In the Courtyard
- Dec 21, 2022
- 28 min read
Updated: 6 days 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:
I find myself at Panera this morning, closer to lunchtime than to coffee break; and the place is buzzing like an overturned beehive, as Mycroft exclaims in reference to the Admiralty upon the theft of the “Bruce Partington Plans.” In fact, three of the five coffee carafes are empty, unheard of in my long history of frequenting the place. I pick up my online order and wait for fresh hazelnut to come out of the kitchen. I then retreat to my car as in the time of curbside. We hid from the plague and now from overcrowding. Grey and I, Cassandra to his Jeremiah, have tried to publish our warnings, but the wretched information silos, overspreading us like toxic fungi, smother serious thought in favor of TikTok juvenilia.
Of course at this time of year crowds may be the result of holiday shopping, quite a frenzy following Thanksgiving. Winter cold is forecast as December arrives, and already I can see the newly planted violas shivering in their beds, though the sun has a way yet to go before crossing the Tropic of Capricorn. I have my window candles out of the attic, and have only to fetch the timers and extension cords to get them up, doing my part to light up the winter nights!
Cold and overcast this morning in the courtyard, and workmen are busy hanging the giant wreaths on the gable ends of each side wall. They use a heavy duty lift to accomplish this, which takes up much of the courtyard. Up close, one sees just how large the wreaths are. At one time there would be a wreath on one side and a Hanukah menorah opposite, commensurate in size. In recent years a tall lighted menorah appears in the courtyard on the first day of Hanukah, the candles lighted in sequence, and the village invited to gather there on the last day to see them all lit. These days, with bulwarks up around synagogues, the Jewish community may prefer to keep a low profile. Persistent conflation of anti-Israel with anti-semitism must be terribly frustrating for the many Jews here and in Israel who oppose the fundamentalist influence in that nation. In fact I read that Israelis in growing numbers are leaving the country.
Here Christmas is usurping attention before Thanksgiving is past, though windows at the optician’s still have autumn leaves and horns of plenty. Now I am homeward bound - to bake a pumpkin pie!
Only mid-November and winter temperatures have set in. It is cold but sunny in the courtyard this morning, and mercifully the gusty winds of the past two days have at last subsided. Our long drought worsens, as cold fronts somehow manage to bring winds but no rain. There are four boisterous young women here today with two dogs - a Rottweiler and a Weimaraner - yet the women are not German. They discuss dogs, pluses and minuses of different breeds, moving on to speak of coming holidays, which naturally leads to the ever relevant and sensitive subject of mothers-in-law. Also here today is a man with a salt and pepper goatee, wearing a hoodie pulled over a cap. He huddles over his phone talking business with a woman, while his companion, a large, woolly white dog, sprawls out with his head on the ground in an expression of insufferable boredom.
High winds after months of drought are of course a setup for wildfires. Two days ago, indeed, there were Red Flag warnings against any outdoor burning. I was even reluctant to have a fire in the fireplace on these frigid mornings. But I get up before dawn when conditions are conducive to calm winds even when gusts are expected later. So yesterday I lit the fire. Bring on the season!
I’m at Panera after massage therapy, and my table by the door is free. I secure it with scarf and gloves and proceed to Rapid Pickup, which Flora is just bringing out. She is an old hand here, unlike most employees. I have to shout for “more hazelnut!” when I find that carafe typically empty. I always wonder why they do not keep two carafes of the flavor, if it is so popular as to be the first one empty every morning. It is a cold day, hence the winter gear. Violas have replaced begonias in the flower beds, but of course no one is on the patio. The conclave of rabbis, as I call them, are here in force, having a typically lively discussion in Hebrew.
The fundamentalist regime in Israel, sadly, is giving Jews a bad name worldwide, as though that smoldering cinder of antisemitism ever needs fanning. Grey is posting today about rising tribalism and the overlooked contrast of goals and nature between a political party and a tribe. Meanwhile, the manuscript of Poems From the Moleskine is off to the publisher. No telling when it will come out, with busy holidays ahead, but it promises to be a lovely chapbook, collecting over a hundred of our poems.
Fifty-five degrees and sunny in the courtyard this morning, where I am sheltered by the optician’s wall from a sharp north wind. Earlier this week, at fifty degrees and cloudy, it was too cold to linger. Today, two young women sit at a sunny table, and a woman with white hair is in conversation with a man who has a Punjabi accent. The woman, I deduce, is planning an event for which the Indian man is offering services. None of these fellow denizens has learned my secret of sheltering, and they all leave in short order.
