In the Courtyard
Updated: 5 hours ago
As my collaborator on the blog, my friend Anna reports under the heading, In the Courtyard, from her frequent forays to the village, where she observes, eavesdrops, and never fails in describing the creative window dressing, often seasonal, at the local optician’s shop. We often meet in the village, which offers a French bakery. She and I favor the croissants and hazelnut coffee. These we enjoy in the nearby courtyard, come rain or shine. In winter snow or summer heat, the courtyard is the perfect place to observe the many strange and wonderful aspects of one’s fellow man. Read below her weekly reports:
A pleasant sunny morning in the courtyard has brought many here for coffee, mostly in twos. The industrious ones at work on laptops tend to take the tables by Starbucks. Others are scattered about under the courtyard trees. Near me are two young women, one with a toddler in a stroller snacking from a plastic container. Mom is challenged in picking up all the food he is dropping. A young man rushes past, phone to ear, leaving a wake of his cologne. He must have come from the fitness salon.
The sun now approaches the equator and in less than a week, will slip to the south leaving the northern hemisphere to drift slowly toward winter. Its setting will be exactly twelve hours from its rising on the autumnal equinox. I find it reassuring as I age to observe the celestial bodies, the last phenomena it seems upon which we can rely. Weather is drastically changed. Geopolitics has gone through the looking glass, as following the sun, the sanity of our leaders goes south.
Be that as it may, Grey is rereading The Pickwick Papers, profound, hilarious, delightful Mr. Pickwick and his jolly band of courtiers! But he warns it may be time for another dispatch as elections near.
I stop at Corner Bakery when I have an online order to pick up at Macy’s. Our mall is well on its way to becoming a ghost town, a nationwide scandal caused, I read, by everlasting contracts between owners and department stores. These spaces are destined for redevelopment as mixed use, perhaps within a century. Meanwhile, the Corner languishes, sadly. Many of the latino staff are vanished, and as a perfect example of cutting costs, muffins are now “muffies,” merely the top of a muffin. All summer they have had portable air conditioners; there are three blasting away this morning.
A woman sits down near me. She has frizzy blonde hair in a ponytail, and wears a frock that looks like a nightgown. Before long she is on her phone in a heated conversation. She is European, perhaps German, asserting loudly, “I am not leaving until I get the $7000 I am owed!” Finished with this diatribe, she turns to me, embarrassed, and apologizes. I shrug off any need, and she goes on to complain about “new money” believing they can exploit everyone. I nod my agreement that the world is going to hell, and we part ways.
The day after Labor Day is known as “terrible traffic Tuesday,” but there is no evidence for that in the village this morning, which is exceptionally quiet compared with last week’s prelude to the holiday. Calamity ensued when a water main broke under the major artery short of the crossroads, causing a sinkhole. Road crews were on it right away, and it was quickly fixed. There is again a hint of autumn in the cool, dry air. Most tables are in dappled shade. The Starbucks side is fully peopled, each person on their laptop, working remotely perhaps. No sooner has one shy female sparrow come looking for crumbs, then a passel of hungry birds flock down from the courtyard trees, and I am soon in danger of having nothing of my pastry left. Not to worry! Half of it is already in my tote bound for home.
Gunner comes out of Duke’s to set up the patio, umbrellas and all, and on such a promising day, cordons off an extra table. We exchange greetings. Out of nowhere, Grey shows up, still in his Panama. I am startled, not having seen the Bentley, but not surprised with fall in the air. He has written a new poem about the crickets’ nocturne, taking exception to the use of “crickets” as a synonym for silence. Well, there was “The Cricket on the Hearth.”
1 September and the heat wave is begun, near record highs all week with dew points to match. Chris passes by, our maintenance chief, avoids eye contact and ignores my halfhearted wave - obviously the macho man, who has learned not to chat with the denizens - of whom there are but few this morning. I have the table enjoying the deepest shade. A young man is talking loudly on this phone. He is approached by a rather stout person in shorts and sandals, shaggy white hair, gender indeterminate. This person is apparently meeting a person unknown, since after inquiring of the young man he or she proceeds to sit down with a young woman. This may be an interview of some kind, the courtyard being the very place to meet. Surely an old person should provide some signal. Without earrings I deduced the indeterminate one to be male, and my surmise is affirmed by his voice which I hear upon leaving. They are discussing teachers in England. Perhaps she seeks to expatriate - who wouldn’t these days.
