SpunThese are the days of bird song, and the days when the songs are sweetest, for the fill a void that had become so common as to be lost from the senses. The birds are very much back. There is a small carnival of cardinals that frets and struts and strafes the back yard; they sing. The sparrows sit nervous on the budding branches of the maples, and the blue jays kick up a racket from down the hill some. The pigeons seem less interesting in my roof these days, taking up other gables. The hawks turn and wheel on the swift air of the valley.
We pulled hosta from the ground this morning, the earth warm enough to take a spade. We lifted up two shaggy masses, each to new homes, leaving one clump behind to foster and start anew. In the meantime: more space for vegetables. I hope to start in with squash this year, but I am behind already. It's alright. I saw the groundhog loping down the alley, a shaggy menace looking silly in daylight.
I mentioned the groundhog at the garden center, surprised to learn that they had had a massive groundhog problem, but now they do not: a grey fox has taken up residence in the woods below, and rodents no longer trouble them. They lost a cat, too, but this is something of how nature works, even in those spaces where we have claimed to claim them.
I wonder if they'd rent me the fox.
MapsThere is a thing in dance music, as old as rock and roll, bent and twisted by Mingus, probably more ancient. The trope is this: there is a beat, a beat, a beat, and then two. It is hackneyed, cliche; like roses in poetry, or the terrible crimes of fashion that we commit again and again for fun, it can pull air from rooms and turn grooves to dust. Sometimes, though, it can still transcend.
(clap)
From the back porch, I can sometimes see stars up there, when the skies are kind and clear. Here being where it is, though, there is often a dark deck to keep away the shine. At times like these I can turn to the hill sides, connecting the dots of the porch lights and street lamps to find new creatures.
(clap)
The sun plays tricks, too: it is the time of year when the fading glow of the day carves through the hilltops just right to bathe those houses in warm golden light, transforming all the simple frame houses to ancient habitats, ringing the agora of the ball field.
(clap)
The green is carefully creeping up from the soil on the commute, and in the garden, too; earlier, the happy voices of children came in through the window from the street outside. These are cues of Spring and strong ones, but it is the staccato tapping of drops on the panes, the mad flashbulbs dividing the sky, and the playful rustle of warm winds that have again told of the turning, again made the season real.
(clap clap)
FramingThere is a light in the basement, connected to a simple clock. It makes attempts to mimic the day. Under it are lots of little things, including peas. The peas are standing up straight, little tendrils testing, reach up for something but only finding each other in an architectural embrace. In the evenings I prise them apart again. It is high time to put them out.
I was going to put together frames of wood, but I was instead offered old information: use sticks, went the lore. Find old branches and lean 'em against the house. The peas will use 'em. Upon consideration, they said, too: PVC pipe?
Something about that immediately made sense. It would be easy to cut lengths to fit. I could find ready-made joints to handle the crossbars. I could put slightly larger pipe in the ground as an anchor, then leave them in for winter with caps. I could drill holes through and make a ladder of twine for the peas. So I trundled you to the places one can buy those sorts of things, trundled back with a pile of plumbing, and spent a happy afternoon in the basement putting it all to right.
There was something remarkably like play in the construction. I was down there with very serious tools and very serious raw materials, only to have it all turn into lovely, chuckling fun. It was Lego, it was erector sets, it was growing onions under a virtual sun, except this time I got to carry it all outside and put it in place, ready for little shoots reaching for the light. Today I built a jungle gym for peas. I bet it'll work.
The real onions are doing well, and the chives, too. The parsley has lifted above the soil in stall timid bits, but will soon grow monstrous. The hosta is up, and the rhubarb (miracle!) is too.
Settle in.
Rubus and RibesThe small carnival of cardinals found the yard festive this morning, venturing out from the big pine to skitter and thrash in the brambles, caught up in chase and play. Above is a wide and long sky of blue, and the light is strong from the sun. Insects bob and weave in the changing air, making investigations. A lovely starter.