Soon the old woman with the French bulldog, a regular, comes in and sits near me. I don’t know her name, but the dog’s is Grace. I greet the dog, and her owner is duly impressed. The woman turns out to be loquacious, and I learn that the dog recently was hit by a truck, incurring a broken leg, as they crossed the street. Bones were mended, and notwithstanding the surgery, Grace has neither a cast nor a limp. The woman goes on to describe other medical issues poor Grace has endured, and I’m only liberated when her cell phone rings. Thence I am homeward bound with my coffee to finish this post!
Autumnal temperatures appear to be sticking, and window dressing at the optician’s has changed accordingly. At last the School Zone signs are gone, replaced with the autumn theme: lots of colorful leaves adorn wreaths in the center of each window and are strung in a valance across the top; pumpkins stand on shelves wrapped in pumpkin themed paper, and cornucopias spill sugared fruit. Missing, sad to say, are witches, bats, and skeletons, with Halloween the day after tomorrow. I daresay what could be more ecclesiastical than the eve of All Saints Day? Then again the Eve has gotten out of hand around here when giant skeletons and effigies of the Grim Reaper taller than the house are erected in yards. Anyway, I welcome the colorful windows inasmuch as the drought has curtailed the usual brilliance of autumn leaves.
In the courtyard this morning, a woman stands over her laptop talking with come one in FaceTime, and a couple is here with a large, white, fluffy dog. A stout young woman comes in wearing a full length, silky skirt printed with large flowers. I deduce that she has not noticed yet that summer is over. Meanwhile, as a great cloud of outrage hangs over the capital and worry over irreversible damage, evidence mounts: no strawberries in the grocery store - in winter they always came from Mexico; calls for increased support of the local food bank. Who exactly is the Grim Reaper?
Autumn has arrived in the courtyard, and sunny tables are coveted, specially by the optician’s, where the cold northwind is blocked. Here I am snug having coffee as I wait for my car at the BP having an oil change. Scottie, as I’ve named it, is a twenty year old Toyota Highlander and runs like a top, clearly the best car ever made. I watch the mother of a rambunctious toddler pacing back and forth talking on her phone when the child takes off running across the courtyard. She overtakes him of course, as I’m thinking he needs to be on a leash! Nearby, a couple is in discussion with an earnest young man about local schools. Many families move here for our public schools, which enjoy an excellent reputation, but this couple is expressing disappointment with a local high school. When I hear mention of $10K a semester, I deduce that the earnest young man is pitching one of the private schools in the community. The conversation ends without a decision.
As if more evidence were needed that autumn is here, Grey arrives wearing his Borsalino, the one of felt made from Belgian rabbit fur. He waves his walking stick and heads for the bakery.
I am at Panera on a cool and windy morning after massage therapy. Lots of cars in the lot, yet very few customers inside, and the chilly wind does not allow of patio seating. I am at my accustomed table, which has not been free lately. The conclave of rabbis is here, five in number, and it is the day after the “historic,” nay biblical peace deal between Jews and Arabs in the holy land. At least the remaining Israeli hostages are returned, and the world rejoices that the USA, greatest nation in all human history, at last has a dictator, one we can all worship - at the small cost of our freedom and prosperity.
Age may have certain advantages, but I daresay its curse is to witness history repeat itself on young generations ignorant of its ways. In my lifetime, I have seen cease fires, negotiations, peace deals aplenty come and go in that cauldron of tribalism. The Bible itself is a chronicle of millennia with the same unrest. The wise should assume that civilization will never take hold there.
Now mid-October, perhaps we may count on true autumn weather - frosty enough to turn the trees their gaudiest colors. I hope I was not precipitate in taking out the woolen blazers - even bravely leaving the linen ones at the dry cleaners!
The morning started out sunny in the courtyard, but clouds are gathering, and rain is expected tomorrow, at last. The optician still has his School Zone theme, but I’m hoping to see pumpkins and ghosts presently. Two young Jewish boys are here holding the Biblical fruits of Succoth, the harvest festival. Passersby are apparently handed these items along with a blessing, though these holy fruits are neither a gift nor offered for sale. A boisterous table of five - students I surmise - three Asian girls, and two boys, non-Asian, are among the few people here. The old woman with her small, aging French bulldog is here again, and the dog is leashed this time, innocent though he is.
