pulled over initially so cars behind me could pass, but everyone else had already pulled over and were now out of their cars and were now using my car as a blind of sorts to hide behind while they took their pictures.
And all the while this is going on, I'm not even sure if these are the limpkin babies. My eyesight is not good with details and even looking through and zooming in with the camera, I really couldn't be sure what I was seeing to the point where I almost asked someone stupidly, "What are we taking pictures of?"
Earlier, I had passed a funny shaped log in the water and had taken a picture of that, just one, because I was sure when I got home I would find it had only been a log and nothing more. But sure enough, when I got home and pulled the picture up on my computer, it was an alligator, the one who I've named One-Eyed Willy.
So when I take pictures, more often than not, I am taking pictures on faith, faith based on what I've seen in the past and faith based on the fact that so many other people are taking pictures of something and it must be something good.
And yes, sometimes my faith is completely misplaced. See picture below of an ant pile that from a distance I thought might be an alligator tail. No, it doesn't look anything like an alligator; I told you my eyes were bad, but it might have been and so for that promise of what might be, I pause a second and take a picture.
The easiest way to find something at the Wetlands is to watch where other people are, but sometimes, as I've written in the past, people may be on the same path as you, but have different destinations.
I stopped for a small alligator this morning that everyone else had ignored. It was cloudy and he was in the grass, resting, but then the sun peeked out and as the light passed over the alligator, he lifted his head, like a flower turning to the sun.
It was a reaction I was familiar with. Just earlier today, in church, the sun came out for a second and lit up the sanctuary and I found myself smiling and saying to God, "God, I love the sun."
You may ask why I'm including a picture of a closeup on the alligator's eye. I want you to see the reflection. I want you to see what moved that alligator, what motivated him to lift his head this morning. There in his eye is the sky, blue skies and clouds and a bright round light that I think must be the sun and if I squint in the lower left of the eye there appears to be the front tire and hood of my car.
Before the alligator moved, I had considered getting out of the car and walking up to him. But I decided the bee in the car was enough work for my angels today.
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