Reading, thinking about writing–that’s a good sign, though it’ll likely take several months to get a real opening line to run with, confounded figurework in preparation for this week’s war. And nature. Watching the young Cardinals grow up, now orangey-red from the mixing of baby and all-grown-up feathers, with the startled bug-eyed look and a crest that looks more like a mohawk; that awkward teenage phase I suppose.
Pulling up radishes that are half again longer in the ground than they should be, startled by June’s sudden cold into reluctance to grow, then bolting to bloom with a kick from July. But there still were a few worth the saving and washing and laying out on a lunch plate to savor for their strong bite and simply the joy of the first garden harvest. By the end of the week, baby stringbeans and yellow squash and maybe some cukes will have swelled to picking size to complement some harvest of lettuce. The tomatoes, finally figuring the tricks of the New England summer, are dark green and plump, plumper each day, but as always, will not likely be ready till August or frost.
Good news for the garden; I found saved basil and dill and cilantro seeds to replace those I purchased (since, I’ve been told, the regeneration of seeds over the years yields badly–but what do they know?) didn’t make it past cool days and nights and the bugs who adored them. So with this hearty Gibb stock I shall resow the earth.
Inside the problems are not near as pretty; I’ll have to hook up a spare printer to the laptop to serve me this week, then wait until next when the man is away to rip open and test each chunk of metal and plastic again and finally make up my mind what’s the best path to take to recovery and beyond, to the future that holds open ideas and needs and all that new programs demand.
Bad, bad week ahead that may end up in good and all I can do is float through it.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology