Pull of Spring
Some law of physics is tugging at me to go out of doors, get out into the sun. And I am going to yield to it, momentarily, having done most of what I can indoors. I am desirous, if undeserving, of a spring "break." Nose to the grindstone? I am useless!
A call to my favorite heavy machinery operator tells me that the brush pile's been burned and I am excited to go see the new gate posts he's installed at our summer home. No matter that it means I will need to build a gate; I want to build one. This is great progress, years in the happening. And we have tenants signed for Stonepile for half of July, not sufficient, but we are part of the way there, at least. I've sent an email to my benefactor who has helped me stay solvent this winter, thanking him and making sure he does not think I've taken him for granted, because I have not. And I have extended a couple of books taken out from the Athenaeum by a month; they are good, but somewhat slow going. I've ascertained that the appointment with the future buyers of our house in New York will be tomorrow, and I am crossing my fingers, hoping for the best. And I have left various messages for various people. I need work. Work would solve a slew of problems, but work is just around the corner, I have this feeling. So now I can go out. I am self-justified.
The daughter's going to her first lacrosse practice, with her new stick, new face guard, kit bag and ball. I wonder if she'll last it out long enough to enjoy it? The wife's painting Japanesque screens to be installed in some autocrat's dining room high up in the Sherry Netherlands hotel. I expect that the dogs are snoozing somewhere in the sunlight, unfortunately locked indoors, alone in the house. They, more than I, must feel the tug of spring. Animals are better connected with their feelings, if prevented from free exercise of them. The boy-girl display behavior seen by humans on the streets of Boston, Providence or New York, notwithstanding. Here the gardens yield their snowdrops, crocii and daffodils, their bright, small flowers of early spring. Old Henry Thoreau found delight in the skunk cabbages discovered late winter in Concord, peeking their chartreuse green spears through the swamp ice and snow.
More transition, this time of limbo betwixt winter and spring. The heat of the sun by day, yet subfreezing temperatures at night. More time for change, from indoors to out of it, no more gloves and winter coats by day. To the pull of beckoning rebirth, I yield. March came in like a lion this year, and on a day such as this, it will go out like a pascal lamb.
A call to my favorite heavy machinery operator tells me that the brush pile's been burned and I am excited to go see the new gate posts he's installed at our summer home. No matter that it means I will need to build a gate; I want to build one. This is great progress, years in the happening. And we have tenants signed for Stonepile for half of July, not sufficient, but we are part of the way there, at least. I've sent an email to my benefactor who has helped me stay solvent this winter, thanking him and making sure he does not think I've taken him for granted, because I have not. And I have extended a couple of books taken out from the Athenaeum by a month; they are good, but somewhat slow going. I've ascertained that the appointment with the future buyers of our house in New York will be tomorrow, and I am crossing my fingers, hoping for the best. And I have left various messages for various people. I need work. Work would solve a slew of problems, but work is just around the corner, I have this feeling. So now I can go out. I am self-justified.
The daughter's going to her first lacrosse practice, with her new stick, new face guard, kit bag and ball. I wonder if she'll last it out long enough to enjoy it? The wife's painting Japanesque screens to be installed in some autocrat's dining room high up in the Sherry Netherlands hotel. I expect that the dogs are snoozing somewhere in the sunlight, unfortunately locked indoors, alone in the house. They, more than I, must feel the tug of spring. Animals are better connected with their feelings, if prevented from free exercise of them. The boy-girl display behavior seen by humans on the streets of Boston, Providence or New York, notwithstanding. Here the gardens yield their snowdrops, crocii and daffodils, their bright, small flowers of early spring. Old Henry Thoreau found delight in the skunk cabbages discovered late winter in Concord, peeking their chartreuse green spears through the swamp ice and snow.
More transition, this time of limbo betwixt winter and spring. The heat of the sun by day, yet subfreezing temperatures at night. More time for change, from indoors to out of it, no more gloves and winter coats by day. To the pull of beckoning rebirth, I yield. March came in like a lion this year, and on a day such as this, it will go out like a pascal lamb.
posted by Stonechuck at 12:39 PM
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