Next to Normal – are you? Definitely not over here.
I am looking out at a tree coming into bloom, but I cannot remember its name; I’ll have to look it up in my gardening book. That scares me, except that I’ve always had blocks about the names of certain plants. Spirea. Could never remember. Wisteria. These names fall into a hole in my memory.
Viburnum! When I think about something else, it swims up from the depths. Sheesh.
Another gorgeous day in this long slow spring. Yesterday, a great treat: Jean-Marc called and suggested we have lunch together. Great, I said, except that I’m going to my 12.30 class at the Y, so it’ll be late.
Forget the Y, he said. Let’s cycle to the island and have a picnic.
What a wonderful excursion – 15 minutes by bicycle to the lake, 10 minutes on the ferry, and we’re on the islands, along with – as JM pointed out – crowds made up almost entirely of immigrant peoples, who appreciate huge open green spaces with a phenomenal view of the metropolis. Bonus: we lunched near an avenue of cherry trees in full bloom. Beauty.
Thank heavens for dear JM, another lonely self-employed writer with time, occasionally, in the middle of the day.
Last night’s treat — TV, which was good because I was tired. Next to Normal, a Broadway musical, shown on PBS with the superb British cast — a difficult show about a bipolar woman struggling with long-term grief that leads to depression, breakdown, and mania, and how her teenaged daughter, husband, and shrink attempt to cope. All done in song. Phenomenal. I wrote to my kids today, You have many things to complain about with your mother, but luckily for you, bipolar disorder is not one of them.
This morning, to the north farmer’s market, a new building recently opened, spacious, clean, and bright. All my favourites were there: Barbara the nut lady, the Mennonite farmers with their meat, the lettuce people, the mushroom ladies, the apple folks. The woman who sells a slab of focaccia covered with sundried tomatoes for $10, which I just had a piece of for lunch, with an asparagus chaser. I went to buy Mother’s Day dinner, which as usual I am cooking … beef stroganoff with noodles, which I hope will make the boys happy since they really like meat, with lots of mushrooms to make me happy. Anna invited me over there, where she’d cook, but I’d rather have them here, despite considerably more effort for this mother on her day. But giving a break to my daughter, a much more deserving mother.
The world — hell in a handbasket. Gaza, Ukraine, unspeakable. BUT there’s a new pope with Creole roots and a Peruvian passport, who speaks of social justice and peace and puts down Vance and Trump. That’s a huge win, we hope. The courts are slowing down the trail of wanton destruction to the south. I am listening to Bach, will soon finish editing a client’s novel and a student’s essay, water the indoor plants that will soon go outdoors, and continue the winter/summer clothing exchange. I’m reading The Great Gatsby, ashamed I’ve not read it before. Beautiful writing, F. Scott.
A lovely thing: one of my most beloved pieces of writing on this website under Articles is “Secret,” about my best childhood friend Penny Harris, the island world we invented as girls, and the terrible secret I found out about much later. https://fullgrownpeople.com/2022/02/17/secret/
I posted a picture I drew in 1962, at 12, of the secret cottage in the woods we orphan twin sisters rode our horses to. And recently, in the lovely stream of photos my friend Chris posts each day on his blog was a picture of the actual cottage. It actually exists. What are the chances?
And now out to smell my viburnum. May you all have a joyful fantasy come true. Happy spring to all.
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