Lines And CurvesFor those of you who check in from time to time for news on the environs, I am happy to report some progress. The wooden beam that formally supported the absent porch swing is down, and tucked away into the lumber pile (although it may be of dubious use). I need a better ladder; the right hand side was tough to reach. I had worried about the channels left behind by the lag bolts, but in the case of the locust, this was misplaced. The locust clung tightly, and the bolts were weak, and they snapped themselves free. I do not know if I should remove the ends, or just let the tree deal with it. The maple gave up the bolts hole, and I got to experience the pleasure of having a hardware store just down the street: one slight shopping trip later I had a dowel to fit. I cut two pieces, tucked in some glue, and sent the wood home with the mallet, to be trimmed off after with the saw. It is good to have good tools.
The other part of the shopping trip was two eye bolts, to go into the same locust and the other maple. With these and a short bit of chain the hammock has a proper place, now, and the bold stroke of lumber across that part of the yard has been replaced with a gentle catenary (more or less), far more pleasing. The arboreal folks are coming soon to trim the maple away from the house, but it shouldn't impact the shade much.
The chives are up, and the grass is greening. I have to mow it. The locusts put down all manner of seedlings: I need to mow them, too. The leaf mold is not quite ready, but I should be able to put some in the ground; I forked some over and filled the air with the smells of the forest and spring.
For Autumn, a leaf shredder, I think.
Better To Rive The Sky WithAt long last, we have Spring. I speak here not of the birds, who have returned with abundant force to fill the air with tweet and twirp and buzz the porch in a mad chase of something I cannot see. Nor do I mean the greening that is starting, everywhere: the shocking emerald of fresh leaflets on the maple, or the tidy marching rows of bulbs burst upwards in the neighbor's lawns (mine, too, but less tidy). Walking on earth these days is mucky as the dirt wakes up to stretch, and old leaves need to be raked from the lavender patch, but: no. It is Spring, for we have thunderstorms.
In the previous home, these were something of a sad occasion: the only good windows faced east, and at low angle, and the viewing was poor. Here, though, I can light a candle to climb the stairs (and then again) up to the battlements of the third floor to take sentry at the windows. Up there the whole sky is spread out, grey and back, until those moments when white traces spindly fingers, hands. It is a treasure and a joy, and I want to make the windows bigger. Not this year, nor next, but someday. When the storms pass, I can watch them leave their parting shots from the porch, in tenuous shelter. The air is cool and sweet behind them.
As usual, the plants are due an indignity. Later this week, we are expected to get snow; I am curious to see how the chives handle that. I am hoping that the local apple trees have so far been shy this year, and have not yet set bloom, but I do not know. Regardless, it remains Spring. We sometimes get snow in Spring around here, is all. So it goes.
Happy Birthday, Harry.
Of All The Truths I Know, I Like This One LeastThere is nothing lonelier than being sick and alone.
ToastIf one forgets to plug in the toaster, toast can take a long time.
CandlesBuona Pasqua.
StruckConsider monsters.
There are noises at night, most nights. Living in the age we do, we have explanations for most of them. The season is changing, and the house creaks to rid itself of the cold and puff deep with new found moisture lingering outside and in. The furnace murmurs gentle to itself with an occasional beep, and the water heater belches contentedly. The dishwasher goes thump, on down the hall. In the day time, birds fill the yard: sparrows, robins, cardinals, crows and blue jays (chatty, those) with occasional creel from the hawk holding a hovering post over the highway. At night, all of these are to bed, and the dim world is given over to scamperings of shadows, and the occasional moan of trees in wind as they attempt to embrace the house. When I put on the headphones, the machines deliver happy music. I understand what gives rise to these sounds: some sound, though, I do not.
This is lightly worse. When the thing in the walls was a squirrel, it was uncomfortable. As the evidence mounted that the tearings and thrashings in the inner spaces were perhaps something more, it got worse, then. Locking eyes with the raccoon in the closet was a bad moment, to be sure, but one minor blessing of that moment was that once again the environment was known. Paths became apparent. Actions could be taken.
Let us move forward.
The monsters, though, the true ones, try very hard to live entirely outside of that sort of ken. They step through dreams and bring down protections that seem safe and sane, most often in sleep but sometimes in waking. Their hallmarks reach the senses but cannot be explained, no matter how hard we try. Even with their power, they so rarely get us, though: life can be tough on the edges of reality.
Consider the poor plight of the species of monster that is always right behind you. I would submit that there is a very heavy selection for the subspecies of this thing that is not able to interact with the material world. The reason is simple: each time you turn your head, the poor beast gets rudely thrown to one side or another, more like than not through or against whatever is in the way of that particular trajectory. It gets worse for them if you're lying down: a haphazard toss from one side to the other will put them down a hole or fling them through the sky, depending. It gets easier they closer they get, of course, but few seem to make it. It helps my case somewhat that we very rarely see random damage occurring as if by magic in major cities, except perhaps Tokyo. I pity the ones assigned gymnasts.
