I have stopped at Corner Bakery this morning on my way to the farm market. There are two local farm markets, and the better one, while a bit out of the way, has excellent local sources, and has had a loyal following in one location every growing season for decades. The other seems to use the same suppliers as the supermarkets. After turning seventy, Grey gave up gardening. We’re both over that hill now!
The Corner is quiet today, thankfully, so I can write this post. The last time I was here, two old gents, no doubt hard of hearing, were having a loud conversation about pro football teams, and this distraction was hideously augmented by a screaming, fractious child. That may account for the pen stroke on my handbag, the first, which I blessed as the sure sign of a true writer. Today there is a woman at work on her laptop, surrounded by food and drinks, her long hair streaked in hot pink. Her handbag is sequined; no ink marks there! Well, on to the farm stand for peaches, tomatoes, and perhaps a cantaloupe.
There is a cool breeze on a pleasant summer morning here in the courtyard. It is a sign of the times though that even the pleasant weather must cause us to worry that dry air might somehow make the lush summer foliage combustive, and remind us to gather our important documents into an inflammable, watertight satchel. Potential disasters notwithstanding, a youngish man is here with a black dog. A certain ambiguity of age is inferred from his salt and pepper beard, and a raffish Panama hat. Emerging from Starbucks, a skinny woman joins the man. She in marked contrast, is in Maoist drab and a floppy hat. Further cementing our ties with Asia, an East West Taekwondo class of children enters the coffee shop, and is heard cheering within.
Now coming across the parking lot toward the bakery, I espy the only other straw fedora I can recollect in the village. It is Grey, of course, and he will be astonished to find here another such dandy as himself. On the other hand, I suspect the younger man will go home and put his hat up for sale on eBay. Alas, the youngsters, all such inveterate children! But what do I know?
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Yellow jackets have arrived in the courtyard already, early harbinger of autumn and welcome on that count alone. A not so common sighting is the trés chic woman who once owned the trés chic gift shop cum nursery up the road, and in summer visits the courtyard on occasion to burnish her tan, as she appears to be doing this morning. She is chatting with a man about dogs, while the two yellow labs who accompany him loll in the sun. The woman’s recent venture has been to open a fitness studio here in a space occupied for years by a beauty salon, which latter was forced to retreat to a farther corner of the crossroads. Madam trés chic is now wearing fitness chic, and the old nursery still awaits replacement by senior living apartments. If it waits much longer, old age will have gone out of style, when enough of us have passed away.
Not to be outdone buy the yellow jackets, the optician now has the yellow “School Zone” signs in his windows, along with giant pencils and apples for the teacher. Shelves are covered in buffalo plaids and pencil holders resemble small stacks of books. Best of all the back to school season is perfect for displaying lots of eyeglass frames!
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On the patio at Panera there is a cool morning breeze, and the red and white begonias have grown tall in the beds. High heat is expected later. The patio, as I have mentioned before, is on the western side of the building thus affording shade in the morning, which is a blessing in summer though a curse in winter. A couple in front of me - the woman with straggly blonde hair, the man balding - are discussing church politics at a Catholic parish where they are both active members. Their conversation devolves into nostalgia for former employees and congregants. Meanwhile, three fellows from the conclave of rabbis are also here conversing in Hebrew. A curious group of four Blacks comes out and takes a table, each in a grey uniform that bears no insignia. Might they be health care workers? Absorbed in their handheld devices, they do not talk to one another.
A further oddity arises when a female sparrow, impatient for my cranberry muffin, jumps up on my table and eyes me innocently. Of course she is rewarded!
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It is a pleasant morning in the courtyard. With August came an early preview of fall and its deliciously cool mornings, but also severe storms and heavy rain. We have had trees down and power outages, but luckily not the washed out roads that floods have inflicted further north. Our weather outside the nation’s capital, not unlike the country in general, is a collision of north with south. A couple is here in conversation over their Starbucks. The woman apparently is an elementary school teacher, and she talks about a boy working toward the Eagle Scout badge. The local troop is notable for having many members win this distinction. They also supply the color guard for the annual village parade in October, a quaint exhibition of local color put on by the Chamber of Commerce. It once included the hunt club and the high school marching band, but now only the mounted park rangers and a small fife and drum corps of grey haired men for equine and musical interest. Signs of the times!
Still loathe to take to the troubled skies, Grey is planning another road trip north in September, hoping those washed out roads are at least passable by then. This year’s destination? The Hudson River Valley!
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Despite the hot summer morning, half a dozen seniors breeze into the courtyard on their bicycles. As the eldest sits down, a comrade remarks, “But you were just sitting down!” To which he retorts, jestingly, “How old are you, dammit?” Shady tables are at a premium today as some of the furniture has been removed for maintenance, and the restaurants have already roped off their allotments. Dappled shade must needs suffice. The courtyard trees, fortunately, are faring better than those in the parking lot confined in tree boxes. A loud helicopter appears to be buzzing the village: it goes east, comes back, then goes north. I surmise a traffic copter. Marine One, I understand, never flies solo with the President, and in any case would know exactly where it was going.
Among the other denizens are two women, one tall with short hair, in a top printed all over with dragonflies. The other woman is a kind of yenta, and she holds forth in detail about furnishing her vacation house. Now I spy the Bentley pull into the lot. You won’t catch Grey on a bicycle at his age - in this heat!?
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A number of years back, the Vie de France bakery in the village made a festivity of Bastille Day, hiring a mime and an accordion player. I delighted to sit there with their always excellent coffee and pastry, requesting all the old Parisienne tunes I could remember lest they be neglected. Here is the day come again but no mention of that patriotic occasion, so I retire to the courtyard.
Summer being prime time for eavesdropping, I find two women discussing their volunteer work cleaning up a neighborhood park, an innocent topic surely, except that one woman’s descriptions are not the sort of thing you want to talk about over morning coffee: fecal matter, human and canine, and dirty diapers dumped in the river. It is the Occoquan, in Virginia, thank God not local! Now the ladies veer into politics: how that red state is like a foreign country, where you must be careful what you say, and everyone dresses up for church, meaning they are Protestant while these two are Catholic. Grey will love this report; he is reading “Barnaby Rudge.” But enough - I’m off!
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There is a cool breeze in the courtyard this morning, and lots of people doing business of various kinds. An old woman all in black sits with a large white dog, whose long fur is markedly opulent. The woman’s companion is a younger man with short black hair. I am unable to discern their relationship, though surely not familial. July Fourth having past, the optician’s window dressing has reverted to a nautical theme, suitable for the remainder of summer: large ships wheels hanging in each window, with model sailboats, large and small, on the shelves beneath.
