It’s gotten chilly again, a reminder that this is still springtime and still Normandy, even with our concerted efforts to boil the planet into a miasmic new Jurassic. Over the last few days heavy rain. The new roof is holding up, which I expected based on the reputation of the guys that did it, but which is still gratifying on waking at three in the morning in a room not yet completely insulated and the roof just above one’s head.
The cat, deep into adventures of his own making, has slowly figured out the least ridiculous way to squeeze himself out the cat door into the south garden. That he still looks almost exactly like a sausage being made is something that both makes me smile every time I see it and even more certain I can never take a picture and show it to him. The shame would be too much for his typical feline sense of superiority.
Accompanying the rain, of course, has come a greening that is even more of a greening than two weeks ago. I’m waiting to weed until it lets up, and I no longer have to bend down to reach the stalks and stems. I experimented a little this morning with a prodigal example of a thistle hybrid—paltry at only a couple of feet high. It came out easily enough, which I take as a good sign for the eventual success of my procrastination.
Last weekend, much against the dictates of the state and the urgings of the doctors, a couple of neighbors came for what is, if not now a tradition, at least a semi-regular occasion where we gather in the garden with our drinks, mingle six or seven feet away from one another and remember what non-mediated humanity looks and sounds like. This time, I made use of the poor excuse of a grill that has sat forlorn and abandoned—not exactly weed-choked, but on its way. Burgers and cheese and baked potato wedges. Not high cuisine, but deliciously communal and a tantalizing taste of summer after la confinement ends.
With the beginning of the end in sight, and the possibility of getting back into stores to buy supplies, the house is starting to demand some regard. Soon, I expect, I’ll have to start once again attending to the staggeringly long list of things that need to get done. Thankfully, I guess, it will still be a while before airlines are up and running, borders are again open, and I can get back to the Caucuses. And of course, should we and our governments have gotten this all wrong, it may be a very long time indeed. I’ll need it, particularly since in a fit of pique Madame made a largely successful foray into the floors, only to discover what we suspected, and policy planners in the west have known for years and done nothing about: infrastructure is in sore need of replacement. Martinis I note—perhaps not for the first time—are splendid for encouraging discovery, less so for subsequent phases.
Throughout, of course, the flowers—both those scattered amongst the gardens, and those blossoming on the cherry, apricot, apple, and hawthorn trees—have lent a sense of otherworldliness that shouldn’t strike me so but continues to leave me occasionally speechless. Even now as a write this there are great flurries of apple blossoms driven by the front bringing in the next bout of rain. Spring indeed.
Be the first to reply