It was kind of a cool, buggy, muggy, rainy, warmish week in Carlton, good for pulling weeds and burning old tree parts that somehow got separated from their original bodies. Trees are just giant weeds that escaped the lawn mower enough times to become unmowable. Every plant, from the tiniest blade of grass on up, seems to need some kind of human intervention. Maybe some evergreens are exempt. The plants you plant yourself need even more vigilance. I don’t know why “plant” has to be both the noun and the verb that explains what you do to the noun. Anyway, everybody likes plants but I don’t know if plants like us back. The things we do to them do not foster good will.
So I went to a gathering of the secret society of Susanhood, which I thought was going to be some sort of support group but people apparently don’t have a problem with it. No one has named their child Susan since the early 1970s, so we were all quite mature, ranging in age from 40 to 70. Also, Susans are loud. Maybe “mature” is the wrong word. Here’s the weird part: the very next day two other local Susans came to my house for reasons absolutely unrelated to their names. It’s all been a bit much.
They say summer is coming but they always say that around this time of year and after 40 to 70 years of life these things begin to get a little redundant. It’s a good thing a year is a year long, so annually occuring events like the imminent arrival of some random season don’t become overwhelming and relentless.
I think I saw the beach starting to appear down by the Carlton swim hole the other day. I like to glance at the river every once in a while because I don’t know why. Probably because it’s a distracting motion catching the corner of my eye as I drive by it on my way to wherever. It’s OK.