Duke’s Grocery opens in an hour, and the manager comes out to set up the patio where I am sitting. I give him permission to put the umbrella up, so long as he doesn’t stab me. To the contrary, for a middle aged man he is adroit with the thing. I ask him about carryout, and he elaborates on menu items for lunch and dinner. Their food is quite good and not exorbitant. One can only hope and pray they prosper. I see the Bentley pull in and Grey steps out. He is still wearing the Panama; it is but the first week of October, but cooler weather to follow the rain. Before long, the Bolsonaro!
For whatever meteorological reason, we are having a very long meh season. Starting in August, the weather, which should have been hot, was neither hot nor cold, neither wet nor dry, but rarely sunny. The pall of overcast lingered another month, and now comes October, the typical time of transition. Thus the courtyard this morning is a meh experience. My linen blazers will be threadbare by the time I can take out the woolens, if ever.
The term meh, meaning “indifferent, mediocre,” apparently entered my dictionary app in 1992, no etymology given, though I always suspected Yiddish, that wonderfully expressive hybrid of Hebrew and German. In any case, the climate today clearly suffers under that blanket of greenhouse gases that has been thickening for 200 years, and now the despotic regime in America is bringing back coal mining, no doubt as a way to “reduce the surplus population,” in other words speed on the apocalypse. An antonym for meh, therefore, is “apocalyptic.” The weather when not mediocre is deadly. Grey is reading Dickens’s early “Sketches by Boz,” thumbnails informative of England in the beginning of industrialization. Here he comes now, not to be daunted by the dismal day!
There is a scuttle of roadwork suddenly, I suspect in haste to beat the first frost. In any case, rather punish my twenty year old Highlander on rough roads getting to Panera I decide on the Boulangerie, a closer option and a different route. It is a fine day, and the place is not busy, yet the noise on the patio is as always not conducive to concentration; indeed it cancels the whole purpose of the coffee, which is to restore some degree of “instant recall, declining in the aging brain. The tables in front escape the noise, so I take one and begin the Dokusan.
We are now officially in autumn, the earth entering that position when the northern hemisphere is tilted away from the sun. As for the precise equinoctial point in time for our location, when day and night are of equal length, there are three days remaining. Sunrise and sunset are converging on 7:00 daylight time. I believe I will try to walk down Hunter’s Lane on the day at sunrise. I once could circle the block, a mile around and hilly, but both Grey and I have grown too out of shape to attempt it - arthritis and fatigue. Now home to warm the coffee and the the posts.
While yesterday was a misery in the courtyard, with cold drizzle and a light north wind, this morning there is sun. Each of three tables near mine has a duo of women in confab over coffee. One duo, from what I overhear, is having a therapy session, likely with regard to parenting. I hear the term “neuro-divergent,” and the phrase “lack of self confidence.” The woman on the receiving end of the advice relates telling her child to “avoid people who dim your candle.” Meanwhile, a number of singletons sitting on the Starbucks side are deeply involved with their devices.
Overhead the crows appear to be gathering the clans. Much like the Canada geese, they do not necessarily migrate, but at this time of year, following the nesting season, congregate in flocks. Here in the courtyard they compete with the sparrows for handouts, and oddly their size notwithstanding, may appear more timid than the smaller birds. Drought conditions are creeping up in the area after considerable rain in July, and trees are suffering. I fear brown will be the only hue this autumn, that is if our trees don’t burn down altogether, lit by a careless spark. Grey is keeping out of the doldrums as he enjoys working on the poetry chapbook, subtitle “Through the seasons and on.” He promises color illustrations inside!
It continues chilly this morning here in the courtyard, blazer weather. The sun is in and out of clouds, and as the temperature thus fluctuates we might also call it moon weather. Conundrums abound as a result: how many layers to wear; cotton or wool; whether to sit in sun or shade. Confirming the cloak-and-dagger atmosphere Grey comments on in today’s post, a scruffy looking man in front of me wearing headphones claims he must self censor being in a public place. Meanwhile, a group comes in, three women and two men, with one woman giving instructions to the others. They sit down, and one goes into Starbucks with the coffee order. From the little I can hear, they are planning to produce a podcast together - or they might be hatching a plot!
Also here is an old woman and her small bulldog, likewise old. The dog waddles over to grace me with a visit, looking at me with a wistful plea to share my pastry. He has no leash and needs none. Sweet as he is though, I am not so impertinent as to feed him with his owner present. The forecast is for still more weather whiplash, with summer taking a brief curtain call mid-September. Thus the year rushes away, as somehow we soldier on!
