One admits against the instincts of hope, in the dying of Summer and the exquisite subtleties of Autumn, that melancholy is an atmosphere rather than an acknowledgement of grief, soft and deeply penetrating as the wet driving rains which soak our parched garden with unaccustomed natural nourishment. Tears and rain have much in common that way and allow us to flow in blues, like the streamlets racing down our hill street carrying maroon and crimson leaves to pool at the bottom in a quilt of many colors. Andie remembers the fun of her previous rainy season and chases the leaves as they fly past, jumping into and out of the water attempting to catch them as if her inner wild bear were after salmon.
We prepared mightily for the wet deluge, wrapping furniture and potting tables in tarps, pruning, transplanting, weeding, clipping and mulching that little piece of paradise the garden has become for us. For me it is an art form of emotion and practicality, remembering all that came before and knowing as we divine ancient energy that change is life itself and the power of being alive, such a joy.
Winter always seems to lie in wait for us, but over the years I have had to understand that Spring lies ever so near, beneath the dying leaves and barren branches. I have to look at it poetically, or as it has been said…. ‘all those tears in rain’. Andie and I have been holding down the warmth in our little cottage. I’ve been blue and limping along as usual. The future seems more frightening than imagined , because legions of Morlock primitives seem to have captured our culture and political system so, I make allusions to the rise of Sauron to convince me that it’s just a movie. All in all though Andie and I expect to see tulips any day now, because some aberrant fluke of climate change has brought to the garden a third sparse, honey scented blooming of Buddlelia and a rare late five petaled rose to rise over the deep earth memories of a heart’s buried future to remind me of wild dune roses and sweet summer days on the Cape.
Andie and I have been graced by some delightful visits lately by wise and endearing women, who brought eggs, yam soup, pumpkin bread, wonderful telling of stories and time spent consciously in the perfect flow of excellent companionship. Andie also got a bean-teddy, which she loves and drags about when bored with my incessant computing.
Even as I think, Andie’s giving me that look: ‘Seriously, you’re going to write that?’ Yes, I am…as follows! Considering the misogynist sewer that has become American politics lately, I just have to say, ‘Men who can’t know or don’t want to know the hearts of women, might as well not have been born at all.’ There I said it. NEXT…………………………..
Oh, I almost forgot…….Truck Mart has engendered a contretemps in the hood. Previously I have described Truck Mart’s penchant for ostentatiously virile and powerful trucks, which ironically came to a climax when the 16 years old girl of the family was given her very own: a HUGE Dodge Ram with glittering chrome, flashy overhead roll-bar spot lights and a gleaming bright red paint job. To each his/her own, but a problem arose when the Truck Mart driveway became jammed with so many trucks that parking became a problem and so at the end of the day truck-girl decided to park on the property in front of a neighbor’s rock wall fence.
Even allowing for some space, the truck was so large it also occupied half a lane on the street and obstructed traffic not more than fifty feet from a blind curve causing a driving hazard. It annoyed me considerably I must confess and I imagined they (Truck Mart) had gone over to the dark side and were now Sauron’s minions). But, it was none of my business and contributed unpleasant evil thoughts to a usual spiritual equanimity.
Well, it turns out dear readers that others felt a similar distress over behemoth truck and one early evening when Andie and I were out for a constitutional we noticed a row of large boulders had been placed in parking instead of said aforementioned combustion machine. the next morning on our early walk we noticed that the boulders had been rolled away and behemoth had parked. The 6 cylinder, turbo diesel gauntlet had been thrown down.
Andie sniffed the tires but other than that we passed on. The next day, while truck-girl was out driving around in her NASCAR want-to-be or might-be, the boulders reappeared and were sequenced by iron fence posts….So there! All is quiet now. Truck-girl now parks in the family driveway replacing Mom’s more pedestrian and sensible Toyota. Said rocks and steel fence posts are henceforth referred to as the ‘Great Wall of First Street’. Peace has been restored and Autumn prepares us to quiet the spirit for the silence of winter.