As I noted last week, summer here tends to afternoon rain, at times monsoonal. These days, I daresay, using that hyperbole seems fatuous, given the destructive floods we have seen recently just north of us. Grey and I ponder whether it might be wise to move further inland, but of course anywhere the least rivulet can flow may become a threat. It is galling to observe that we are trapped on a planet we have despoiled, creating a negative feedback loop with every effort at mitigation. Extreme heat? More air conditioning, which needs electricity, fuel, and so more green house gases. Here comes the old curmudgeon now, dashing in his Panama and carrying an umbrella. Clouds have begun moving in.
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A rare errand at the mall has me stopping for coffee at Corner Bakery, the one cafe - as faithful readers know - that has self serve hazelnut and oat milk. They have also come up with a very good strawberry croissant, surpassing even the Vie de France. It is a pleasant summer morning, but I am sitting inside in a cozy booth. We have entered the monsoon season, with heat and humidity building to torrential rain by late afternoon.
I am no longer sanguine about finding what I need at stores, even those in the mall, as too often I return home with an unfilled list to search for on Amazon. Noting the uptick in shoplifting since the pandemic, I begin to wonder whether third party sellers are creating their own demand. Grey contends that Amazon is selling contraband: $34 for one box of cereal? But Amazon makes it easy. It’s a long walk to the mall from here, so onward!
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On a pleasant, early summer morning, the patio at Panera is abuzz. In preference, I have taken my quiet little table by the door, which is almost always available as though it has my name on it. As I have come from the chiropractor, it is a bit late, so of course the hazelnut decanter is empty, and I have to ask two glassy-eyed, deaf clerks before one of them has fetched more hazelnut. At a nearby table is a man with a heavy accent in great agitation consulting another man who is taking notes. The first man has been in a serious accident and is unhappy with the insurance settlement. His consultant, however, is not an injury lawyer. In fact he is clueless, but patiently tries to subdue his companion. Nonetheless, in short order anyone listening has the aggrieved man’s life history, all but is name.
Clientele at Panera is back to pre-pandemic levels, and it seems to me even our roads have more traffic, though many stores have retreated to the online model. Even so, few can compete with Amazon in this brave new world, where that giant will be the last retailer. Grey and I will meet in the courtyard tomorrow - Cassandra and Jeremiah - there to commiserate!
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July Fourth window dressing at the optician’s has Uncle Sam on red velvet shelves in a star spangled top hat and matching pants, holding a “Happy 4th” banner. Next to him, Roman candles erupt silvery glittering sparklers, while overhanging all this large semicircles of bunting are strung. Across the courtyard a dozen or so young children in their private school uniforms are having a raucous time outside Starbucks, I suspect celebrating the end of the term. They run in and out of the doors, knock on the windows, and race after one another at top speed, reminding me of the spring crop of newborn fawns. Several adults hover about the human children, but I cannot determine which one is responsible. They sit apart from the kids, who are left to their own devices.
As for the fawns, this year there is a pair of twins who are a joy to behold - the boundless energy as they race across the lawn, their jolly game of hide and seek among the shrubberies, jumping and prancing in sheer delight. Nature gives them but one summer in which to grow up, but it is blessed!
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Despite the heavy, lurid pall of smoke from Canadian wild fires, I have come to the Corner on my coffee run. No one is sitting on the patio, of course, and I am seated at the bar that looks out the front window. These growing effects of climate change are quite remarkable. Whereas we have come to expect warm air to be swampy with moisture, this spring has instead brought desert air, drying things to the point of flammability. We get water only when the heavens are prepared to douse us with industrial sized buckets.
Meanwhile, in my neighborhood one of our dear old houses, vacant for years when it was home only to the fox family, is being demolished. New houses are now taking years to complete; so that in our quiet cul-de-sac “there rings a hammering all day,” and the street is forever lined with heavy equipment. From the placard erected on this demolition site, we may now expect one of those doggedly linear houses that after more than a century is persistently considered “modern.” On Stewart’s meadow, two monsters continue to give employment to whole villages of refugees.
I do not linger, but hasten home through the smog.
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We were graced with rain on the Memorial Day weekend - we will take what we can get! But sunny weather returned, with heat and humidity forecast to arrive along with June tomorrow. Still in the courtyard this morning the sunny tables by the optician’s are favored as there is a chill northerly breeze. Fortunately one of these is freed, as I enter testing the wind. At a nearby table, three women are planning an event that will have paying commercial sponsors. The boss of the three has a strident voice, a grating sound not unusual in young women today. Is it too much screaming at Taylor Swift extravaganzas? Two other women here are discussing a trip to Israel, and one is heard to remark, “It looks so biblical!” Well? Meanwhile, solo customers of Starbucks sit huddled in the bosom of the opposite wall, That’s loyalty!
Grey will be bereft today having finished A Tale of Two Cities. He theorized that lookalikes Sydney and Charles were related, the former perhaps being a bastard son of Charles’s father or uncle. Instead Sydney impersonates Charles, and sacrifices his life under the guillotine - without further explanation.
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We are having quite a long spell of splendid spring weather, with cool air and warm sun, at the price of needed rain, it must be observed. But the courtyard is popular. Two men are here, one in a stylish Panama, in the company of two matching dogs who are large, curly haired, of a brindle hue - equally as stylish as their masters. At the table in front of me are two young women: one wearing the hijab and modestly dressed, the other in spandex that leaves nothing of her body to the imagination. She left home in bra and tights, forgetting her outer garments. Striding through comes a burly man with longish grey hair and beard, a crisp white shirt and black trousers.
As Mycroft says to his younger brother in “The Greek Interpreter,” perched on a library ladder looking out a window of the Diogenes Club, “For anyone wanting to study humanity, this is the place!” Here in the courtyard, likewise, we can at least boast of sartorial interest, and curious conversation if it doesn’t get too loud to eavesdrop. Ah, and here is Grey, also in his Panama!
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In the courtyard this morning, we have mild sunny weather, a mid-May warmup. Perhaps May has finally recompensed April on the mortgage of its misplaced weather. Indeed the vagaries of the weather are increasingly disconcerting, as cantankerous, I should say, as our politics. I call it “moon weather,” layers for the cold mornings, stripped in afternoon’s heat. Of course, the oppressive sauna of summer is much worse.