With Labor Day approaching, and schools opening, window dressing at the optician’s has the large “School Zone” signs hanging along with giant no. 2 lead pencils, while on the shelves are stacks of books, more pencils in holders, and red apples for the teacher. New in the courtyard this morning are half a dozen tall black planters containing flowers, trailing vines and ornamental grasses. These appear to be in imitation of the flower pots outside the French bakery, which this year have had colorful petunias and hibiscus. Among the few denizens, a woman with frizzy blonde hair greets her old hair dresser. She is recovering from knee surgery, and he meanwhile has moved his shop.
The autumn chill with which August is ending now is forecast to continue into September, but we are moving slowly back into drought. The dryness of the air, comfortable though it may be, is worrisome, being the very thing that creates tinder for wildfire. But summer still has time for a comeback, with equinox three weeks off. The heavenly bodies at least are reliable benchmarks, while climate is deviant, leaving us dizzy. Grey and I share a preference for autumn weather though. It is invigorating. In fact he has decided to move forward with the chapbook project, starting with a small collection of poems from the Moleskine, to be published by Luminare Press - of course!
At Corner Bakery this morning, I fear there may have been an ICE raid when I see just one lone hispanic clerk at the cash register, and she - poor woman - dealing with a demanding customer, the kind who displays a guilty but dodgy politeness in her demands. A line begins to form when finally the Indian manager emerges from the kitchen to take the next customer. The carafe of hazelnut coffee is empty as usual and the tables sticky with syrup. MAGA? They mean MACA, “c” for crappy. Yet as I came in, two to the flower boxes that hang on the patio railing have been planted with colorful mums, in anticipation of September, while the other two keep their summer impatiens.
The end of August is already autumnal, meaning that September will have to pay back. As Grey reminds me, he will never forget his trip north to the Hudson Valley two years ago when the first week of September was the hottest of the summer - nor the best time for the Walk Across the Hudson on a converted railway bridge. Lunch at a bistro called Lola’s was the reward when he made it back, Lola being a dear departed hound dog. Grey has thrown up his hands this year; if it isn’t the crowds, it’s extreme weather.
I warm my coffee - Baker’s Blend - and move on.
For a change of pace on a pleasant and breezy morning, I am at the Boulangerie, called Christophe, I assume for a culinary celebrity, and I daresay their pastries are superior to anything else one now finds here. The place has a nice patio, but raucous music over the loudspeaker precludes concentration. For some reason the noise does not travel around the corner in front by the door, where there are another three tables, so I sit there as I have before with coffee and a tartlet. Prices have gone up. The tartlet is $7 and change and a slice of quiche $8. Find the explanation in Grey’s post “Just call me Alice,” which will be uppermost in the Past Posts this week. On this side of the looking glass, the dictator who says he will lower prices means he will raise them, and any data to the contrary will be suppressed, leaving as the only trustworthy indicators our wallets and our stomachs.
George Will, one of the few conservative columnists who have remained true to principles, wrote today of Churchill’s plea for America to join the Allies in the struggle against Fascism. He remarks on our man-child leader and his smirking Russian counterpart, going on to say it is now Europe that will need to save us. Allons enfant!
Approaching mid-August, heat has returned to the courtyard, mitigated by intermittent overcast. Jacinto is in conference with a man of some authority whom I have seen frequently - a new boss? Three women are in a meeting that appears to involve a club. A white haired man discusses academic matters with a younger woman, whose hair is a golden blonde - but remarkably dry. As I feed eager sparrows, the toddler son of a young woman sitting by Starbucks searches for birds to chase. They fly away of course. Mine are safely at some distance. Invariably, the boys want to catch the birds. I have to wonder why this mother, who is most attentive, does not teach him to feed them.
The courtyard trees are already shedding their tiny yellow leaves, and sure enough the first yellow jacket makes his harassing debut. They can be shooed away with a persistent wave of a napkin without risk, unless one is near a hive. This one is just looking for food. It seems to me only yesterday that I was writing of the harbingers of spring from these very trees, dropping their tiny blossoms, then the tiny green aphids. I am just very grateful they are surviving the many changes. If you haven’t yet, do read Grey’s recent post “Lemmings,” where he remarks on the heat of September and the hurricanes of October.
