I am watching two robins chase each other. They’re not flying – just hopping along a woodchip path. It’s a hugely amusing sight and it makes up a lot for what’s missing in this day.
Weather? There’s a sore subject. Lousy and cold. You can assume that sourness could not be a product of a sunny warm day.
Then there is the matter of the market. I try not to have expectations, but I read the newsletter announcing this and that and I get hopeful. Asparagus. Morels. Bunches of lilac. All of the above! I set out with basket swinging on the arm, thinking of how many lilac branches I dare place in my condo given that I am leaving in five days. But if there were such bunches, or morels, or asparagus at the market on this day, they are no more.
And I haven’t the time to go to the big market downtown.
Then there is the matter of work. Anything that cannot be done via computer has to be done before my departure. That’s a hunk of work. Many people accomplish a lot under pressure. Not me. I was raised to believe that pressure is a capitalist construct and that good people rise above it. It’s very hard for me to change my ways.
Let me continue.
The dove on my balcony came back, took a look at the crumbs I had left for her and flew away. I clearly haven’t impressed her with my offerings.
And finally, having not succeeded in buying branches of lilac at the market, I asked Ed to bike me over to the Arboretum. It’s their big lilac week-end – where everyone brings their aging mom and grandmom to look at lilacs. (Women over a certain age appear to like the scent of lilac. I can only say that my love for this plant preceded my maturity.)
There was a plant sale at the Arboretum and I boosted my spirits by convincing Ed that we must partake. (For those who select more than they can carry, there were plant sitters.)
But it was so cold. Did I mention that?
Oh, there was a note of color that I must acknowledge here. First of all, there were the lilacs. Not in full bloom, not in these cold cold times, but halfway there.
And there were the Laotian women, convening for something or other. Having watched the Hmong farmers till their soil for weeks on end, it was a pleasure to see them now in the colors of a celebration.
Finally, at Ed’s place, we are facing the prospect that we have ourselves a bunch of flakey shed builders helping us with our Writer's Shed project. Ones who miss appointments and forget things, ones who lead Ed to say – this is why I do not hire people to do things. It’s always safer to do it yourself.
Oh please no!
Bring out the robins again. I need a pick me up.
No robins? Oh, hi Amos. We thought you weren’t going to show up. Ed, wipe that scowl off your face, the man has one of his ten kids in his truck and orphans in Ghana on his mind. Surely we can forgive entrepreneurial lapses.
Such a Saturday. For the birds.