Among a few denizens here are two young women, each having a piercing voice, such that all of us are privy to every word of their lively conversation. They are discussing the details of foreign trips they have made with a group. A large white, curly-haired dog accompanying them has no comment! By Starbucks, a Black woman sits alone with her beverage. She wears a red floral sundress - seasonal harbinger - and her earrings glint in the sun, diamond-like. As the loud women wax into distracting gossip - the dog lying down mortally bored - and a stiffish breeze is blowing my pages, I decide to move on.
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A sure sign that summer is in the air at last is the window dressing of the optician’s, updated for the season. The white cutout panels from spring have been left, but on each one hangs a giant monarch butterfly, while on the shelves smaller ones alight on little pots of ivy. Sharing the courtyard with me this morning is a young woman being interviewed for a job as an event planner by another woman. The job seeker is dressed in navy blue, pants frayed, wearing heavy metal earrings of a verdigris finish, carrying a large tote bag. I surmise she may fail to make an impression on her less edgy counterpart.
Sparrows are sharing my blueberry muffin, and I suspect they may already have nestlings to feed. I took a walk before coming today and was pleased to note the seasonal return of some avian regulars here. The grackles are back and even the rufous-sided towhee, whose constant supplication to “drink your tea, hehehe” is unmistakable. But the arrival of that king of mimics, the Grey Catbird, clears the hedges of territorial pretenders, even of the male cardinals. No bird matches his manifold repertoire, and every year he brings back new songs from the South. Now to the groceries, with better aegis of the car keys this time!
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On Cinco de Mayo temperatures are finally moderating, and the cumulus clouds sitting nearly motionless in a blue sky bring thoughts of summer. In the courtyard, tables in dappled shade are favored as people sit with coffee and laptops. An exception are three boisterous little girls, their nanny sitting to the side, wearing a mask and coughing. A black and white dog is tied to the lightest until be is finally claimed by a young woman in tie-dyed tights.
As the restaurants open for lunch, a white haired old woman with a cane at a table near me seems to be awaiting a companion - or an Uber. Just two days ago, I had occasion to use that app for only the second time, when for the first time I locked myself out of my car - and I had groceries. I managed to summon a kind young Iranian man, who fetched me and my groceries home. I then hiked back the mile to the village with spare keys. All praise to Mycroft (my iPhone)!
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Since April took the place of May, that latter month now begun is repaying us with cold winds in the courtyard, while a warm sun dodges scudding clouds. Back in my woolen blazer, however, and huddling close to the optician’s side, I am comfortable enough to pen this post. Proof of and against the chill is a girl in a long, white, cabled sweater, leaning forward as she ogles the screen of her laptop, her chinless profile accentuated by a long nose. At a tall table on the Starbucks side, a young couple exemplifies the adage that opposites attract. He has short, flaxen hair, and ;she long, black locks trailing down her back in the Rapunzel style now nearly ubiquitous.
The sparrows are hungry this morning; and as it is nesting season, I expect they are preparing for hatchlings, if the eggs do not freeze of a cold night. My poor house plants are pining for the porch as they await the overnight low to stay above fifty degrees. Forget about averages let alone ten day forecasts. Weather gurus seem stuck as in “Groundhog Day,” the movie!
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I am back at Panera after the chiropractor on a truly frosty morning, the yellow and white violas shivering in a north wind. In its last week, April finally shows true. Shall we anticipate cold to continue since May has already occurred prematurely? Daffodils have bloomed; tulips have bloomed; every species of flowering tree has flowered, smothering us in pollen. Now azaleas are in bloom and even some floribunda roses. If nature is befuddled, how can I be other wise?
Few patrons here today, and I decide to take my coffee outside to escape yet another male singer assuring his listeners that “it will be all right.” Optimism in the young! Where does it come from? The patio, as I have posted before, faces west, so north winds sweep parallel across it at a time when there is no sun. Thus I do not stay long, but top off my coffee and head home to finish this post. Tomorrow, Grey and I will meet in the courtyard, his Panama exchanged for the Borsalino perhaps. He still refuses to fly, leery of the junior aviators now filling pandemic gaps and threatening to bump into each other on the runways. And so once more into the winds…
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At the Corner this morning the patio is unusually popular for mid-April, and the carnival has been set up in the adjacent parking lot. I assume it has become an annual event. Amid the typical chatter induced by coffee, especially with oat milk and free refills, two old gents are having an interminable discussion of their health issues and doctors. Two women greet one another over the railing, then choosing a sunny table. One has brought a pink bag, which she hands to the other, who is dressed to match it. They carry notebooks, suggesting a business meeting. I am sitting at some distance, still leery of respiratory infections, though with the warmer weather I notice even old people forgoing the mask. Still, they are disproportionately represented among those now dying of covid.
Nice though it is today, the weather is not enhancing our immune systems, with grotesque swings in temperatures from morning to noon, and summer days reverting to winter in a steadfast weekly pattern. Grey complains of being fooled at least twice, and having to return his Panama to the closet. Worse is catching a chill when you are not dressed for it! Well, off to the post office and the bank.
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April has hardly begun and we have summer temperatures in the courtyard on a sunny morning. As the courtyard trees have not leafed out, I seek the shade of the Starbucks side. Few people are here today, no doubt exhausted from the weekend’s coincident feasts of three major religions. Still, a woman comes out of the aforementioned coffee shop with a tall cup of tea, from which she pours out water onto the paving stones. She has black hair with auburn highlights and wears a white tee shirt, with a brown cardigan tied around her waist in a common style of summer. She has taken a table in the sun and opens her tablet. Meanwhile at the table in front of me, two men sit down, and we exchange greetings of the morning. One assures me they will not talk loud; and when I mention that I eavesdrop, he remarks that I will be bored. I mull over whether I should accost them as I leave with Grey’s new card. After all, they may read about my exploits in the courtyard and other venues on the blog. But no, these fellows are honestly boring, so I save the card for someone I might legitimately harass - the hairdresser, or the manager at Corner Bakery, a delightful young man from Gambia. Now, on with the errands.
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I take refuge at Panera the last day of March, as it goes out like a lion - cold, with rain and wind expected. Yet violas are planted already in the beds, a variety of colors resembling a mosaic. The blossoms are small, a dwarf version perhaps, and I am seeing them in all public spaces. Patronage is still down here. Young people with laptops predominate and the rabbis absent on Friday, eve of Shabbat. I have come for the coffee alone, and to enjoy it inside out of the weather.