Meanwhile the sparrows are eager for croissant crumbs, even emboldened to hop on the table. School has started, traffic has picked up, and the tiny leaves of the courtyard trees begin to yellow and fall. The trees themselves appear stressed, and I begin to wonder, should they die, whether they can be replaced. A minor matter, of course, when Mother Nature strives to wipe the slate clean of us all.
Not yet September, the weather is still pleasant, sunny and dry, breezes out of the northwest. Hints of autumn, people say. School begins early, and pumpkin spice is back in all the cafes. Until the equinox, it is a cruel tease only. In these latitudes, September has been known to bring the worst heat of summer. I am at Panera after the chiropractor, and as it is not busy, I have my table by the door. A young Black man sitting nearby is reading aloud in French. I suspect an online language course. The flower beds outside tempt me to adjourn with my coffee to the patio, where the plants that struggled mightily in spring storms are making up for lost time. Blooms burgeon! Impatiens in red, white, purple, magenta, and yellow marigolds in the center. Hidden among them, crickets are heard chirping, harbingers of fall if ever there was one!
Have you discovered Grey’s latest publication, the collection of our poems from “The Carriage Lamp” in the blog? Poems From the Moleskine, Through the Seasons and On is already creating some buzz on Goodreads, and Grey gives much credit to designers at his publisher Luminare Press. Indeed it is a delightful chapbook. He worries most about Ruminata, the essays, and is consulting with the publisher about marketing advice. The question: Does any serious nonfiction escape the hive mind?
I was on my way to Corner Bakery, a convenient stop for coffee on the way to the farm market in the growing season, when the left turn to that destination was blocked by two county squad cars. There had been a minor accident, and I had to continue straight. As there are no U-turns on the boulevard, I soon noticed I was headed for Le Pain Quotidien, favored for lunch in years past by Grey and his late Israeli friend. As I now qualify for handicapped parking, I proceeded to that excellent cafe. The strip is enormously popular, and LPQ may often be mobbed. Not to be undone by the strain of such crowds, they have made adjustments, which I note: the sign over the door now reads, “Cafe and Communal Table,” and if you come alone and want to be seated, the waiter will put you at a table for one. No booth for you! Notwithstanding, you have your own pot of coffee and the pastry is delicious, as is the quiche and the soft music of Chopin in the background.
An old woman across from me chatted with the Moroccan waiter, and as I left complimented me on the colors I was wearing - yellow and caramel. After this enjoyable detour, I skipped the farm market.
As I walk toward the courtyard with my coffee and croissant, the Westminster chime at St. Francis Episcopal strikes the three-quarter of the 9:00 hour. Heavy rain late yesterday evening has provided a rain-cooled morning, and of course the tables and chairs are puddled, even under the Starbucks overhang. Six napkins are saturated to dry the chair and a patch of the table. There is a refreshing breeze. A variety of people come and go, more or less discouraged by the wet furniture.
A hefty, bald Black man comes with two hound dogs. They do in fact look like hunting hounds. He sits with a young White woman, and they have a serious conversation, which could be a therapy session or a face-to-face that began on a dating app. I lean toward the latter as I overhear them sharing things of a personal nature. Across the courtyard, the optician has, as I predicted, put up the School Zone signs in the windows, but no giant pencils. Shelves are wrapped in a red plaid, and normal pencils stand in holders, with small red wooden apples at intervals. As I leave the village, I pass three county squad cars, the officers standing outside talking. Traffic patrol? Training recruits? Bank robbery? Heaven knows these days!
Patriotic window dressing at the optician’s is looking tired. I surmise it is not selling their high end frames. We have a pleasant morning in the courtyard, for which we can thank the dry air that should begin to strike fear, with wildfires currently consuming urban communities everywhere. People may escape with their lives, but with every possession belonging to that life reduced to ashes in a heartbeat.
I am sitting in the shade by Starbucks, and at the table in front of me sit a young man and an older. The latter has a decidedly British accent, leaning toward patrician rather than cockney. Their conversation is friendly, not business, and they might be family, though there is no hint of an accent from the young man. Grey only speaks with an accent when he reminisces. Speak of the devil, here he comes now with his coffee to join me. We can indulge in memories of summers past: windows with paintings of beach cottages, white curtains blowing in the breeze, seashells. He’ll be reverting to Yorkshire or Cornwall before the coffee is gone! As for the optician, we will likely see Back to School next, with the giant lead pencils, no. 2, and the School Zone signs.
