Forgive me if I take a little bow. Wasn’t last night’s shower a delicious little number? The gods look favorably upon our offerings, imperfect as they are. The feeling up on the street this morning is that all sorts of venial sins are forgiven. Washed clean. Beautiful. Even my truck shines it on.
I drive across the bridge to the Dry Garden and buy lots of drought-tolerant plants for a new garden I’m installing. If that sounds like hedging my bets let me clarify. I may be shy a marble or two but I am realistic. Even if the rain gods get lavish this year, our rainforest days are over. Baja spurge is the new hydrangea.The goal of my wooing the gods is merely to persuade them into dispensing an above-average amount of rainfall this season, enough to put starch into our greensleeves for another few months, maybe years. After that, it’ll be someone else’s job. The grandchildren I don’t have. Sur moi le deluge.
At Hida Tool I buy new hedge clippers. It’s a splurge. My old ones could be made to be more efficient but never as gasp-inducingly sharp as these new ones. The woman who rings me up says, “It’s so nice outside today.”
Another present to myself: coming home and not going right back out to work. Get to work, get to work, the sergeant in the noggin nags, but instead of driving across town to plant the new plants I unload them onto the deck, and lock up the truck. I pick apples instead. They’re ripe; they come easily to the palm. It’s kind of work, but kind of not. I’m gathering them to keep the squirrels from getting them. The squirrels have been worse than ever, but still, one third of the refrigerator is full of apples. Pie day cometh.
Pick apples is all I have to do, and I don’t even have to do that. I wonder if it’s possible to spend a few minutes out of the sergeant’s purview. What good is beauty if you don’t experience it in your animal body? As for the rain campaign, we’ll take a day off. Be grateful. The gods, I suspect, relish silence as much as anybody.