It is the middle of April and I read on some meteorological site — this is the problem, if you see something interesting two or three days prior and didn’t hang on to the link for citation purposes, you’re basically making stuff up — that this is the traditional last day of frost here. Oh, look, it was a government site. Probably accurate enough. The same table says the latest frost was on May 27, 1961 and that sounds like fake news.
We did have a frost this morning. We’ve been covering plants and ours are fine, Every small garbage can and beach bucket and what not have all been deployed and with good success so far. It would be touch-and-go for the ornamentals. We don’t have crops to worry about. Most of the things that get planted here are just now going in anyway, so it’s probably fine.
I mean, the grass is thick and crunchy.
I’d like to show you some of the flowering trees in the yard, because the buds and blooms never last long enough, but at least we can memorialize them here.
These are all from this morning, a few minutes well spent watching the sun poke its head up above the tree line, all sheepish.
As if that burning ball of fury is afraid I’ll be disappointed by it. As if that big burning ball of fury let me down.
But what am I? A savage? I know this isn’t the sun’s fault.
The blame here clearly belongs to the rotation of the earth. It’s not like it’s had 4.6 billion years of practice or anything.
But you know what they say. If you point your finger at the earth, you’re just pointing at the ground.
No, that’s not it. If you point your finger to the earth, four fingers are pointing back at Aristarchus and Anaxagoras.
Greek digit humor could be so ruthless sometimes.
That may seem like an awful lot for a backyard walk, but I was able to take my time with it before the day’s first meeting.
You can do that when you wake up obscenely early and can’t go back to sleep.
That’s not ever a problem I have, and brother, it isn’t one I’m intent on picking up now.
