Summer garden

It's raining sheets

There are certain situations in life that call for the purchase of new, bright pink bedsheets. Like after he leaves. It's not a celebratory thing. You just want something new on the bed.

Then it rains. Again.

Then the sun comes out. Might there be a rainbow? You rush to take a picture.

So does he. The door to the upstairs apartment slams.

Why now

Why is it that now, of all times, people seem to come at me with gems like this? --

"That Skinny Girl margarita. Did you know Bethenny Frankel sold the rights to that drink mix to some big company for millions of dollars? ... And her dad left her and her mom when she was, like, three. She never forgave him for it. "

"No, I can see why." 

"Can you imagine doing that? The guy must have really hated his wife."

"Mmmm."

Then, Jim the butcher: "I need your husband's help."

Ah-hah.

It seems that Jim and his wife own houses locally which they rent out, and they have recently received an application from a would-be renter who claimed to work at the local fire department. They want to check up on this guy and find out if he really is employed there -- where my husband is (my daughter now calls her father simply "the Sir," and points toward the ceiling, in other words to the upstairs apartment, when speaking about him). I think Jim expected me to involve the Sir in this investigation in some way. I simply suggested he call the fire department, whose number I do know by heart after twenty-four years, and ask about the ostensible employee himself. I think he was somewhat taken aback by the simplicity of it.

The next day: "Are you John's wife?" the lady asked.

Ummm ...

She knows of him through the volunteer appearances he has put in at her grandchildren's schools. "Such a nice man. He said you worked here and that the next time I was in, I should look you up."

"Oh, yes! And what's your name?"

"Mary Costello."

"Oh, yes, that sounds familiar." So she went away flattered and pleased.

More in the garden

And -- of course, this is wildly off topic, but have you noticed? -- how much conservative pundits (mostly men) dislike Sarah Palin and Michelle Bachmann? I almost think that, having spent their careers commenting on and observing politics, and growing gray and weak-eyed in the process, they really resent their thunder and their punditry and their relevance being stolen by moms with long brown hair.

"Bachmann panders to conservative intellectuals," Commentary

"One if by land, two if by sea, three if by Palin," Commentary

To be fair, both these columns above were written by the same man (yay for fact-checking!), but I have a vague sense that my point holds. Maybe that's why I'm not a pundit, and am also a mom with long-ish brown hair. .

Flowers

The mature garden

Most of it is a feast of green, in the bright slanting evening sun. But below, first, are last month's bleeding hearts.

Asiatic lilies wait to bud, crowded in beside bearded iris, cranesbill, and a mass of goldenrod. The robins chirp and carol away as always, whether in the dim gray mist of early morning or the long, steadily darkening twilights. This big old house with its big old mulberry tree has sheltered and overlooked much life, and many years and happiness. And I suppose there are robins anywhere. The mature garden, however, is mine.