It is a rare morning when I must seek refuge from the summer heat, but when nights give no relief and the heat becomes killing, I find myself at the new bagel shop across the street from the courtyard, the same corner I called my village outpost during the pandemic, when the courtyard was cordoned off. The bagel place has five carafes of coffee, a flavor, a decaf, and three levels of regular: dark roast, medium and light. The place is meager on sweets, and if one is not a bagel loving New Yorker, a slice of pound cake must do. The owner, Adam, is at the cash register today, and I greet him by name.
After I get coffee, I take a cubicle so as to be out of the way of ever present contagion. Adam comes with two employees, and they sit across the aisle discussing business - hiring and hours. In front of me is a couple with a baby who shrieks like a banshee. Adam asks whether it is an angry or a happy shriek. It is the latter, plus we learn the child is almost two; and Adam is glad for the opportunity to mention his grandchildren. Tall and stout, Adam himself appears to overindulge in his own product, doubtless that very dyed in the wool New Yorker!
Another very hot morning in the courtyard, and two more days forecast before a respite on August first. The optician has changed up the seasonal window dressing from the patriotic theme: now there are four rather tall lighthouses, painted with seaside scenes, standing on the shelves; suspended and centered over them, two panels depict the view from a beach cottage through a window that has a striped Roman shade rolled to the top and a basket of eggs on the sill. If memory serves, I have never seen this decor in all my years here.
Not many people are there today even at Starbucks. The heat may be as strong a deterrent now as the cold, or maybe they have gone to the beach. An Asian woman shuffles in, looking lost. She is in pink striped shorts and a black top, walking with her hands behind her back. A young woman comes with her son, who gives her a peremptory Starbucks order, which she fetches. Then they sit down, she on her phone, he working one an exercise book, “Word Problems.” She talks incessantly, and he is totally distracted - trouble brewing there. Jacinto sees me and we wave. Now off to a cool store!
In a rare break from summer’s heat, with the breeze coming from the northwest, many people are here in the courtyard taking advantage of it. The young woman with the piercing voice is here again with her deaf companion. A fashionable young man wearing a Panama sits by Starbucks but is not drinking their coffee. Obviously a man of good taste, he sips a cup from the French bakery, which Grey and I also prefer. An old couple sits with cold Starbucks. Her hair is black, his white, often the case with elders, but I wonder why. Fewer men it seems try to disguise signs of aging, while women appear to have no qualms about hair dye or even cosmetic surgery if they can afford it. Of course, as we age we come to recognize that we are discounted by younger people, and women grow less able to fend for themselves without the kindness of strangers. Now in my late seventies, I often carry a cane simply to elicit that very benignity, following Grey’s example.
As I gather my purse and tote beg - the small one from Medicins sans Frontiers - I am tempted to ask the dapper young man in the Panama where he got his hat. Grey’s has suffered badly from high dew points, but then he needs the genuine palmata from Ecuador. I demur, going on to errands.
Hot and overcast this morning in the courtyard. Nightly monsoon rains do nothing to alleviate either heat or humidity. I catch the eye of a sparrow, and he swoops down, the flock following suit, eager to share crumbs of my croissant. A young woman on her phone speaks of margins, paragraphs, punctuation. Is she talking to her editor? Two men are in a conversation that rambles through unrelated subjects, touching on business but also family. As one is older, I deduce they may be relatives. Two women take a table, the younger one having a piercing voice. This is amplified whenever she must raise it for the sake of her older companion who is partially deaf. One does not often hear such a distinct vocal quality, though I recall posting about it twice here on the blog, and wondering at the time whether it is innate or acquired, nature or nurture. Some toddlers I have heard are capable of a shriek worthy of a gibbon, the loudest primate in the zoo.
The Bentley pulls in and out steps Grey in his Panama, carrying not only his cane but an umbrella. Who needs to go to London these days! He is so depressed he has immersed himself in ElizabethGaskell’s Wives and Daughters - better than pills!
I am sitting outside at Panera this morning although it is very hot. It is busy inside and too noisy to think. Only one other person is here on the patio, a young woman with a laptop wearing headphones. A young man saunters in looking lost. He is wearing rather a heavy jacket and carrying a backpack. Another young man arrives with a small device. He greets the first fellow, and they proceed to engage in some mysterious digital business involving an exchange of money for which the lost one was waiting, indeed he looks like he just flew in on Air India. What a brave new world we are in, and the great maniacal powers hardly recognize the global web of interconnection, strong as spider silk, as they pound away at the cleavage planes to tear us asunder.