The immaterial ones likely don't want to have anything to do with you, either. While their environment is far more survivable, they must have the largest collective case of specific motion sickness on record. The line at the company commissary for hot towels and anti-nauseals is, I can only imagine, a nightmare. Their lot is the same as their brothers and sisters, as the closer they can get to the back of your head the better things are, but they can't really do much once they get there.
If you hear whispers (or gagging) in your ear, you might have one. Be kind: watch good television, do not dance too much in the living room, and nod with care. You might offer it tea: put it on the table behind you, sit still, and try not to flinch when the phone rings.
Low EarthIt is gently becoming spring again. The warmth of the sun is tugging at the ground and air, and the plants are again beginning the greening march to summer. I am still hesitant about it, but the plants seem sure. The birds seem sure. I can feel spring in the dirt underfoot, but it is not enough to make me similar.
This does not keep the work at bay. The bits and pieces of the northern garden bed have been shuffled around, the wine barrel bits and the small terra cotta have moved to new places. Some of the plants, too: the chives now have a new home, and some of the bulbs have been relocated. I'll have to see how that goes. In exchange, I now have a wide and solid space, with two more in the raised beds to the south. If all goes well, come the weekend I will have loan of a tiller, and I can send the leaf mold from last autumn deep into the soil.
This year, things will be kept simple, I think. Herbs and nightshades, mostly, with some berries in the shade of the locust. There is plenty to do, even so: feverfew is assaulting one of the front plots in a duel with the strawberries, and the spectre of crab grass is climbing out of the soil in parts of the lawn.
The hammock swings in the cool air, but the air promises to be warmer, soon. And if it turns out I can't borrow the tiller, I've a pitchfork and time.
Missions of the SoilI am happy to report that the tilling went well. The machine was sleepy at first, and hesitant to wake, but we poked it into a happy burble and put it into the earth to turn it. I had thought that I had good soil, but I know it now: the machine nosed down into loam and spun happy through it all with ease. I sent perhaps 18 cubic feet of rotting leaves into the ground of the northern bed, and heaped the rest on the southern beds to rest and rot some more. We also turned the ground of the bed beside the house, which gives me something of a problem.
By the side of the house will live the nightshades and the basil; I think they will have a happy home there. Scattered around the back bed are containers large and small for the herbs (the chives are happy in their new home, safe from the lemon balm). This leaves over a long wide plot, empty and hungry to grow things. The problem is not a bad one, to be sure: I simply don't know what I want to grow back there yet, and now that the sun is kissing the hills without teasing, I should figure that out.
The mint is making progress (I did not expect less). I do not yet know if the neighbor's pines are white pines. The strawberries seem content, and there are little yellow dandelions everywhere.
Bloody dandelions.
Arbor RaceOf the trees in the yard, the maples have been showing exuberance. The one near the house started to unfurl itself in the warm patch last month, letting out little bits of green into the new warmed air. The following week, as the mercury fell far again, I think it suffered some for this, but it seems to have turned out all right, and the other maple has followed along, now that Spring has once again come creeping back. They are leafing out nicely, now, and there will be dim shade again soon. It's unfortunate that one of the maples needs to be shown, and the men are coming on Monday to do it, but it must play nicely with the house, for both their sakes.
The locusts are more timid. They did not fall for the faux spring, an even now they are being very careful about setting buds on wintry limbs. When they leaf, they will dapple the yard and the picnic table, but today they still wait. I do not blame them much; today isn't much for the weather.
Once, hazelnut trees grew rampant around here. I'm going to see if I can fit two of three along the edge of the alley.
Mentre(Quindi, la domanda: mentre cosa? )
A while ago, a friend of mine from both a geologic and political north of this place gave me a gift of a little folding knife. It's tremendously handy, but I think I've discovered one of its true callings. Today the weather is useful enough to make headway with the greenery, and I brought the knife along to settle in a pocket for trimming this and that. It also turns out the knife is excellent for rooting dandelions. In between passes of the soft trundle of the mower over the yard, I took moments to undo dandelions from the grass, and heaped them high on the picnic table. They are two bitter for wine, I think, so they ended up in the refuse bag. I'm making progress with the refuse bag. I need to start another one, particularly if I find the fortitude to go after the front lawn this evening. I should note here that there are violets in the grass now, and the feverfew is coming under control, and there is one lovely plain blue flower standing separate smack in the middle of the front lawn. It's a blue to fall into. I've managed to avoid mowing it so far.
In between all of that, the maples are sending a nice dapple over the hammock in high sun. Whilst there on break, I got treated to a soft breeze, several good clouds, and a view of one of the hawks, turning lazy circles in the big sky over the park.
Back to work.
All content under copyright by the author. Dancing is permitted. The strange deltic glyphs in the sand under tidal flow are a pleasure to watch in their deepening. Offer not valid in Kansas. We put it down and then we lost it. It all happens in the corner of the eye. Commentary accepted at pen@goob.com, although the traps are agressive and the pointy bits simply drip with dark liquour. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.