I am at Panera after the chiropractor on a mild overcast day. Again the conclave of rabbis is sitting on the patio, but I take my table by the door whenever it is empty. Strange how pandemic habits became so quickly seared into our lives. Just as well since the head of our health agencies is now a bonafide crackpot. “Cyclosporiasis”? I guess those five employees remaining to surveil the food supply fell behind.
Panera disappoints in many respects, the bakery menu now catering to a toddler’s taste. So if a kiddo is too rambunctious, stuff a cookie iced with sickening sweet drizzle in this mouth. But they have added asiago croissant twists for a meager balance. These are croissant dough rolled into twists, coated with cheese and baked - very nice with hazelnut coffee. They still offer almond milk, but unlike other cafes do not have oat milk, which has the peculiarity of tasting creamy. Still, here one may occasionally be treated to sartorial novelty. This morning a young woman floats in dressed in a long filmy frock printed with lavender flowers, a small purse of the same color over her shoulder. The picture of summers past!
I find myself stopping for coffee at Corner Bakery this morning, the first time in many months, ever since I discovered the stickiness of the tables is not caused by pancake syrup but the irremediable condition of disintegrating varnish. But it is on my way to pick up an online order at the mall. The place is still managed by the surly Indian, assuredly not a Patel, the cast once devoted to hospitality. Notwithstanding, I did not have to shout for more hazelnut, and to oat milk they have added almond and soy. The place is never as crowded as it once was. There are two people facing the window, one a young Black man with those ubiquitous Medusa braids, the other a girl with stringy black hair and bangs and metal hanging from her nose - how unique!
Now on to the mall. The pandemic brought down retail and restaurants, and there followed regimes bent on delivering the coup de grâce. The weaker businesses have fallen by the wayside, while survivors break ones heart in their struggles, and the ghost of George Orwell haunts the Imperial City, of which Grey will post today. Taking a page from Dickens and other Victorians he begins a series of “dispatches,” which could be a fairytale except for being all too real.
It is overcast this morning with a southeast wind, the very direction which blows straight into the courtyard. Though July Fourth has come and gone, the window dressing at the optician’s finally has been changed to a patriotic theme. The stars and stripes hangs banner style in the center, while firecrackers explode on the shelves, and tinsel serves for sparklers. They may have missed 4 July, but they are ready for Labor Day. The courtyard is deserted except for the sparrows. I observe that they may have nested behind the sign over the fitness center that was previously a hair salon. The sign sticks out from the wall.
Despite the infernal direction of the wind, I see the Bentley enter the parking lot. Grey gets out, holding on to his Panama, and waves. He will doubtless remind me that John Jarndyce, hero of Bleak House, was wont to complain of an Easterly wind whenever he became upset. Grey himself, having found the language of Dickens a perfect antidote to the maddening effects of unrelenting horror and idiocy let loose on the world today, has moved on to rereading Little Dorritt. If nothing else it demonstrates that there is nothing new in our experience.
This morning it was massage therapy and on the way home Panera.The sky is overcast, with rain expected later. People are sitting on the patio mostly, including the conclave of rabbis. The flower beds appear finally to have gotten a start: begonias of white and purple, with a row of yellow marigolds in front. I sit inside where the air conditioning is chilly. Three young Chinese women, talking very fast in their own language, are playing a game with dice. I observe how rare it has become to hear English spoken. When last I was here, following the chiropractor, eight men in the conclave spoke Hebrew at one table, and competing with that was a table of Latinos, there men and five women, speaking Spanish. The cacophony was biblical. Woe to the eavesdropper who is not multilingual.
We have just passed the celebration of 250 years since the signing of the Declaration of Independence. The reincarnation of King George III was master of ceremonies at all events, but Mother Nature smacked him down with extreme heat warnings and thunderstorms. Now if only he would rest in peace!
Tomorrow being 1 July is right on schedule with a serious heat wave, but the courtyard is still pleasant this morning. I took the last table on the shady side by Starbucks. I am surprised to see the spring window decor remaining at the optician’s, but I always rush the seasons. In the case of summer, to get it over with. Fellow denizens are meeting for coffee, albeit mostly iced. Two men are cyclists, in neon green shirts and helmets. A white man is in a jovial conversation with a black woman; business attire suggests they are coworkers. The tall planters are doing very well, thanks to recent rain. At last I’m seeing fledgling sparrows, flapping vigorously for parental attention, which they receive compliments of my largesse. The house sparrow is not native here but being adaptable is widely distributed wherever humans live. Surely this imposes on us an obligation to be merciful. Here they are at work cleaning the pavement of crumbs after all!
