Dig, if you will, this little vignette...
My daffodils are at the height of bloom. My hydrangeas (from last year - not this year's disaster) are starting to poke wary green buds from the ground. The birs are chirpping merrily at me as I stroll down my walkway. The magnolia trees are covered in blooms, about to burst open with beauty and fragrance. And everything is coated with a fine sugary powdering of snow.
That's right. Snow.
If I was ever going to us the f-bomb in my blog, it would be about now.
This is very, very unfair albeit completely expected. You see, the story goes thusly...
10 years ago when hubby and I were in the midst of purchasing this property, it was always abloom with tantalizing things - a bunch of daffodils here, lilacs there - and the magnolia trees! Oh, the magnolia trees! They were absolutely amazing. Big sprawling trees covered in pink flowers!
Well, that was the last year that happened.
Since then - every freaking year - the magnolias are just on the verge of a magnificent display and Whammo! We get a cold snap that turns all of the flowers brown and they fall, limp and pathetic, to the ground.
So, it is with this in mind, that I have now decided to make my magnolia trees into memorial trees. I am naming them Kurt Cobain and Sylvia Plath. This seemed like an appropriate choice of folks who were cut down in the prime of life. I picked Kurt Cobain because, even though I am not a fan, I think he was somewhere in the misunderstood genius category and I can sympathise with that. Wink, wink. Also because it was in April when he decided to blow his brains out.
My other choice, Sylvia Plath, came after exhausting a search for another suitable person who died young in April. Unfortunately...er... I guess, fortunately...there are not many young folks who expired in April. My choices were rather limited. The contenders were Lisa "Left Eye" Lopez (I can't imagine Kurt Cobain would be thrilled to have his tree next to Lisa's), Stu Sutcliff (the lost Beatle), and Rob Pilatus (You know, the guy from Milli Vanilli. Need I say more?). While Stu was certainly a contender, I still wasn't happy because, while he died from a cerebral hemorhage, it just didn't seem to fit into the scheme of things.
Sylvia, as it turns out, did not die in April but she did die on the day I was born, although a few years earlier. It seems, after going through a particularly cold winter - and rough life, apparently - she put her head in the oven and called it a day. The choice couldn't be more obvious - the tree goes to Sylvia.
So now, when my trees are ready to burst forth in the biggest show of flowers yet, and the nightly temperature dips to 40 below, and all the buds fall limp and pathetic to the ground, I can think of Kurt Cobain and Sylvia Plath - one in the green house and one in the kitchen - and say to myself, "Well, things aren't so bad".
On a lighter note...
I made waffles yesterday. Since I live in a refrigerator it is very hard to eat warm waffles so I have a little routine. While the waffles are in the toaster, I have just enough time to get my coffee ready (cream and sugar, thank you), get the butter out of the fridge, and Mrs. Butterworth's into the microwave for a few go-rounds. It is a very precise routine and requires strict attention to waffles and syrup.
I was stirring my coffee when the phone rang. Answer it? Don't answer it. Answer it? I answered it. It was my husband.
Him: Hey, what are you doing?
Me: Having waffles and then I'm coming up. (To the other house that we are working on and getting ready to sell.)
Him: I thought you were going to the Earth Day thing.
Me: No, I'm coming up there to help you.
Him: Why? Why don't you go to the Earth Day thing?
Me: Forget it. I'm coming up there. Do you want me to bring lunch?
Him: Ok. Could you check if I left my water bottle in the fridge. Are you sure you don't want to go the the Earth Day thing?
I turn and look in the fridge.
Me: Yes, it's here and no I...
Toaster: Pop! The waffles are done.
Microwave: BOOF! You blew Mrs. Butterworth's butt off.
Yes, it's true. I blew Mrs. Butterworth's butt off and the inside of my microwave was coated in hot syrup.
Now, if I was feeling dramatic, I could have put my head in there and turned the microwave on again.
As it is, I just sopped up what I could with my waffles.
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2 comments:
In truth it was the ghost of Mark Lewis McClanahan that blew up your syrup bottle trying to tell you you should name a tree after him, you big dummy.
Oh dear...how did you ever find this? Oh well...welcome aboard and I take no responsibility.
You're right...I didn't think of Mark, another misunderstood genius if there ever was one. Well, he'll share the Kurt Cobain tree...I just can't take Sylvia's away. Anyone who sticks their head in the oven atleast deserves a tree of one's own. (Too bad that's the wrong poet or that would have really worked well.)
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