The man in charge of the above-described money exchange has an elaborate tattoo on his left arm. This seemingly ubiquitous practice is a relic of the 1960s, though its young practitioners would never admit to that. Considering the many other ways we have of adorning ourselves, the idea of injecting ink under the skin, at great pain and leaving permanent images, should be unthinkable. The drive to ape one’s peers is clear, but not the need for permanence - why?
Another sultry morning in the courtyard, 1 July in fact, yet a reprieve from the torrid last week of June. Shady tables by Starbucks are all occupied by singletons with cold coffee drinks. I am in the shade nevertheless, the shadow of that famous coffee shop. Behind me are three young women speaking the patois I associate with Gen X or Millennials, sprinkled with “like” instead of “right?” the latter oddly appearing to have been resurrected by the youngsters from their Boomer grandparents. Then I hear this First World comment, “We had the same dog walker.” Facing me sits a still younger girl - redhead, center part, pigtails, loop earrings under Bluetooth headphones. As I came in today I passed an old gentleman, and we greeted each other with “good morning” in the old fashioned, small town manner. He was too far away before I noticed eyeglasses left on one of the tables. In younger days I might have run after him.
Given the dire conditions in the world, not least of which the extreme weather consequent of climate change, Grey is thinking Cassandra and Jeremiah will need to start demonstrating in those much derided sandwich boards that read, “The end is near!” But there is good news in the Atlantic this week: the human population is declining faster than expected. Will nature save us from ourselves? Well, on to errands!
No sooner had the sun crossed the tropic of Cancer than the killing heat of it was upon us, triple digits and high dew points, the entire last week of June. The courtyard is equally as deserted as it is in winter. Duke’s ropes off its allotted tables before opening, but no one sits outside. All the cold beer in the world would not be enough, and Duke’s, I learn, is a “gastropub,” a pub or tavern that serves meals. The term sprang up in the 90s. British origin perhaps, or a consequence of global integration? I must ask Grey, though he is not a big drinker, favoring beer only in summer and then only with an ABV less than five. We will try the place for lunch one day when hopefully we will be able to sit outside.
The heat itself is disorienting, and as the weather people now emphasize, the high nighttime temperatures can be debilitating for vulnerable groups, including elderly of course, like Grey and I. We treasure the tall trees hereabouts for their summer shade, even though they block out the sky, the moon and stars, sunrise, sunset. But then comes an extreme storm after weeks of heavy rain, and trees in softened earth topple over, or branches fall - rifts in the forest!
Sitting opposite the optician’s this morning, I am pleased to note the window dressing has a seasonal theme, patriotic for the next holiday. Bunting hangs on red ribbon and silver, glittering stars are suspended; fireworks burst from Uncle Sam’s inverted top hat, and Uncle Sam himself stands on the shelf holding a banner that reads, “Happy Fourth!” A young couple sitting in front of me I deduce is not married, as he is talking at considerable length about his very acrimonious divorce. Another couple to my left is speaking a slavic tongue. He is in shorts that expose a chubby, heavily tattooed leg. The table of boisterous young women, the Mother’s Group as I call them, numbers eight today, raucous as ever!
I see the Bentley pull into the parking lot, and sure enough Grey steps out in his Panama for the first time. He doffs it towards me and heads first to the bakery. We will doubtless discuss the display of military might that just took place here in the capital, confident that the Founders are whirling in their graves at the state of the nation as it seems to repudiate them and their hifalutin’ values in favor of down ’n dirty barbarism.
Another hot sunny day and despairing of Corner Bakery, I am at Boulangerie Christophe. They have a patio with umbrellas, but the loud music is thumping like an angry bear, not conducive to thought. Near the entrance, however, there is seating in the shade, and so I claim a table. The coffee is good, and I favor the apple chausson, flakey and delicious. New condos in this development have attracted Asians, and two young women sitting in front of me are likely Chinese. As they chat in their native language, they are not a distraction.
Roger’s farm market, which I frequent in summer, is around the corner; and if they have finally opened I hope to get a hanging basket of flowers and ripe strawberries. Roger gave the stand over to his grandson Andrew along with contacts to many local and Eastern Shore suppliers. That would be the Eastern Shore of the Chesapeake Bay, an area with the high fertility of a flood plain. Needless to say, Roger’s is popular among old folks in the know hereabouts.
