Happy June 1st!!!!!
Sunny days, gardening, long walks with the dogs, day trips, sunburns, beachcombing. . . .
Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. . . .
This is what I wait for during the long winter months, when the sightline impairing snow is piled so high at the driveway that going anywhere is akin to playing Russian roulette.
Lest you think my sophomoric waxing about June 1st has rendered me unable to recognize the frustrations of summer, think again.
Last evening, after supper, Stephen and I resumed Gardenfest 2011.
He was putting the miracle compound piled in our driveway under the various trees in our backyard.
I was weedwacking.
And I love it.
Except for the mosquitoes.
And nothing bring my blood in contact with mosquitoes more than weedwacking.
The little sh*** live in the weeds and long grass and take great offence when I come in there, weedwacker whirring and buzzing like a thousand chainsaws, hacking and slashing at their home environment.
And they retaliate in kind with their special brand of vengeance.
The mosquito bite.
Making me look, at the end of the evening, as if I've had an attack of hives.
And then there is the fact that I haven't any yardwork-Stephen-approved-footwear.
Mainly because the old sneakers I had, the ones that served me well through countless summers, were disposed of by the very same Stephen.
Because as we know, if Stephen cannot envision an IMMEDIATE need for something, it goes.
Without saying anything to anyone until you go looking for it and he replies, his face bearing an impish, almost boyish grin,
Opps!
So I was weedwacking in Birkenstocks.
Stephen hadn't noticed.
I was doing fine.
And then my brother shows up and comments on the fact that I shouldn't be weedwacking with Birkenstocks as the only protection between my toes and whirring wire.
Faster than the speed of sound Stephen is in the house and back outside again bearing socks, and . . .
. . .my old, ugly, black, heavy, hot, winter boots.
I looked even more fashion challenged than I normally do.
But my toes were safe.
My grip was sure.
Even if my feet felt like they'd been thrown into hell.
And there are aspects of weedwacking with our weedwacker that are less appealing.
For example, when the wire thingie that spins at such speeds it can take out small trees becomes too short, I am just supposed to have to slow the wacker down, tap the bottom of it, and voila! the line extends.
Except ours doesn't.
Meaning every ten minutes, less if I've been wacking through dense, high grasses, weeds and those infernal-always-there dandelions, I have to stop the weed wacker.
Turn it upside down.
Unscrew the dohickey that holds the spool in the wacking mechanism.
And manually pull out the wacking line.
Not difficult.
Not challenging.
Not mind boggling.
Just annoying.
Very, very annoying.
Nonetheless, I persevered and after two hours, our front and back yards look much better.
In fact, one spot has been trimmed so well it is now ready for me to descend upon it and pull out the offending weeds, lay down new soil, and plant a piece of our steroid enhanced wild rose bush.
My plans for this morning, in fact, are to do just that.
Provided that it doesn't rain.
I want to be outside with the sunshine warming my back while I dig in the dirt.
Being peppered with rain isn't part of the plan.
Luckily, I have rainy day contingencies.
It's called work.
I was coming home the other day for lunch -- my attempt at trying to infuse some non-academic work time into my day.
Lovely, sun filled blue sky open all the windows in the car breezy day.
And then a one time convergence of events took place.
Just as I was sitting at the red light at Forest Hill Road and Kimble, a huge gust of wind blows through the car, dislodging my $125.00 STU faculty parking pass from its home on the rearview mirror, forcing it out the driver's side window and onto the street.
Everything happened so fast, I wasn't sure it happened at all, until I looked at the rearview mirror and saw no parking pass hanging there.
The light turned green and as I proceeded down Kimble, I briefly toyed with just leaving it lying on the road, as we are now into the summer months and the number of student cars wanting to take up residence in the faculty parking spaces has dwindled to almost none and it doesn't matter anyway because campus police don't ticket in the summer meaning everyone parks where ever they want.
However, my green self quickly rebelled against such a heinous suggestion as leaving something in the middle of road.
Then I thought about how Stephen would react.
'Nuff said.
This conversation in my head took place in the 5 seconds it took me to get to the first street from which I could turn around, go back to the lights, turn back onto Forest Hill and stop the car, four ways flashing like a strobe light in a night club, and run back to get the pass.
Except that it was lunch time, there was a lot of traffic, and I was dodging between and around cars like I was John McLean in a Die Hard film.
All for a piece of plastic.
But it was the meaning of the piece of plastic.
And again, my concerns over how Stephen would respond when finding out that the pass blew out the window and I just left it there.
Apoplectic.
We ventured to the Congress Book Fair after dropping Em off at school yesterday morning.
I swear I heard angels sing when I walked in the huge room, and saw at least 30 publishing houses with their wares displayed like a Medieval market.
For a minute I thought, this is what heaven will look like.
Stephen was my Sherpa on this mystical, wonderful journey through this land of ideas.
We even managed to get a couple of biodegradable pens, made of corn of all things, from the University of Manitoba Press booth.
I was impressed.
An hour and a half later I had several new books in my possession and numerous Spring 2011 and Fall and Winter 2011 catalogues to peruse.
I've already started.
And the list of books-I'm-gonna-order is growing longer with every catalogue.
Stephen just shakes his head.
And sighs.
A man who knows he simply cannot battle a force as strong as my desire for books.
A man resigned to a fate he is powerless to change or challenge.
Which is a good man, indeed.
Title Lyric: Mosquitoes by Shoen Knife
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