The first ice cream (Java chunk) cones (waffle) of the season were consumed here last night. That means summer has officially begun in our household. We only jumped the gun on meteorological summer by a couple or three days. As I’m sure you know, that starts on June 1.
A tray of wild bergamot seeds is sitting on the deck in overcast sunlight. I haven’t decided yet whether to put it out on a rainy day but I’m hoping the sun’s warmth will encourage a higher rate of germination than was attained in our first efforts this year. Meanwhile, I’m caught between the recommendations of several on-line guidelines to plant the corn in three sisters garden on a leveled mound and a lack of quick and easy ways to create such mounds. Plus, there’s the question of where to create such mounds if I could. We’ll see if I get inspired to actually tackle that fantasy instead of just dreaming about it.
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| a field of beardtongue (Penstemon grandiflorus) in bloom
Photo by J. Harrington
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I bet you've heard about Parkinson’s law: “Work expands so as to fill the time available for its completion.” Around here we’re thinking Parkinson was an optimist. It seems like work, especially outdoor chores, expands to exceed the time available for its completion, and the weather rarely cooperates. There’s a couple of brush piles I’d like to get reduced to ashes but we’ve gone from drought to rainy to windy to rainy etc. Today is definitely too windy and if the wind weren’t blowing or lightning flashing, I’d want to go fly-fishing, not stand around and watch flames die down. I think the only solution is to relax and assume everything will get done in good time, or not. At least I don’t have a home owners association fussing at me, and the Better Half is pretty understanding about limitations and priorities.
Locally, columbines are blooming and penstemon has just started to flower. Over the next month or two we may begin to see whitetail fawns and turkey poults. We’ve already observed Canada goose goslings and sandhill crane colts. Witnessing the births of the next generation(s) of a species is always heartening.
Relax
Bad things are going to happen.
Your tomatoes will grow a fungus
and your cat will get run over.
Someone will leave the bag with the ice cream
melting in the car and throw
your blue cashmere sweater in the drier.
Your husband will sleep
with a girl your daughter’s age, her breasts spilling
out of her blouse. Or your wife
will remember she’s a lesbian
and leave you for the woman next door. The other cat—
the one you never really liked—will contract a disease
that requires you to pry open its feverish mouth
every four hours. Your parents will die.
No matter how many vitamins you take,
how much Pilates, you’ll lose your keys,
your hair and your memory. If your daughter
doesn’t plug her heart
into every live socket she passes,
you’ll come home to find your son has emptied
the refrigerator, dragged it to the curb,
and called the used appliance store for a pick up—drug money.
There’s a Buddhist story of a woman chased by a tiger.
When she comes to a cliff, she sees a sturdy vine
and climbs half way down. But there’s also a tiger below.
And two mice—one white, one black—scurry out
and begin to gnaw at the vine. At this point
she notices a wild strawberry growing from a crevice.
She looks up, down, at the mice.
Then she eats the strawberry.
So here’s the view, the breeze, the pulse
in your throat. Your wallet will be stolen, you’ll get fat,
slip on the bathroom tiles of a foreign hotel
and crack your hip. You’ll be lonely.
Oh taste how sweet and tart
the red juice is, how the tiny seeds
crunch between your teeth.
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Thanks for visiting. Come again when you can.
Please be kind to each other while you can.
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