And as irritating as that is, he has been pecking at my window every morning at dawn’s first blush since early May — more than two months now.

I have tried everything I know to stop him. Post-it notes on the glass. Even pictures of cats and wolves.

I watch the corn spend its entire lifetime from mid-May until late October — from first germination to final harvest — and along the way I reflect upon my own life and the many roads that got me here. For me, it is a kind of church moment to take that bike ride each day.

Well, technically it’s not actually bugs I want to talk about—it’s bacteria. But if I started by saying that, you might have stopped reading by now.

But wait! It’s not the bad bacteria bugs I want to talk about. It’s the good ones. And yes, there are plenty of good ones to talk about.

Because, like Jeff, I am also a boat owner. So I feel his pain.

My first boat is a hundred-year-old 17-foot wooden canoe I’ve owned since 1973, and although I honor its natural beauty, it clocks in at almost a hundred pounds.

And that situation, of course, was that he was in water — which should come as no surprise to anybody. Frogs love water, and this frog was no exception. Like all frogs, this frog could think of no place he would rather be than to be sitting in water, which he was.

You probably have a drawer like that, although maybe you use a different word than “stuff” to describe what’s in there. So do I, but this is a family newspaper, so “stuff” it shall be.

My words in this column are footprints like that. It’s always fun to meet someone who still remembers words I stomped into a story long ago.

I’ll put it on top of my head and I’ll walk into a bar. I’ll order a pint, then I’ll sit on a barstool and drink the beer slowly. Maybe I’ll eat a few peanuts or watch a bit of the game on the TV above the bar. When my glass is empty, I’ll tip the bartender and walk out.

Well, there weren’t many Irishmen there — mostly Germans and Italians. But there were Protestants and Catholics.

But it is a special slope to me. And with the Olympics medals finally awarded, it is time for me to step forward and accept the daring downhill glory long owed to me.

When I read a magazine or newspaper, I flip past the ads without a glance. It’s even worse with TV commercials. By the time the endless list of potential side effects rolls across the screen, I have blanked out the name of that exciting new medicine that will cure me of… what was it again?

Oh, we stand in lines, sure, but we don’t wait. We scroll, we swipe, we tap. We fill the silence with digital chatter, as if the universe might collapse under the weight of an unoccupied moment.

Just when scientists had gotten me warmed up to the idea that global warming and Gulf oil leaks are bad for us, now they tell me that the latest doom we have to worry about is—well, they don’t have a name for it yet, but I suppose it would be called “global snickerdoodling”.

Oh, not because the kids are rebellious in the dream. No, in all my “bad” teaching dreams, it’s never the kids’ fault.

It’s always me.

Not the musical ear-worms, like that song you hear once in the morning that still haunts you as you go to bed at night. No, I discussed those linguistic ear-worms that you hear other people say over and over again every time they open their mouths.

You know what I mean — that teenager who can’t keep his mouth from saying “You know” after every six or eight words.

Or his sister who spews “Like” before every sentence when she recounts a conversation she had.

Or your brother-in-law who says “Literally” like literally a million times, you know?

OK, that’s going to take some explaining.

Let’s go back about 25 years, to the day I went into a music shop, hoping to sell a black Les Paul electric guitar that I owned.

I’m talking about my Halloween costume, of course. I wasn’t a bum every day, though there are those who might dispute that.

That thought came home to me the other day as I sat on the patio, shucking what would probably be the last of the best farmer’s market corn for this season. I was in no hurry, sitting in the Huntley autumn sunshine, admiring the perfect symmetry of a perfect ear of corn that would perfectly grace my dinner table that night.

The only person in the place was my favorite bartender Tammy, so we quickly caught up on the “what have you been up to” news you share you see somebody only once every couple of weeks or so.

“That’s not corn anymore,” he said.

Go ahead and read it again if you want. I’ll wait.

Whenever I go to visit, he dashes circles around my legs, praying to play fetch. (The dog, not my son. That would be creepy.)

The yard is filled with fetchable things — chewed up tennis balls, bones, sticks, rubber toys — and all I have to do is choose one of them and give it a toss. Cinder the spaniel dashes off and brings it back.

Not because of the Independence Day parade I had planned to visit later in the day. To be honest, I wasn’t looking forward to that. Crowds, heat, and impending rain are not a red-letter recipe for a day well spent, in my opinion.

And then stay home. Fire up the grill. Char those burgers and brats. Lay into that potato salad and coleslaw with a vengeance, as if it offended you somehow.

No, not the jewelry kind of rings. It wouldn’t take me long to do that, because I only own one — my wedding ring, which I haven’t worn in seven years, since I lost my wife of 48 years.

And not the rings of wood on the front of my guitar, which has a sort of tiger-swirl pattern that defies count.