Grey is seriously distracted by painters at work on the exterior of his house. Fortunately they are a crew of hard working latinos, and are expected to finish in a week. He has given me some of this new business cards, upon which his web address is prominently displayed, but so far neither he nor I have had the chutzpah to accost strangers with them. Today I recognize the shy man who frequents the place for the free wifi, a habitué for years. Surely he is not a stranger. We exchange greetings, and I remark that it is good to see him here again. With a nod, he is gone before I can find Grey’s card!
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I might have gone to Panera this morning, but it is still March, and the courtyard is the more sheltered. The patio at Panera, being on the west side, gets the brunt of westerly winds and has no morning sun. A sunny day like today invites me to sit out, where only a passing cloud occludes the warmth. Forecasters aside, March exits this Friday like a lion, as anyone knows who listened to their grandmother and paid attention on March first. Grey remarks that I will be the first to opine if March waits only to roar, like a fool, on April Fool’s Day!
Grey and I frequent the same cafes, though his circuit includes a couple I rarely get to, and we don’t always coordinate. We do compare notes, especially about strange characters we encounter, Panera being fertile ground for those: the quintessential vagabond; the woman with the tail of a grey fox hanging from her backpack. He continues to hope the website will help grow an email list, signaling a branching, not only of individuals but also potentially their friends. Meanwhile, he has new business cards, which he proposes consigning to his tables at the cafes. Caveat: they would need to be in Spanish, Grey!
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March winds continue gusty in the courtyard, but sheltered in the sun I am comfortable. Only a westerly wind blows directly into the courtyard, while the northwind must round a corner. A number of people come and go from the market, where they are having a "pi day" sale on their Cadillac crab cakes, i.e. buy one at regular price and get a second for $3.14. The quality no longer justifies even the sale price these days, so I don't bite. A clever gimmick to be sure though on March 14!
Carmen, our property manager, passes through in a puffy coat, leading her usual entourage of workers. She comments that she did not expect to see me here on such a cold day, to which I commend the shelter of the courtyard before she hastens on. Meanwhile, a gray haired, middle aged man who has been pacing the courtyard having a long and loud conversation on his phone is joined by a younger bald man. The older man now drops f-bombs in every sentence, in an apparent attempt to impress his young companion. I reflect how impervious some old people can be to their own silliness. I have not seen the sparrows this morning, but I hear them, and so I scatter crumbs as I leave.
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I am at Corner Bakery this morning, outside of which the awnings are flapping wildly in leonine gusts - March acting like a lion with still a week to go. On the way over, I past many flowering trees in full bloom, prompting me to reflect how they have adapted to the seasons of their niche, an example of “cause and effect are one.” I often find that critics of Buddhism fail to understand that many of its precepts are inexpressible, thus they will complain of meaningless “word salad.” But only when one finally grasps their meaning, due to a vivid example, say, does one realize there are no other words. Evolution works its wonders of adaptation through an intimate and perpetual interaction, the oneness of cause and effect.
As I was rather late this morning, customers begin to straggle in for lunch. Gone are the long lines of shoppers going or coming from the mall. The lunch crowd is gone with the Muzak. Yet here entering are three ladies, obviously three family generations, come to celebrate the birthday of the oldest. Life pushes on. We march forward against the headwinds!
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On the first, March came in like a lamb. By the next day it had reconsidered. The sun disappeared behind heavy overcast and is not expected to grace us again until tomorrow. As for winds, they are what weathermen call “light and variable,” which translates to cold as hell and coming from all directions. Thus I linger in the courtyard only long enough to observe that the optician’s windows have reverted to black and white - stark as the month of March - with Ionian columns. The decorators are becoming too predictable. Surely they might do something with green shamrocks and rainbows. I am not alone braving the weather. Three men are sitting with their Starbucks, two of whom are bikers. They have the large helmets, and their bikes are visible in the parking lot. From what I can hear they speak a Slavic language.
The nation’s capital certainly draws a polyglot population. And this time of year there is always the overwrought concern for our Yoshino cherry trees, with the possibility that their annual bloom might be curtailed by an untimely frost. Sure enough, rain is just beginning, and it sounds like a wintry mix. As I bundle up to leave, a hawk cries overhead and a gust of wind upsets my tote bag.
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I am at Panera after the chiropractor, surrounded by a diverse population. At one table are three Chinese women chattering in their characteristic fashion; at another three Israeli men talking in Hebrew. These represent the conclave of the rabbis, shrunken from its former glory, a phrase which applies to a goodly portion of our lives since the world was stricken with a plague. Grey and I pine especially for the carefree times when one might browse in stores and come out with some enchanting article bought on impulse. Of course some do complain that they have no such memories, having never had a carefree moment in the entirety of a long life. These glum souls, I believe, suffer amnesia.
We humans are resilient though. We have adapted to online shopping, and if Chins\a is slipping back into Maoist isolation, we will turn to the factories of India as we rebuild our own. On this note of optimism, I perceive an old woman in a green pantsuit approaching the exit, on her shoulder a heavy bag to which is attached what looks like the tail of a grey fox. Roadkill, or did she shoot it? QED.
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In the courtyard this morning, there is an uproar overhead that sounds like roofers; and while I don’t see them, the chairs and tables by Starbucks are roped off as in anticipation of falling debris. At last I spot a worker on the very edge of the roof, thankfully in a safety harness. Warm sunny days have been starting very cold, and people are variously dressed. I have a big woolen muffler wrapped over my blazer, but I still need a hat against a chill wind. Layers will soon be shed, no doubt.
Nature is devilishly confused by such unseasonal weather, and the seesaw of temperature I feel certain is nipping many a premature bud. In my garden the first crocus bloomed on my February birthday, which has not occurred since 1994, a year after my mother passed. I remember regarding it as a sign from her, or at least a gift from heaven. But the extremity of what we see today has no precedent in human history, and surely bodes ill for our survival.
As I gather my things, a gang of boys and girl enters Starbucks. Recess? Never had coffee breaks when I was in school. Alas, born too soon!
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The local groundhog nailed it. February is April. The animals and plants know it, the birds know it. The only ones scratching their heads in doubt are the Chief Meteorologists on local stations. Nonetheless, the optician’s windows are bedecked for Valentines Day. Four glittering red hearts dangle on red ribbons over shelves lined with red, whereupon standing are tiny hat boxes holding puffy little hearts atop lollipops sticks. Meanwhile, two young bottle blondes sit chatting in the sun, along with a yellow lab looking bored; and sparrows are back to share my croissant, but where have they been? Might there be a sparrow hawk picking them off, or should I suspect foul play? Perhaps the frigid December sent them all to Florida, most anomalously.