Grey and I will be lying low during the extreme heat. He is distraught that even the British Isles are feeling it now. The world was warned long ago, but warnings fell on minds “devoid of subtlety.” Do read Grey’s post today. We await the weekend revelers in the city, dropping in the heat as they stand corralled for hours in security lines.
We are having Goldilocks weather in the courtyard this morning in the last days of spring, not too chilly, not too not, just sunny and pleasant. The giant butterflies continue to grace the windows at the optician’s. Denizens gather for coffee and camaraderie, and one young Black man talks on his phone in a rapid-fire African language, as the chimes of St. Francis strike ten. Expecting Grey to join me, I am a tad early. He may even be in his Panama already with the sun so high.
Our poetry collection will be published soon, accomplished through the lovely ladies of Luminare Press. It is a chapbook titled Poems from the Moleskine, Through the Seasons and On, over a hundred poems divided by subject, each of seven sections introduced with a color illustration and relevant verse. Readers will be familiar with many of the poems, and we hope will appreciate having them for the library shelf, or even to gift. Putting it together with staff of Luminare was a great relief for Grey from the bombardment of hideous news. We often feel like lemmings close to the precipice and slipping helplessly. Ah! Here’s the old man himself - in the Panama!
As I arrive in the courtyard, St. Francis strikes three quarters of the 9:00 hour. These are the traditional Westminster Chimes, of course, as one would naturally expect from Episcopalians. With the summer solstice looming on the horizon, heat is upon us and only a table in deep shade will do. Lots of people are here this morning for coffee hour, in their summer clothes. It appears that stripes are in. On the way here I encountered Carmen for the second time this week. She is meeting with two contractors and regrets they could not have come earlier. She takes a table and proceeds to converse with an invisible person, as many do here in the courtyard. It is BlueTooth of course - but how are we then to discern when someone has a mental health crisis? I have been seen to talk to the sparrows when they come for croissant crumbs, but I am clearly just a flighty old woman, so to speak.
Grey is abashed by the spectacle of P. T. Barnum taking over the presidential home with cocksure impudence for the purpose of self-aggrandizement. He is studying the ancient Roman poet Juvenal to whom is attributed the phrase “bread and circuses.” Stay tuned in for more- after the sun crosses the Tropic of Cancer.
Once again it is a pleasant morning in the courtyard as St. Francis Episcopal strikes ten. Dappled shade serves, though a heatwave starts tomorrow - monsoon time! A young woman in a tennis skirt is on her phone discussing an exasperating interaction with the health care system. Aren’t they all? Rock lilies are in bloom in large planters by the sidewalk. One sparrow is eager for crumbs of croissant, but a crow perched on the eaves cannot be bothered.
I espy Carmen coming through in conversation with Chris, the maintenance chief here. I catch her eye, and she recognizes me. I exclaim how long it has been since I last saw her, to which she responds that she oversees thirteen other properties. She is a friendly, loquacious Latina, and we talk about new tenants. Maurizio’s is not really close to opening as the sign says, and Sprinkles will change hands but still sell ice cream. I have not seen Gunner, Duke’s manager, since I gave him Grey’s card. Could he be the enemy tribe? Speaking of which, Grey wonders whether his post today, analogizing the daily news to the famously repetitive parrot tribe, is sufficiently humorous. The best one can do, I say!
Pleasant weather here in the courtyard as St. Francis strikes the hour of ten. There are couples and singles enjoying coffee in the comfort of morning sun and a mild breeze. The tall planters placed around the courtyard perimeter now have ferns and colorful foliage plants. Outside the French bakery are stands, each holding hanging ports of gorgeous flowers: various sizes and colors of petunias, hibiscus, begonias. These I’m told are compliments of manager Mark, a most affable Tunisian, whose tenure with the cafe gos way back, as does my patronage. In my experience, Tunisians tend to excel in hospitality. There was another such man at Corner Bakery in years past who would bring around a free pastry to regulars like myself. He was moved downtown to the Press Club.
