Wednesday morning: woke up thinking it was Thursday, liked the feeling of suddenly being near the end of the week. Saw a calendar not long after pulling myself to my feet. Big letdown.
Thursday morning: woke up thinking it was Friday, feeling a bit unnerved at the way the days had slipped blithely by, feeling adrift in time. Saw a calendar not long after pulling myself to my feet. Big relief.
This morning: woke up knowing it was Friday, feeling just fine that the end of the week was at hand, ignoring the mind-bending speed at which the last few days had surged past. Saw a calendar not long after pulling myself to my feet. Felt like such a grown-up for being so grounded in reality (such as it is).
This was, truth be told, one of those weeks that past at surreally rapid speed, me often feeling a step behind it all but forging gamely ahead. Beautiful weather in the earlier part of the week has produced an explosion of color in Montpelier, trees and bushes bursting into blossom, the view down Barre Street an almost supernatural display of reds, pinks, whites, greens, coming as it is after the many long months of winter's limited palette. Out here, fifteen miles northeast of the capital, things are moving more slowly. Apart from splashes of yellow from the recent days' emerging daffodils and the wild overabundance of dandelions gearing up for their yearly push to take over the hilltop, the colors visible outside the house are greens, browns and the gray sky looming overhead (the beautiful weather having packed its bags and moved on).
Work, gym, food shopping. Grass-cutting season is underway, most days have seen me out there pushing a mower -- so far a manual Brill cutter I picked up a couple of years ago instead of the power mower that's trimmed the hilltop's ridiculously expansive lawn these last seven years. Don't know how long that'll last -- given the quantity of grass and the rate it keeps thrusting itself up toward the sky, the hand mower routine gets feeling like trying to bail out an oceangoing vessel with a plastic spoon. It's so quiet, though. And light. Easily maneuverable. So nice, all of that. But as the speed and thickness of the lawn increases, the Brill begins to seem more and more like a Fisher-Price creation -- a toy, not the kind of heavy-duty mechanism reality demands.
A good stretch of rain -- imminent, according to the wet blankets in the local weather biz -- will get the grass growing at more serious velocity and thickness. At which point, the power mower will come out of retirement, the lawn routine will revert to more normal summertime noise levels.
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Mid-week: the view from here
España, te echo de menos.
rws 8:00 PM [+]
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