While I did not see the Bentley enter the parking lot, here is Grey coming around the corner with coffee in hand already. He is still in his fedora of course. A Panama in February would require far faster climate change. Currently engrossed in The Pickwick Papers, as he has not recovered from the Dickens affliction - leftover from the pandemic.
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I am at Panera this morning after massage therapy, and the sound track has a male vocalist doing a typical Panera number with the peculiar lyric, “Where are we; don’t know where we are, but it will be alright,” repeated ad nauseam. Somehow I cannot help wondering how a person, without knowing where they are, can have the audacity to assert that things will be “alright.” For that matter, he could be referring to any aspect of life. He and his girlfriend may not know “where they are” in their relationship, or financially, or perhaps they just got off the wrong exit on the interstate. Hazelnut coffee with almond mild has a way of spinning trivia into conundrums.
As I take my accustomed table by the door, a woman nearby is addressing an apparent scammer, “John, I don’t recognize your voice, and I don’t believe your name is John. Have a nice day.” Panera tends to the most colorful and entertaining patrons, always superior to the vocals. Next enters a man who epitomizes the term vagabond. He wears a green, brimmed hat and a long black, fur-trimmed coat; and he carries three tote bags in one hand, which he drops on the floor and leaves unattended. A bomber? No, a terrorist would never dress so conspicuously. A refill, and I’m off!
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The queer weather becomes more unsettling every year. We had January in December, while January itself has felt like March - windy, wet, and uncomfortable. The local groundhog will have his chance to tell us next week whether an early spring is presaged. On my morning walks I am already monitoring the old hawk’s nest, hoping this will be the year they decide to reuse it. Today I did saw the hawk there, but he was chased by a crow. When I passed the vacant house where a family of foxes have squatted for years, there now is a “Demolition” sign in front. Down with the old! If only the new had as much charm.
By the time I got to the courtyard, clouds had rolled in and the wind was swirling in all directions. Not even the eastern wall by the optician’s is shielding me, and with no sun one fears for the immune system. Grey contends that since most respiratory illness begins with a sore throat, an ounce of prevention is to wear a warm muffler, of which he has a large collection. Making short work of a strawberry croissant, I take my coffee and retreat to the car.
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Surely we will have daffodils blooming prematurely! The entire month of January has been warm, with lows matching average high temperatures; and it is again a sunny day in the courtyard. Two young women sit in front of me by the optician's wall, apparently having met to exchange belated holiday gifts. The one facing me talks fast and loudly. They discuss the inflated prices and colleges for their children. The fast talker exclaimes that upon visiting a college in Florida she was surprised to find Tampa to be "chic." Dissatisfied with that purloined adjective, she changes it to "chic-y," pronounced "
sheeky."
When these two bid their adieus (purloined noun) and disappear into the parking lot with their gift bags, I have the courtyard to myself, excepting a few sparrows, whose numbers have been oddly scant this winter. But Grey said he might come today, and no sooner has the thought arisen than I spot his fedora as he heads for the bakery. He waves to me with his walking stick.
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We are getting the leftover rains from the west coast apocalypse, but today they cleared after sunrise, and I am sitting in the sunny courtyard, shielded from the wind chills. On the windows of the optician's, those identical paper snowflakes remain, but the Christmas decor is gone, replaced with more snowflakes - giant, three dimensional, cut paper ones - and shelves papered in glistening silver. Even the shelf paper has a snowflake pattern. Someone has been yearning for snow it appears!
Surprising that any rain is left from the biblical floods in California, but the waves of storms sweep over the midwest, whipping into unseasonal tornadoes, and keep coming, enfeebled fortunately by the time they reach us. Last week Grey used the "boiling frog" metaphor in reference to a gradual acceptance of such climate related devastation. Of course a frog can jump out of the pot. What choice have we with no place to go? We simply carry on, like the young woman now passing through in a loden green jacket, clutching the brim of her matching Aussie hat against the wind!
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What is so rare as a spring rain in January? A disarming spell of warm weather has everyone disconcerted, and the hedges alive with a diverse flock of chattering birds. I have come to the Corner for no other reason than the hazelnut coffee with oat milk and free refills. A woman comes in with two fractious toddlers, both boys, wham she is at pains to control by raising her voice. Well, that would be one way! Another woman, who has been waiting by the door with her coat on, greets an African woman and her grown son. They are exuberant upon meeting after some time, and the young man may have been a student of the first woman, given her curiosity about his college experience. She presents him a handmade gift she has been keeping for him. Next come two women, one considerably older than the other. The younger one tries to get the older yo sit down and stay put while she goes to place the order, but the old woman is as fractious as the toddlers. The young one is overheard to say, "Your children hired me to take care of you!"
As I refill my coffee and pack up to leave, all the fractious ones, young and old, are sitting quietly in place.
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At Panera after Christmas my door-side table is taken and the joint is jumping - with post holiday bargain hunters I suspect. As the weather has moderated somewhat, I take my RPU - that’s Rapid Pickup for the uninitiated - to the patio where there is one table in the morning sun. The winter violas have been planted in the beds, but they are very small and struggling after heavy rains. With no wind, the sun is cozy in its radiance, and the hazelnut coffee is just the thing to wake up that instant recall that fades with age.
I have already made my disappointed search for Christmas bargains, finding only the most gaudy wreaths without bows, and poinsettias have already disappeared from stores before New Year’s. Indeed, as I walked this morning I see many neighbors have been quick to rid themselves of the season. Grey holds forth on the reasons today. I will still keep the window candles glowing until Candlemas, when we get back to ten hours of daylight.
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It is below freezing in the courtyard this morning as much of December has been, though the new year is forecast to begin with a thaw. Despite the cold, I am sitting by the wall of the optician's at least long enough to study the Christmas decor in the windows, while not, I hope, getting frostbite. In each window hang two giant Christmas ornaments, one red, one green, on either side of which are stylized wire Christmas trees. The shelf below has a crystal sleigh drawn by a crystal reindeer, and complementing this are small, glittering silver gift boxes plus a garland of silver poinsettias. Taped to the glass are cut paper snowflakes, having the aberration that they are all identical. Aside from that small flaw, the elderly twin brothers who provide these seasonal spectacles (pun intended) have done themselves proud this Christmas. Still I miss Linda's Passion with the mannequin Santa. Such thing are far too tacky, of course, for today's hypersensitive young folk.