Grey and I had great fun with today’s post concerning the court case of April vs. May, a rare bit of levity in the often somber posts of that jolly team, Cassandra and Jeremiah. He contemplates another try at sarcasm, but finds it hard to summon the muse of humor when the world is going to the dogs, led by “The Hound of the Baskervilles” as we all go down into the Great Grimpen Mire.
The courtyard begins to empty by the quarter hour.
I have a monthly appointment at the chiropractor, and Panera is the nearest place to stop for coffee, which I now require to get my brain started writing this post. Scroll this column to a month ago, and you will find the last week of April, when I reported from here that the weather was cold and wet. It is now the last week of May and here I am again, the weather still cold and rainy. Not that it has been persistently so. We have had pleasant days, but for most of May we have paid with interest for the excessive heat of April. It is a lesson never to go too deeply in debt. We have been ten months in a drought, so no one is complaining.
This morning the rabbis are here in force at their usual table. The muddy flower beds on the patio have made a start, with scattered begonias and a marigold border. The Panera chain seems to have become a refuge for the homeless and disabled, though this place tries to keep up appearances. A very small woman is standing and talking on her phone. She has a motor disorder, probably Parkinson’s, and is alone. One shudders at the many struggles people may face, and the courage it takes just to get on. Ever the optimist, I left the umbrella in the car. Now, a sprint!
The month of May has surely repaid April for the loan of so many warm days, yet the two months continue to quarrel like ill-suited lovers. A week of chilly days and nights will be followed by sizzling heat. One must keep two pair of pajamas at the ready and consult Accu-Weather before bedtime. Even more inconvenient, the cozy comforter must be kept in the bedroom closet in the event that April is prevailing in that quarrel. It really is too much! This morning evidence of the discord is found in the courtyard where denizens are variously dressed. We see people in shorts and tee shirts along with others in hoodies. How is one to dress when comfort is far from assured whichever you decide?
The courtyard is never without interest of course. A woman passes through with her hair in a braided ponytail, like the Chinese coolies. The hair is a shade of auburn, a poor dye job, probably self-inflicted. Two Indian men are in conversation. I detect a Punjabi accent, but am not close enough to eavesdrop. Grey always blesses the British Empire for teaching the Indians English. Now they provide us with so many professionals! Well, on to errands.
Still cool this morning but sunny, lovely for mid-May with summer heat forecast to arrive next week. We have heard that before this spring, but this time it might stick if we can trust the planet to stay its wonted course. I’ll take cool over oppressive any day. As I came in, the French bulldog was here, whose name I thought was Grace. She is a sweet old thing, she and her owner. I greet them both and inquire of the owner’s name. She is Rachel, and the dog is Ginger. Oops! Very few people here for such a nice day. I must have missed coffee hour. One old gentleman is hunched over his phone listening to a rightwing tirade laced with expletives. He plays it at high volume, repeating it over and over. Either he is mad or soon will be.
Meanwhile, sparrows are eager again to share my apple danish. Atypically, high in one to the courtyard trees, the birds get into a loud fight, no doubt excited by the expletives. Presently the old man leaves, to my great relief - offended by the avian insults perhaps. Getting a bit too cool in the dappled shade, I leave to pick up Scottie, my Highlander, who is at one of two gas stations in the village for an oil change. This station was formerly Amoco, managed by the same man for forty years. I learn he has now cut his hours to three days a week. We remark upon the perils and pleasures of retirement - and how life goes on - then I do likewise.
Cinco de Mayo in the courtyard, and summer is here. Lots of couples sit with morning coffee in the dappled sun. Singletons engage with their devices, and the courtyard trees, right in tempo, rain down their tiny blossoms. A girl walks in with a labradoodle puppy, raising adulation from the neighboring table. The puppy owner wears a navy sweatshirt announcing "Clarion University Alumni." As the neighbor table disbands, they stop to gush over the puppy. Meanwhile, on the sidewalk, comes a man with a German shepherd. Fortunately well behaved, the shepherd and puppy greet one another in canine fashion.
Sparrows chirp loudly in the eaves where unseen nests may be hidden. No nestlings yet, I surmise, as the noisy adults are not grabbing crumbs of my croissant. St. Francis has chimed ten and the quarter hour, and when I am ready to move on, the manager at Duke’s comes out to set up the patio. We exchange greetings and chat about the dogs. As he prepares to put up the umbrella at my table, I hand him Grey’s card, commenting that Duke’s should pay me for the many mentions of the pub I’ve made on the blog. We introduce ourselves. His name is Gunner. He looks like the typical Brit but no accent. He jokes that he will ask if I might be put on the payroll. Coffee hour adjourns, dogs and all, and I am off!
