Ever since Beverly the HHR came to live with me I can't help but notice that there are a bazillion of them on the streets. At one point I came to an intersection and stopped right behind one and another one was waiting in the turn lane going the opposite way. Three at once! I can't drive the 5 miles to or from work without seeing at least one, and yesterday I saw one with black from the bottom of the windows down and gray up, two-toned, haven't seen a two-tone car since the 60s. It looked slick. I'm not sure I like being a part of the herd. Makes me feel almost normal. Eesh. Good thing I love her--and she's bright red, who wouldn't love that? I was all set to go out after supper and tackle the weeds in the garden in preparation for planting on Saturday, when the doorbell rang. It was the guy across the street (and his criminally cute granddaughter who was fascinated by my polished fingernails) telling me not to, that he was going to get his old tiller started, put a new belt on it, and "you can have it." Well, hm, that was very nice of him, so I didn't chase the weeds after all. I did go out with the loppers and clipped off the "old wood" of the big hummingbird vine on the privacy fence. Now it looks so much better. While I was out gathering up my clippings the renter's patio door opened and the littlest girl came out to show me her library books. She's a little blond 6-year-old with personality to burn, is Miss Oh-livia. Her big sister, 10 yr. old Angel, is just as blond but a lot more shy. ("shyer" "shier" ack!) Immediately after supper there was a young hawk in the back yard trying to catch one of the birds, mostly sparrows and grackles. It didn't have much luck but it was sure fun to watch. Mr. Neighbor didn't arrive with the tiller so I was a teensy bit peeved at bedtime because I'd hoped to be half-done with the weeding but I'm hopeful that he'll get the old girl to work again and I won't have to break my back getting the garden up and running anymore. And it's not as if we won't get any tomatoes if we don't plant until next week either. And I can always smother the weeds with landscape fabric of which we have a metric crapton (is too a measurement, Samurai Knitter said so awhile back) in the garage that we bought (on sale) during a failed attempt to turn the slopes in the back to rock gardens.
May 24--India, Child Saint Sambandar. The temple bells sounded like water dancing over smooth pebbles. Lila stood in the sun squinting into the gloom of the temple wondering what made the sound. There was a low humming like bees in a wall. She was sure it was monks chanting. She hesitated in the doorway, drown by the sounds and aromas in incense and flowers but unsure if she was allowed in. She had read in a guidebook about the need to respect local customs so she wore a skirt and t-shirt with a scarf to cover her head and shoulders. She was so used to wearing pants or jeans that a skirt made her feel freed in some intangible way. The hot Indian breeze blew the hem of her skirt up, she was careful that it not blow up in her face and stepped over the threshold.
And that's it for me today. This week there's a writing class I'd love to be at and next week's the poetry class; both are at The Clearing. It's where you'll find me if I ever win the lottery or a long-lost relative leaves me her fortune. But I get to go for a week in September; that'll be good.