Gettin’ too old for this...

Last night during the intermission at the Wailin’ Jennys concert we were looking around at the audience and commenting on the demographics. “Lots of gray hair,” he says. I sort of looked at him and grinned and said “well honey, that sort of includes us, doncha think?” And he laughed, and said “Yes, but I don’t feel old inside.” And so we discussed the fact that despite what our appearance in the mirror tells us, we both feel very young at heart. But that was last night; this morning is a different story. It was approaching midnight by the time we arrived back home, and somewhat later than that by the time we got showers organized, teeth brushed, and the “after midnight” snack consumed, and teeth brushed AGAIN before we finally fell into bed. And we both felt purely awful stumbling out of bed after less than 5 hours of sleep. “I’m gettin’ too old for this” were the first words out of his mouth this morning.

At any rate, the Wailin’ Jennys mostly confirmed what was said about them in the program notes. There wasn't too much hyperbole, except perhaps, for “Spurred onward by a growing fan base that swoons at their intuitive harmonies...” Well, I mean I didn’t notice that anybody was actually swooning during the concert, but at one point I almost cried at the beauty of their voices. At the very end, when they joined hands and moved away from the microphones and stood at the edge of the stage and sang an exquisite acapella Irish farewell song, there was dead silence the hall. Not a rustle, a cough, or a stir was heard. It was amazing. There is a video of them at U-tube, if you'd care to check it out

Grits

I have a hankerin' for some grits. A big glop of them on the plate next to the eggs, and a golden pool of butter melting in a well on the top. . . and a light dusting of salt and pepper; or maybe, grits that have been packed into a meat loaf pan and chilled, and then sliced and fried until it is crispy golden, served with syrup on top. . .(So, you may be thinking to yourself, why don't you just shut up about it and go get yourself some grits? And my response: Are you kidding? In this town?) One would think that being this close to the South -- I mean Arkansas is about 45 miles away-- the markets would carry grits. Yes, one might think that, but one would be wrong. I know for sure that the downtown market doesn't have grits. I don't know about uptown market, but I'll be cruising down there soon to find out... if don't forget. That happening a lot too these days: the Senior Moments are coming fast and furious. A friend's mom, who is only 61, was recently diagnosed Alzheimer disease. That's only 4 years older than me that's very scary.

A Close Encounter?

This puzzling sight met our eyes when we looked out the window overlooking the side yard this morning. Did aliens visit us in the night and attempt a crop circle before giving up? Was there some attempted “rolling in the hay” going on in the wee hours of the morning? Did deer do this? A dog? Enquiring minds want to know, but I doubt we will ever find out.

April, Come She Will....

All of us are just a little bit stunned at what nearly a week of very cold temperatures (down into the teens) have done to the newly budded trees and flowers and tomatoes.... and just about everything. Oh yeah, the sugar snap peas we planted did survive. I doubt there will be any local peaches or apples or pears this summer. My heart goes out to Frank, the apple man, who comes to Farmer’s Market loaded with the most wonderful varieties of fruit -- apples, pears, peaches, nectarines; and the folks down the road who own the peach orchard as well. And there probably won’t be deer grazing on windfalls from the old apple tree. Ho hum. It takes a brave person to be a farmer. Here’s a small poem from Ogden Nash. It took me a week to find my small paperback book of Ogden Nash’s poems. Of course, it was not REALLY lost, just about 5 inches away from where I thought it should be, and I simply couldn’t “see” it.. This is happening more and more lately and it is driving me NUTS, but that’s another story. I suppose this poem is really about a woman, but it could just as easily be about this month:

ALWAYS MARRY AN APRIL GIRL

Praise the spells and bless the charms,
I found an April in my arms.
April golden, April cloudy
Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;
April soft in flowered languor
April cold with sudden anger,
Ever changing, ever true--
I love April, I love you

Remembrance of Things Past, Wherein Nature Runs Amok

Vacant lots appear here and there along the roads leading into town and among the town itself. Houses have caught fire and burned to the ground; the owners have died and the house stays abandoned for years and begins to fall apart, and pretty soon someone comes along and tears it down, or the volunteer fire department torches it as a training exercise and then the land is cleared. On the road to town is a large cleared area where a house and a church once stood. It was demolished last year, and scattered clumps of daffodils are the only evidence that someone’s home once stood there. Indeed, on our own land, an ancient stone-bordered flower bed very near the state highway right-of-way produced daffodils and iris for years and years after the house had been moved for the original highway bypass around the town. This continued until it was wiped out by the highway expansion in the late 1990s. Another victim of the highway expansion was a house across the road. But again, there is no evidence now that a house was ever there, except for the wisteria that someone originally planted to grow along the fence at the back of the property. The fence is still there, and so is the wisteria, but as this plant is prone to do (from personal experience, this is the plant from hell), it apparently grew tired of the fence and has spread... everywhere. It is a most amazing thing to see. And this photograph doesn’t do it justice. It has climbed way up into several large trees and has produced a mass of drooping clusters of purple flowers. It is truly gorgeous.