Grey's author website is finally live, but he has some edits to do before disseminating the link. It was quite the adventure! Now, fingers numb, time to move on...
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On my way to the soon-to-be-destroyed mall to shop for Christmas, I have stopped at Corner Bakery for coffee. Behind me I overhear a young man discussing religion with his companion. I don't quite get the gist of it because this youngster has a quite deep cough. From what I do gather, he is attempting to explain divine reasoning behind what he views as God's actions. The lads might of course be studying Spinoza in school, but rather suspecting the coughing one could well be trusting God over science, I finish half of my pumpkin baby bundt and retreat with my coffee to the car. The day is mild after freezing rain all day yesterday, when I spared my immune system and stayed home.
For all the reasons repeated ad nauseam in the media, this winter season will be the most dangerous of the pandemic. We will gather together, and there will be expectations of gifts and thus of shopping. Retailers now want to force us online, and Amazon is handy. But why, pray, must several items purchased at one time for one address be delivered on different days? And so, on to the shops!
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With so much rain lately, it is impossible to sit in the courtyard. Wet, swampy, southern air meanders up the east coast like a slow train. Only Starbucks has indoor seating in the morning, and it is limited. So with a so-called "tridemic" knocking off whatever old folks have not had the good sense to die yet, I opt for Corner Bakery. There is more dangerous than ever as so many young people, not fully vaccinated, apparently choose to rely on the dubious strength of the immune system for their survival. All the while, covid is overtaking pneumonia as "the old man's friend."
I sit at the long bar on the front window, and a young couple is there, fortunately at a distance from me. From what I overhear, they are planning a vacation in the tropics - honeymoon? They had better go soon, as the young man has a suspicious cough. The rain having stopped, I am back to the village for groceries. One of the vacant shops I hear has a tenant coming - a cafe? No, no, another bank, of course!
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I am at the Corner on the first day of December, which already feels like the first of March. Yet for all the cold north wind outside, a maple tree beyond the window retains a fringe of pale red leaves. Behind me a woman is ordering breakfast: she wants not only the scrambler, but pancakes and a muffin, plus a soft drink - with extra ice. It is not a take-out order, so she is not feeding the family. A young woman with a toddler sits by the far wall preoccupied with her phone, the now common parental escape from jejune boredom.
Just a few patrons are here this morning; the place still has not returned to its former bustle. But I recognize one woman who had been a regular, like myself, at each cafe offering hazelnut java. She is now a bit pudgy, and does not recognize me. The next customer in line wants an oat milk latte; oat milk is an attraction here, along with the breakfast menu. Then comes one who says to Izmenia, a clerk who has been here forever, "You know what I want!" As the young mother leaves with her daughter, I note she is pregnant. Alas, a glutton for punishment! But now, into the wind -
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After a heavy autumn rain, a table and chair in the courtyard take four napkins to dry adequately. I ought to chastise Jacinto, head of maintenance, when I see him, but I never do. His predecessor, Doyle, a young Asian, would at least lean the chairs on the tables. An energetic person, he kept the petunias watered in summer. He left before I had a chance to ask him if his parents were Sherlock Holmes devotees, and since that time we have to settle for begonias.
Post Halloween the window dressing at the optician's is ready for Thanksgiving, the next event, with cornucopias spilling varicolored squashes and autumn leaves, displayed on shelves covered in a pumpkin pattern. Three old white men, one with a South African accent, have stopped here for a Starbucks after cycling. They are discussing right wing politics. Three young women at the next table also talk politics - the results of the recent elections. Apart from these groups, behind a veritable chariot of a baby stroller, a mother is nursing her infant, discreetly of course, yet proof positive that our courtyard is a sheltered haven.
The Bentley just pulled in. I hope Grey has news of the author website.
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I'm outside under the awning at the French bakery on the day that the remnants of Hurricane Nicole are soaking us. Always a good Girl Scout, I equipped myself years ago, when I noted the northerly advance of tropical weather, with a light waterproof windbreaker of the sort you will see on newscasters reporting in the midst of the storm. It serves me well, along with high rubber boots, as I ford parking lot rivers. The bakery's cranberry muffin is exceptional this season as it has walnuts. I share one with the poor wet sparrows. Only when we are done do the crows notice belatedly, but one little muffin would hardly be enough for this horde, already late as well to migrate - with winter chills forecast next week.
Needless to say the birds and I are the only living souls braving the wet this morning, the kind of weather that accentuates a glaring deficiency in the village, namely the lack of indoor seating, especially of a morning. We have a Starbucks, but since the viral onslaught most continue reluctant to sit cheek by jowl, which is invariably the case in that place. I am known to decry the failure of the Vie de France to provide seating when they acquired ample space some years ago. Thank heaven for their awning! The restaurants do not open until lunch time, when the parking lot becomes a bee hive of patrons. Meanwhile, there are vacant store fonts on three of the four corners of the crossroads. A Corner Bakery would fit nicely. But who listens to me? Now: hood, mask, umbrella - onward!
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On election day, I hesitate to go out, fearing traffic if nothing worse. I have voted by mail, which is now a smooth process in our state. Yet I learn on the news that the Justice Department is sending patrols to hot spots to be on alert for violence. It is also turning cold, despite November having started by repaying October for its many cold days. Nevertheless, I venture out on errands, stopping in the courtyard for morning coffee. In the sun and out of the wind I am quite snug.
A gray haired black woman sits alone with her Starbucks, sphinx-like, perhaps meditative. Her hair is in locks, a style becoming widespread among African Americans, at the same time that young white women have uniformly gone to long ringlets coming down the sides of the head. I attribute it to the flat irons now available that make it easy to do. Still it strikes me as passing ironical that a generation of women apparently so eager to throw off the fetters of tradition should cotton to the Rapunzel look, while hair dressers ruined by the pandemic are forced to drive for Uber.
Aside from the black woman, two other women have a sunny table, one showing phone photos to her companion, whose sole job is to admire and repeat, "How cuuute!" I greet Carmen and Jacinto as they pass through - the property manager and head of maintenance - then move on to errands.
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After three days of overcast chilliness, the sun is back, and October's bright blue weather illuminates the blaze of autumn color. In forty-five years of living hereabouts, I have never seen the trees more vivid and varied in their annual display. Alas, the show has a limited engagement; as I sit in the courtyard this morning the northwest wind brings down a rain of leaves and whips them up in cyclones. Even by the optician's only one table is safe, as the wind is channeled over the roof tops on the back corner.