I am at Panera this morning following the chiropractor. Though it is the last week of April, it is again cold and wet, the weather we should have had the first week, when instead we had a heat wave. Fluctuations may be typical in spring, but these swings are bodacious whiplash. The beds outside show either a failed or an interrupted attempt to start multi-colored violas. Perhaps the planting was caught in last week’s freeze. The conclave of the rabbi’s is ten today, including one woman. I do not see one of the regulars, whom I have assumed to be the oldest.
I still order Rapid Pickup and sit at the little table by the door. Some habits forged in the covid pandemic remain unbroken. Indeed it changed the world in ironic ways: distrust of science; surrender to ignorant bullies as though their truculence will keep us safe. But I’ll wager next week Grey will write about the visit of King Charles III to mark the 250th anniversary of America’s ill-advised breakaway from England. Apparently millions of Americans would now agree with that assessment. The monarch is hosted by the worst boor ever to preside here, but not to worry - Charles has a good poker face!
From summertime in the courtyard last week back to winter weather this morning, though the sun still provides April warmth. There was in fact a freeze warning last night, and wake up temperatures bore it out. Now in the fifties, the blazer weather suits me fine. Next week back to average, with lows staying above fifty, meaning I can safely hang a basket of petunias outside the porch and bring down house plants to their summer home.
Two women sitting in front of me are discussing a local private school, one is somewhat of a loudmouth, the other more reserved. Before I can ascertain the gist of the conversation, the courtyard is invaded by a posse of elderly cyclists. Chaos ensues, and the loudmouth is eclipsed. I presume these old people pride themselves in retaining athletic ability at the advanced age of 70. Their hearts will live on, but do they know about collagen? Of course one should not presume. Some may already have had knees replaced.
I decide to move on to errands, and by the time I am leaving for home the cycling group is filing out of the courtyard. Drivers give them leave. They turn at the light, and to their credit head down a residential street.
Only mid-April, and shade or dappled is the preference this morning in the courtyard. Such weather at last has brought numerous denizens for coffee hour. There are about half a dozen singles sitting around the periphery engaged with their devices. The rest are mostly women, one with a dog who looks like a long-haired Dalmatian. Two others are in a job interview, the older well-dressed, the younger trying hard. The large planters on the sidewalk are filled with violas - a favorite for spring - red, yellow, and purple.
St. Francis has chimed the hour of ten; by the first quarter, courtyard coffee enthusiasts are leaving. I linger, enjoying the rare Goldilocks phenomenon - neither too cold nor too hot! The manager at Duke’s comes out to set up for lunch. We exchange remarks about the summer-like weather, and I assure him it will be a good day on the patio. I would not detain him to complain about the brunch menu, inasmuch as I cannot remember the name of my entree, which appeared to be Japanese. Described as “baked eggs,” it consisted of three small ones swimming in tomato soup. I have errands myself, so I pack my things and move on, after leaving crumbs for hungry sparrows. I have not seen babies yet. A swing to record high temperatures tomorrow - average next week, 30 degrees cooler!
At last we enjoy the splendid weather of early spring here in the courtyard. A gusty northwest wind is thwarted if it seeks to find me around the corner in my sunny shelter. Just two others here this morning: a young man in a blue cap sitting with an older man with short white hair. I deduce the latter may contemplate shaving his head, as do many of his peers. The old Italian restaurant, soon to reopen as Maurizio’s, is still a construction site. Six workers emerge and pass through the courtyard - end of their shift perhaps. Scant few sparrows are here, though enough to clean up crumbs. I fear the extreme winter killed off many.
Easter has just past, an occasion Grey and I took to meet here for brunch at Duke’s, where they offer a brunch menu every weekend. Grey warned me that the British are not famous for cuisine. Indeed the menu recalled Churchill’s bon mot about two great nations “divided only be a common language.” There were rashers and bangers and rocket. At least I had a mimosa, but our impression was that a discriminating Brit, wanting brunch, likely hops on the Chunnel to France. Yet it was a fine way to spend an otherwise gloomy day of rain and falling temperatures, and the cold front brought us today’s splendid weather!