The gooseberry is in the ground, and the raspberries are, too. The former is in partial shade, but I am given to understand that it will not mind that much. The soil it sits in is a bit sandy, and I worry about that more. The raspberries are in good loam, in mostly sun, and I have high hopes that they will do well there, in among the other shrubs. I do not expect fruit this year, but perhaps the next. It will be worth waiting.
The rhubarb is up, in small ways - it will be another year (at least) until I can begin to harvest there. The horseradish is strong in its barrel (who could expect otherwise?) and the other barrel is showing small signs of life from the perennial herbs. The peas are small, but reaching up. The strawberries are running riot in the lawn.
Some work is future work. It's good work.
Upon RefractionI was talking with a friend the other day; the subject of anonymity came up. I pointed out that I think I've already somewhat lost that particular battle - I said instead I would reach for inscrutability, for which I at least have an outside chance to cultivate. It came up again in the company of Mr. Koan at a little gathering that was in effect this weekend, the doing of which I got to play a tiny part in. It was good to speak with him again.
And I should say, too: that was one thank of a gathering.
As I said, I was only a tiny part of the vast mechanics that spun behind the very successful thing, and other smaller successful things. I know this to be true, if only in part because I had enormous amounts of time to have ridiculous amounts of fun, for which I am incredibly thankful. It was all amazingly humbling and constructive and good, and in the end I think the best and proudest part was this, over and over, in every worthy sense:
We ate together; we ate well.
The GreeningI have never lived anywhere that did not have the steady punctuation of seasons, the quaternary turn from the quiet repose of winter to summer's furious sun and then back again. I am offered both comfort and surprise by these transitions, each and every time. The wet snuffly nose of spring is on us now, putting the warm smells of waking earth and walking rains into the air to fill it. In this place it's a capricious thing, spring. I am glad the tomatoes are safe and tiny under their little artificial sun. They will want to keep their feet warm, and the ground outside is not there yet. The peas, on the other hand, do not mind it out there at all, and I am hoping they will soon completely wake and thrive, pumping good into the earth for the nightshades to take back up again.
This morning, I took to work the long way, down behind the lip of the hill and over the old bridges. I did it to become a little more familiar; I do not take that path as often as I should. The trees around were close and leafing out, new young leaves that are still stretching, still an electric green.
This evening, I walked home with a storm at my heels. I took the high route, so as to be closer to the sky and be better able to keep an eye behind. Gloom boiled there, lit from within by bashful lightning. The rain was falling out there, too, some four miles distant and closing while I was yet only half way home, a strange grey part of the sky that ended on the left in a razor-sharp diagonal against the blue and white behind. I was safe home with a coffee before it overran us all with a brief whirl of wind and wet, with rumblings that shook the panes in their sashes.
The birds sing their songs, punctuated by the distant cracks of aluminum bats sending out arcs on the yonder ballfield. They sing even into twilight these days; birdsong in twilight.
A Brief Respite From Our Regularly Scheduled ProgrammingThere was a small set of confluence this evening; I was listening to Trio Mediaeval's latest, dulcet, impossibly blended Nordic Sopranos accompanied by a gentleman percussionist adroit with, amongst other things, a jawharp. The combination begins strange, but rapidly warms. I set that down to watch Clay Shirky's talk about sitcoms for a bit, as the storms came thrumbling in.
Somewhere in there I got into a YouTube duel with Mr. Referent. I get into these with my brother from time to time - entire conversations consisting of YouTube links, each a play upon the last, each a step further into the strange and beautiful. YouTube is a good medium for this. Mr. Referent opened up his hand and offered up the live performance of a piece titled Baiana, by Barbatuques. Some thoughts came to mind, in rough order:
I'm pretty sure somewhere in there that man is throat singing whilst playing a jawharp.
And: if he isn't, well then why not.
And: why am I not learning to do that right now.
So I step out across the web in search of a good instrument, and I end up at the virtual shop of a gentleman in Port Costa, California who makes high-quality, hand crafted jaw-harp muskets.
Tomorrow should be interesting.
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. Mail accepted for the bears in the basement. We have a dog, but we do not own it. Thank you.