The sparrows are braver as winter comes; an older male will even hop on my table to beg. Does he know me? The gathering flock of crows is truly enormous, and as they struggle with the wind they pepper the sky. Though larger they are more shy than the smaller birds. As for my fellow denizens, a lone woman stands talking on her phone. She is discussing therapy for her husband, who apparently has had a stroke. Two men are sitting in the sun having a rather personal discussion over their coffee. One is a "low talker," but I get the drift of the conversation from the other, who has the kind of voice that is easily heard without his trying, causing me to wonder if this trait is natural - a property of the larynx perhaps - or learned, as with speech therapy.
Election day is imminent, and with Grey's Jeremiah to my Cassandra, we are on tenterhooks, praying the electorate will defy expectations.
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I am at Panera and it's the coffee break rush, so I sit outside where the red and white begonias have flourished; they are easily a foot tall. We often hear Hebrew spoken here, compliments of the nearby Jewish Community Center. But there is also a large community of Asians in garden apartments up the street. This morning three Asian women are here with two small boys, whose antics keep their mothers hopping. Among another Asian group, a young woman has a novel dye job: the under layer of her hair is blonds while that on her crown is black, pulled back like a cap.
The patio is on the west side of the building; and as summer is over, a northwest wind chases me back inside. During the curbside coffee days I scouted around for a cafe with outdoor seating that would catch the morning sun, but found not one. Builders ought to be more attune to feng shui. A patio facing west will get very hot in summer, driving diners away, while on the east instead, it will be a morning refuge in winter and give afternoon shade in summer. But no one has asked me! Nor my old friend Grey for that matter, despite his ventures into publishing. He is taking his tine in considering the proper text for an author website, which will describe his three books and give links to buy them. This blog will also appear there. But who sees it? Tomorrow I will meet the old Jeremiah in the courtyard.
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In the courtyard this morning is an adolescent boy in Hasidic clothing - the black fedora, jacket, slacks - holding the four holy species of Succoth. It seems late in the season for that Jewish holiday, but the calendars do not always correspond. If this boy is the same one I have seen in previous years, he must be ageless. He is accosting passersby with the palm and the myrtle, I presume to educate them about the biblical tradition. The optician, meanwhile, has already decorated for Halloween: on the background of orange sky, a witch and bats fly across the full moon; standing on the shelves, green-skinned witches in pumpkin dress, and at the center of each window the ceramic bust of a jester in gold ribbons.
Sitting in front of me a few tables up is a stocky, gap-toothed black man laughing to himself. He has no device, nor do I note a bluetooth. Is he laughing at the audacious crows? At me feeding the sparrows? Perhaps he is amused by what may be sagacious social commentary arising in his own thoughts. I reflect how quickly we have learned to be suspicious of one another in these tribal times. I used to be friendly. Now my old fiend Grey is working on an author website at the same time Facebook has all but locked him out. Well, there still is the corked bottle in the sea!
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At the equinox, the rising sun is seen at the end of Hunters Lane on my morning walks as it proceeds southward. Today was my first chance to walk after a lingering spell of cold rain from the monstrous Hurricane Ian. I cannot imagine the losses being borne by those in its path, though in Florida aerial maps from some years ago reveal how the population has mushroomed, from scattered towns to a veritable anthill of dwellings of =dubious caliber. How long will it take for people to learn that the place, among many others, has become uninhabitable?
In my neighborhood, two new houses have sprung up, both with what I believe is the "super white" siding that reflects the sun's heat. Curiously, however, the roofs are black. Emblematic of extremism? No gray areas these days! Following my walk I am off to Panera, hoping to hit it between coffee break and lunch, though today with enough napkins to dry the chair, and a table out of the wind, I can sit outside!
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Not quite October yet and I am in the courtyard huddled by the optician's wall in the sun. Crows are flocking and, in preparation to migrate, compete with voracious sparrows for croissant crumbs. A man behind me, apparently hostile to crows, chases them away. We both persist, as do the crows, until I have finished my croissant. What is it about crows? At least the man is not angry enough to confront me.
At other tables, a man talks French on his Bluetooth, and three women have assembled with notebooks and clip boards. One has a purse dog named Gigi. They are associated, I gather, with a local private school, perhaps PTA.
When I see Grey approach from the parking lot in his fedora, I surmise that October truly is precipitate, trading places with September. He is over the moon with the new book, while yet realizing the barriers to its ever gaining attention. Neither he nor I have more than a rudimentary acquaintance with internet marketing, and I encourage him to pay for services this time as far as he able. His retort? What if it goes viral? Well, that's the danger!
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In the first full day of autumn we have weather whiplash - cold, dry air and gusty north winds. I am at the Corner, needless to say inside, where there still is ample space between patrons. In the parking lot opposite has sprung up, like invasive mushrooms, a circus with big top and all, created, the sign says, by the imagination of the Vasquez family. Should be good for business I suppose.
Over by the wall sits a group of four, three women and a man. One of the women does all the talking, holding forth on her nieces, their weddings, and more, while her companions listen patiently. Meanwhile, three employees stand outside in the wind. One is cuddling a small, very furry white dog in her arms.
Due to the usurpation by the circus I have had to park down the steps from here, but I will amble over to the mall anyway for a Jewish New Year card to send a dear old friend. The mall, no longer a place to sip coffee and browse, or buy anything on impulse, is not an attraction for me, but symbolizes rather a world where children have been allowed to take charge. Must take that up with Grey in the courtyard tomorrow.
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Back in the courtyard, we still enjoy early fall weather to last the week though oddly not the next. Yet a cool breeze from the northwest is refreshing, and the little yellow leaves of the courtyard trees rain down. Typical of the cool weather, the sparrows are ravenous for croissant crumbs, which I rain down on them. The School Zone signs are already gone from the optician's windows, replaced with black and white geometry: a striped banner with a glittery fan on it, and on the shelves, inverted cups with a black and white zigzag pattern, eyeglasses perched on top.
A young woman comes with her small daughter, whom she lifts onto a tall chair by the tall table in front of me on the wall by Starbucks. These taller tables line both walls of the courtyard, and all the furniture has been painted the deep chocolate of the new pieces. The mother turns immediately to her phone, and the little girl jumps down to wander in search of amusement. When the mother speaks, she reveals a slavic accent. She glances at me self-consciously. What might she suspect? Aside from Vlodomyr and Vladimir I surely could never distinguish Ukrainian from Russian. I smile and keep writing.