The Chinese women leave, and a lone woman takes their table. She has not been inside yet, so she likely is waiting for someone. Eventually her companion arrives, and they begin discussing their children - summer camps, vacations. So, on to Roger’s!
Summer heat arrives on cue with the month of June, so no dappled shade for me this morning. I sit opposite the optician’s on the Starbuck's side, shaded from the rising sun. Lots of people are here today, chatting over coffee or at work on their devices, and lots of sparrows eager for croissant crumbs - the latter soon indulged. Grey called to say he will be late as he is waiting for a jump start, having found the car battery dead this morning. He will leave the Bentley with Bryan at the service station and join me soon. We both have lived in this village for many decades, and have that advantage of knowing and being known. The disadvantage lies in the inescapable notice of how crowded things have become and how often people become morose and sullen in consequence, not that news of the world today is not of itself a cause.
Fortunately, the frequent heavy rains of spring have broken a drought of many months, so we have at least that preparation for whatever summer brings. We are alerted even today of the fire risk, the sky hazy with drifting smoke from Canada. Grey is posting about Canada this week, inspired by the King’s timely visit. America is not such a young nation, given its ancient English roots.
Memorial Day in the courtyard at lunch time affords me the opportunity to see whether Duke’s is attracting customers. They open at 11:30, and sure enough a number of patrons are waiting at the door. The day is cool and overcast, yet in front of the restaurant, as was always the case, a number of the courtyard tables are roped off to serve as a patio, for which privilege I assume the management is paid by the restaurant. Despite the overcast, one family group decides to lunch on the patio. They are a couple with a toddler girl and an older white-haired man. The latter, after describing a bloody injury to his thumb incurred while slicing cheese, goes on to extol Duke’s reputation for a delicious cheeseburger. The cheese, perhaps, to which he nearly sacrificed this thumb? The little girl takes notice with delight of the sparrows coming for crumbs, while her parents are oblivious of her as much as of the birds. When the waiter comes, I observe that the staff is as poorly dressed as the patrons. On this basis Duke’s may survive where all others have failed.
I will see Grey here in the morning. The train wreck overtaking the free world, precipitated right in this city, is testing his mettle. The soldiers remembered today fought for freedom, while now a malicious hypocrisy dishonors them.
There is a cool north wind blowing in the courtyard, so I am huddled in the shelter of the optician’s wall. The week ahead, the last days of May, is forecast to be one borrowed from April. This morning that table of boisterous young women is seven, a mothers’ club perhaps. They sit in the sun sipping iced coffee, and their conversation is rather intimate: fertility treatments, relationships. It is a live advice column! In my recent report of boisterous women here I did not intend to imply that these are the same group. Au contraire, they are different people meeting here, only in good weather at coffee hour. God bless Starbucks for these opportunities! As Mycroft says to his brother Sherlock perched on a stool in the Diogenes Club surveilling a man on the street below, “If one wants to study mankind, this is the place!” They observe that he has lost his wife and is buying toys for a child. “Children, my dear boy, children!” Mycroft adds, explaining his deduction. This is from “The Greek Interpreter,” and if you are a fan, do please read Grey’s biography of the consummate Holmes, Jeremy Brett.
The mothers’ club adjourns, going their separate ways. I do not see any sparrows today, but nevertheless throw down crumbs from my cream cheese croissant. Immediately, a single crow appears, takes up every last crumb in its beak and flies off - a mother perhaps?
This morning I am sitting under the awning outside the French bakery, briefly, before a hair appointment with my Iranian stylist across the street. I sit here occasionally, on a rainy day for example, and to enjoy the foot traffic, not to mention the fancy cars not uncommon in the neighborhood: Mercedes, BMW, Porsche, lots of Teslas. Presently two women sit down at the table next to me. One is Indian, obvious from her heavy Punjabi accent, the other I discern from their conversation is Dutch. She is wearing flowery tights, which she apparently does not regard as an undergarment. The Indian woman is in more modest green slacks. They are on their way to an estate further out where a wealthy couple has opened their collection of modern art to the public by invitation. The ladies leave, driving off in a red Hyundai.
Next to me on the other side is a pot of red hibiscus in beautiful bloom, of which the bakery has several. They also have begonias potted, but not the tiny ones planted in summer beds for their drought resistance. These are large and lush, bred, I surmise, to overcome the middling reputation of the flower. Now on to the salon. The place has been here forever, owned by a Korean woman, and aside from my Iranian stylist and one old Frenchman with a booming voice, everyone else is Asian - a melting pot.
