“I thought people were supposed to write their blogs, like every day. What’s up with you?”
I know, but nothing much has been happening. Contractor’s been away on spring break. Architect’s in Bhutan? Been raining?”
“Call yourself a writer. Writers write.”
I don’t call myself a writer. I call myself a farmer.
“Good one. Very funny.”
Okay! I get it! We did go to the farm yesterday. It turned out to be beautiful down there. The land so green. Bird song. Shonnard’s people had come out and strung the barbed wire Larry wanted on the stretch of fence along the driveway. Looks nice.
We picked up the truck and went to collect the last cherry tree, and to buy a lilac. Every farmhouse in the county has a lilac in bloom. Purple. I’ve wanted one since forever. That horrible woman was behind the counter at Shonnard’s, and I think she recognized me because she got very busy not noticing me at all.
“She’s not horrible.”
Yes, she is. You know, if she had to make a comment about my advanced age, she could have included herself. Like, “WE older folk find this a great place to live.” The way your doctor always says “as WE age,” when they’re not. Not yet. It’s only polite. And anyway, she should look in the mirror. She’s no spring chicken herself.
“I think you’re cross because she was right. About you.”
I’m not! we could have been friends. I might have gone to her bunko club. I saw that big sign in front of the community center: “Bingo! Bunko! Pot-luck Wednesday Nights.”
“Now you’re being a snob. So, did you get the cherry tree and the lilac?”
Yes. Of course it wasn’t that easy to plant them. Larry decided that the hole prepared earlier for this last cherry was out of alignment, so he’d have to dig a different hole, entirely by hand. I told him that wasn’t really necessary, but he had his vision, so dug away. I worked to make a larger circle around another of the trees, but without the weed-whacker to clear the long grass, it was too hard. Unfortunately, I can’t manage the whacker. As with other farm equipment, five feet four inches is not tall enough. You should see me simply trying to climb into the truck. So I busied myself with my wood pile. A hand saw makes no demands.
And here they are: the lilac, and one of the cherry trees. Which, looks like, may actually produce a cherry or two.
Little signs of domesticity. The settlers in this fertile valley longing for talismans of home.
I hope the man from Craig’s List will decide soon that it’s dry enough to mow, then til the orchard. At least Tyrone and Rod are back from their vacations, so perhaps I’ll soon have something more substantive to write about.
Peter is coming here next Wednesday to help Larry with the large wood pile. Power saw! Manly stuff. Going to be great!