Suddenly summer! The lion of March should be roaring here in the courtyard, but he did that yesterday - a day early. Notwithstanding blazer weather, the optician’s windows are finally decked with spring. Valentine hearts gone, we now see white metal, filigreed screens upon which large, silky monarchs have alighted; the shelves covered in lime or pink satin, have small pots of tulips - red, pink and white - and sections of white picket fence standing in rough wood boxes, vines twining on them and small colorful moths alight. Taped across the glass is the motto, “Love what you see.” Spring is now official, with summer pounding on the door!
I did find the carwash last week, and the line was not long. It is large, and having a monopoly, the business has expanded since last I came. Remarkable, though not surprising, the workers, who had been all Latinos, are now mostly Latinas. Presumably replacing their “detained” spouses, which begs the question, where are the White people who coveted the jobs stolen by immigrants? Those nescient voters are paying dearly for their huge mistake - and will pay. Grey tells me nescient was a favorite word of Thomas Hardy, whose biography the old chap is reading now.
I am at Panera this morning following the chiropractor. With spring weather breaking out, it is a relief to be footloose again, albeit with brief relapses into March wind chills, causing one to wonder whether the woodchuck has overslept. He was spot on in his forecast that winter would hang on to the bitter end.
This shop seems to me especially notable for sartorial splendor, and this morning consistent with that reputation is an old Black woman wearing a long dress having a large, black and white windowpane plaid, and over it a short, white shaggy coat - think sheepdog. A tight, black hat tops it all. I sometimes wonder whether there could be an amateur theater nearby. The place is not busy, but the conclave of rabbis is here as always. At another table, sits a group of seniors, these speaking English, likely from the senior residence opposite. After making these notes, I pack up with the intent of taking Scottie through the carwash, if I remember how to find it after such a long time. It is the perfect sunny day for the venture, and I hurry before the line gets too long!
Just passed the ides of March, we are on the verge of spring. Indeed at this latitude the equinox is already gone. Buds are poised to burst out, yet waves of high wind and heavy rain continue to sweep through ushering cold fronts. This morning it is sunny in the courtyard but cold and windy, and a northeast wind means less of a shelter by the optician’s. Nevertheless, one may linger as long as it is above freezing.
As I arrived, Carmen’s assistant, Chris, was telling the driver of a delivery truck to move out of the fire lane, this truck being a semi of all things. The tall planters that were set about here last summer have at last been relieved of dead stalks, one hopes to be replanted with flowers. Of course the weather is typically erratic in spring, but his year seems especially extreme. At times, temperatures will rise after sunset only to fall rapidly when the sun rises, differences of fifty degrees not uncommon. We’ve gone through the looking glass! So who will dare to plant before April anyway. It has been a hard winter on old folks like Grey and me. He and I are persuaded that even when extremes of weather do not break a record, it is their frequency that is without precedent.
As I walk to the car, the semi has not been moved.
Sunny and warm in the courtyard this morning, a spell of days borrowed from June. It is only blazer weather, however, after ten; thus in setting out, gloves and a woolly muffler are yet called for. When I arrived, there were four girls chatting together at a sunny table, and a couple sitting by the optician’s. I am at a table next to Duke’s, where the rising sun warms the right side of my face. Hungry sparrows are back, and I share with them. It is nesting time for the birds.
St. Francis Episcopal chimed the hour when I arrived, and the quarter has passed, so I must soon move on to errands. Surely Grey will come today to enjoy the freedom of spring weather. We both have been so cooped up lately, the rising price of gasoline has become a matter of indifference. Speak of the devil! I spot the Bentley pulling into the parking lot, and Grey emerges, still in the Borsalino. He waves and heads first to the bakery. We try to keep away from politics on the blog; but since what goes on here is now literally earth shaking, we are given to wonder what is the conscientious path, particularly in regard to allies like Canada and Britain. One consolation we find is in how many others begin to notice the tribal aspect of regional fractures. Here comes the old chap now - errands can wait.
March came in like a lamb, sunny, mild, ice gone; yet the local woodchuck gave his forecast on Candlemas for six more weeks of winter. Sure enough on the second day of March, we had more snow, a wet snow that turned to rain, so kudos to the prescient rodent! I miscalculated in a post last month, writing that the six weeks were up. That would be mid-March of course, and March can still be expected to go out like a lion. The courtyard meanwhile, still is not a place to sit with coffee. The few tables that are not stacked drip melting snow, and the windows at the optician’s are stalled at Valentine’s Day. I retreat to the car with coffee and croissant to make these notes.