After a warm April, the month of May is paying back with showers as welcome as they are needed. At the same time, summer weather intercedes with growing frequency, and this morning in the courtyard I am for the first time in search of shade. I choose dappled. The courtyard trees, now in leaf, are raining their tiny blossoms along with little green aphids. Sparrows, likely by now feeding hatchlings, beg for crumbs, always succeeding in my case. The populace of courtyard denizens increases with the temperature, and on any given morning one will find a table of at least four boisterous young women. Today this group has a darling infant crawling on the table. Two gray heads sit by Starbucks, while a pair of younger men in the sun are discussing asset management.
The young mothers adjourn, and by 10:15 coffee hour slows. The courtyard grows quiet until lunchtime. Duke’s Grocery has posted their hours: open at 11:30, 10 on weekends. Hard to imagine such an investment succeeding in this terrible economy - led by a capricious, untrustworthy knave. Yet chin up - the planters and flower beds are quilted cushions of colorful violas in blue, purple, red and white. Just the thing for spring!
At Corner Bakery this morning, I am surprised to note that business is up. My cubicle in front is taken by an elderly Chinese couple, so I sit in another in the far back. As a regular here I try to remember the names of the staff, and one woman, Ismenia, who has been here forever, greets me with, “Why did you not come earlier? We are out of mugs.” Only then do I notice the bunches of happy-face balloons all over the place. They had given out free mugs, and a line had formed at the door before they opened at seven. I had not heard, of course, and would not have roused myself for the freebie in any case, having no need for yet another mug. I reflect it must be this successful gambit accounting for the increased business.
As I am leaving, I spot another friendly employee, Elvis - the name is easily remembered - to whom I quip, “Why didn’t you save me a mug?” The manager at the register hears me, and explains that they are all gone. But Elvis has already disappeared into the kitchen, after signaling to me to say nothing. I wait, worrying that I may have gotten him in trouble, when he emerges from another door with a bag - concealing my free mug. “Thank you, my friend!” I say softly, and I’m gone. (For the curious: the mug is honey yellow with a smiling emoji on one side and the Corner Bakery logo on the other. It now sits on the sill above my kitchen sink.)
This morning as promised I am across the street from the courtyard exploring the new cafe, Bagels & Grinds. This is the very corner of the village crossroads where I continued my weekly report when the pandemic had the courtyard cordoned off. Readers may recall that the only seat available was a bench that was bolted to concrete. I am amazed by this new shop, which henceforth I shall refer to as “B&G.” There are six self serve coffee carafes, accompanied by all the needed accessories, an extensive menu for breakfast and lunch, as well as such sweet complements to morning coffee as scones and muffins - or of course, bagels. But the main attractions for me are indoor seating and 5 AM opening time.
As the place is new - banners just lately put up on the road announcing it - the owner is here greeting customers. He shows me to the coffee and locates the oat milk, with his assurance a dispenser for that is coming. After I sit down with coffee and muffin, I congratulate him on bringing back breakfast to the village, not seen since a deli in this same location closed long long ago. He remembers it, so he also is and old-timer. Since then the local business community has shown no interest is rising early - strictly bankers hours - and yes, we boast a branch of every retail bank one could name!
(32)This morning I am at Starbucks checking out the updates for which they have been closed a number of weeks. I notice a longer counter, seating for 26 by a casual count, which may be but two more than before, if memory serves, and added menu items. I order coffee and one of the egg sandwiches. The Pike Place coffee is bitter as ever, regardless of sweeteners, and the sandwich without salt, probably without real eggs - stamped out fast food. While Duke’s still has not opened, another place across the street has. It is called Bagels & Grinds, and it is open from 5 AM to 5 PM. That will be my next adventure, in quest of indoor seating for a coffee break in case of inclemency.
Meanwhile, in the courtyard, window dressing at the optician’s finally has a spring theme: giant, colorful, glittery butterflies are suspended in each window; on the shelves, small pots planted with fabric flowers, one a moss-covered standard with small butterflies flocking to it; also on the shelves, small crystal objects - a sailboat, birds, and a snail. No more snowflakes! Has the baton been passed, along with all the seasonal decor? Surely the two elderly brothers who once had the job would scarcely be able, even if they still live. I should inquire within!
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