Both my sons have inherited the gardening bug from me. Nevertheless, one in particular intersperses our conversations and texts with his storied gardening exploits or even seemingly failures. I receive pictures of: a truck load of compost and plants, a camellia bush showing out, and herbs gone amok. Sometimes it’s a picture of a barren corner accompanied by the question, “What do I put here?” I love these back-and-forth exchanges!
I am struck by the way the sun feels this afternoon, pressing the damp cold winter out of the greening grass and the stone pavers.
“Languages are epistemologies as well as human bridges.” (Elizabeth Alexander, The Light of the World)
I enjoy “March Madness,” following my favorite basketball teams to whatever heights they can reach. I’m in awe of the physicality of these athletes, of being able to tell their bodies what to do in a nanosecond, and the body obeys!
I feel like a porcupine today with all its sticky outie quills conducting an enormous quantity of electrical shocks to my system. I must be on my last proverbial nerve. Each little nuisance that I’m rubbing up against is jabbing me into a state of hypersensitivity.
In my mother’s later years, when she was legally blind, she settled into telling us stories of her youth in the 1920s. When her first grandchild got his driver’s license, she shared how at eleven years old, she would drive her father, a pharmacist, to work in downtown San Antonio in their family Model T. Driver’s licenses were not required till 1936 in Texas. The only test for permission to drive was the answer to the question, “can you drive?”