It seems the precipitation we missed during many months of drought is coming now in the last days of winter - a blessing really, filling ponds, restoring the aquifer. But after many years without frozen precipitation, we scramble to dust off boots, scrounge in the boot bench for ice cleats, and in dressers for long johns. The adage is “never say never,” and never more true than these days. The ice was crippling, but the snow is beautiful, indeed poetical on the bare trees and the full moon rising behind. Now onto errands, and home!
No sooner had our prison of ice given way to sun and rain, there came another Sunday of precipitation, this time real snow, four inches. It was the tail end of the record setting blizzard that swept up the coast to New England. We were prepared, thus the courtyard this morning was cleared, tables and chairs having remained out of the way. It remains too cold and overcast to sit out, though spring temperatures are creeping in with March just days away. The optician’s shop still has those Valentine’s hearts in the windows, looking entirely passé at this point.
I decide on Starbucks, though not a fan of their coffee. The place is bustling, but one young man - short, Middle Eastern complexion - politely offers me his chair. So much for “the worst of the worst.” Look in the mirror, Harpies! As I sit with my Grande Pike’s Place, two pumps of hazelnut and oat milk, I spot Grace the French bulldog arrive. I don’t know her owner’s name, but recall she was loquacious to a fault, so I refrain from acknowledging her pet. Grace is wearing a knit sweater covered in pink hearts. I pat her head surreptitiously as I leave.
The six-week verdict brought by that furry Nostradamus of spring on Candlemas is over, and sure enough the ice pack is yielding to higher temperatures and rain. In the village, the ice mountains continue to spread into parking spaces. Here at Panera, where I often come after massage therapy, I am looking out at a veritable ice mountain range, piled up as the parking lot was plowed. The winter having been hard from the start, I have not seen either the masseuse nor the chiropractor in two months, just when they were most needed. But life is a learning experience for those humble enough to admit it. The lesson is that ice is not snow, and even as it melts it does not change its nature. It remains ice.
That being said, I had a now rare sighting of a red fox this morning, beautiful as he crossed the white tundra sniffing for prey. While I am usually reporting on city sparrows in the courtyard, Grey urges the following addendum to this armchair observations: Last week, there came that voracious flock of crows; this week it was robins. They too are said to breed in Canada, so they are on their way. Another sign of spring. Grey will venture forth next week, doubtless in his Borsalino and a proper walking stick. Can spring be far behind?
Weather is moderating somewhat this week, enough to hear the trickle of melting ice in the downspouts on a sunny afternoon. I was able to get to the village on one such afternoon when temperatures reach the high for the day. Once again though, my Highlander slipped and bounced over boulders of ice. This is not snow. It looks like snow. I know snow and can drive through snow. What we see here is glacial, and I daresay the glaciers themselves are melting faster.
The parking lot is plowed as I wrote last week, but the resultant mountains of snow-crete impinge and truncate many spaces. There seem to be enough in any case for the few people who can get here. A closer look at the window dressing of the optical shop reveals heart-shaped wreaths that dangle in the middle, sporting spring flowers, flanked by shiny metal hearts, and on the shelves, sparkly hearts in small pots. Tables and chairs that serve as a patio for Duke’s are the only ones unstacked so far, but no takers. The Italian restaurant that closed when Duke’s arrived has a sign up with a new name, Maurizio’s. Same ethnicity! Now homeward, and back into the garage in one piece…
(32)The great ice encasement was over a week ago, and I am still bird watching at my kitchen window with a single-serve hazelnut coffee. I have made one foray to the village, bouncing and sliding down the icy driveway in my all-wheel drive Highlander to the street, returning with provisions for another week. As I anticipated, the courtyard tables and chairs were stacked up around the perimeter, just like the covid lock-down but without the cordons. On my way to the fish market, I caught but a glimpse of the optician’s window decor, but enough to strike me with its very red Valentine’s hearts.
In third gear, Scottie got us back into the garage safely. Those neighbors with landscape contracts have had their driveways cleared, and I daresay once you get to the street all is clear sailing, even the village parking lot and sidewalks. While I might have hired Francisco, my mistake has been to rely on past experience when for decades, without exception, even after an ice storm, conditions would steadily improve. Not so now; prospects are indefinite, and our local woodchuck, poking his head up and screeching in horror, was adamant. He will hibernate for at least another six weeks!
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