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On my way to the mall for what has become a rare foray to department stores, I must of course stop at the Corner for the hazelnut coffee and free oat milk. As it is a cool, breezy day there are no umbrellas up on the patio, and the clear bluesy with high clouds is a joy to behold. Further not is sparked when I not with amazement that the windows have finally been washed! Two dogs are here von the patio: a bored Newfoundland with two women speaking broken Spanglish - for example, "pero, honestly?" - and a small curly pup who begs, his young mistress explaining her reluctance to train him lest he become too robotic. "At the end of the day, he's a dog!" Yes, of course... Further information vindicates my suspicion that the Spanglish women are teachers, ESL perhaps? If they teach Spanish, they need more practice.
In the mall I find that many stores are gone and maybe half are new. One to come will be "The B-12 Store." These real estate investors are certainly doing their market research! Thus assured to have a reliable supply of that vitamin, I move on.
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It is the last day of August, yet here in the courtyard the weather anticipates September with a cool stiff wind from the west. I put on my sweater and reflect how soon it will be time to seek the sunny tables. Lots of denizens this morning conversing with people or devices. The women gossip, the men do business. Plus ça change... The birds are daunted by the wind, which brings down flurries of little yellow leaves from the courtyard trees.
Strange how casual people have become about covid transmission. I daresay I begin to feel out of place in my KN95, using my hand sanitizer, but I still see other old people like myself taking precautions. Any respiratory illness at my age is potentially dangerous. Grey contends that covid was just the beginning, given, as we often discuss, that the global crises we now witness are the damages from the arrogance of globalization. As with invasive plants and insects, there will come more viruses.
Speak of the Devil! Here he comes. The Bentley survived Chautauqua!
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On the patio at Panera, despite oppressive heat, the conclave of the rabbis is being harangued by an Iranian woman who exclaims repeatedly as to how she would have expelled her son had he "spoken to her that way," to which they nod approvingly. At the same time, behind me a person of another religion is counseling someone about sex, specifically God's view of the subject - marriage good, pornography bad. Good lord! This seems rather a public place for such a discussion, but perhaps it is the Protestant version of confession. Without seeing them I have the impression that the counseling is online, but upon getting up, I see the counselee is a reluctant and low talking young man - perhaps a fellow clergyman? Spiritual advice at Panera - well, there's the coffee you see, free almond milk and refills.
Grey will post today on his northerly adventure. It was "instructive," and after morning walks he finished reading Bleak House on the quiet shores of Lake Chautauqua, the name of which he tells me is Indian, meaning tied in the middle, a reference to the long lake which narrows midway.
As the sun comes over the roof, I move on.
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Hints of approaching autumn in the courtyard this morning! The big, yellow school zone signs are back up in the optician's windows along with supersized no. 2 wooden pencils. I can almost smell the chalk and crayons! The yellow jackets are here as a further herald, making some people hysterical. I use a napkin to wave them off, which will invariably suffice unless one is near a hive. If one sees them come and go like planes at an airport that is the signal to give a wide berth, or else be stung. They are unlikely to sting when foraging for food.
Rushing the season, a little girl sitting with three women is wearing her Halloween dress - orange, and bedecked with bats, owls, and ghosts. Also here today is a portly woman with her children. She has two bratty boys and one neglected and dejected girl. Grey is away this week on his sojourn in the north, not Maine but western New Work. The latter is at least somewhat cooler, while the former is too far for a road trip; and Grey is not about to camp out at the airport. His essay collection will be coming soon. Stay tuned!
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In the courtyard this morning, it feels like summer in the tropics, and each summer, I fear, advances that reality - very hot, very wet. Still, before the sun comes over the shop roofs there is the saving grace of shade. Enjoying this advantage is a young Asian woman being interviewed by an old white woman. The latter has cropped, white hair, and a red face that appears to be incapable of a smile. In sharp contrast, the young woman is all smiles and giggles. I thought this might be a job interview, but as they talk the Asian woman exhibits expertise on the subject matter, namely gardens, plants, birds, and animals. Perhaps the older woman is writing for a gardening magazine? A very large diamond on the young woman's finger flashes as the sun finds them out, and they leave.
By the sunny wall of the optician's shop sits a very fancy woman, apparently not satisfied with her already deep tan. I recognize her as the person who once ran the posh gift shop cum nursery that was sold, the property to be used for yet another seniors' residence. And so on to the errands...
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The Panera I frequent after the chiropractor seems to draw people in outrageous costumes, leading me to wonder whether there might be a local theater troupe that meets nearby. This morning, for example, comes a woman in a long flowing dress with large stripes of yellow, red, and shades of blue. Might she be playing Titania in "A Midsummer Night's Dream"? Would that I were bold enough to inquire! Despite the threat of rain - a daily condition this summer - I take my coffee to the patio, where a group of young women are chatting softly. A slight, androgynous person comes, wearing a mask, and sits occupying self with phone.
The kerfuffle lately over pronouns surely seems a bit ridiculous, and to remove gender from the language is a step too far. If gender is a spectrum, each individual may be said to occupy a unique point on it, and so would be allowed - nay, expected - to invent unique pronouns. How about ot, os, and om? Communication is difficult enough as it is. Grey will send you an essay on it upon request. As I leave I notice one of the young women has an infant. No wonder the low voices - I was about to recommend espresso!
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In the courtyard early after the eye doctor, I find Carmen, the management employee in charge of the property. She is here this morning bringing new chairs and tables and removing the old, some of which she tells me will be painted and returned. The new furniture is nearly identical to the old - wooden and teak brown. The original teak was bolted to the pavement, before the renovation, to prevent theft.
Carmen is looking as jaunty as ever in a flowery dress and summery straw hat. We exchange greetings and compliments, and I assure her that the blog still features the courtyard post. She invites me to write for their newsletter but somehow cannot tell me where to ind it, suggesting it may not exist except as an intention. She goes on to her work, and I sit down with my coffee and pastry. The sparrows today are all boys, until two aggressive females burst upon the crumbs. Moms are here with toddlers: one is playing hide and seek, another blows bubbles. Northwest breeze, four mph.
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Having gotten out of the habit of shopping in stores, I rarely stop at Corner Bakery as I used to, and indeed it is no longer the refuge it was in the before time. The pastries are few and often stale; the staff members are few and sullen, and the patrons are fewest of all. But the coffee is still good and the oat milk free. In summer the patio is a pleasant place to sit in the morning with my Moleskine. This morning there sits a Latino woman with her toddler daughter and her own mother. To the child they speak English, doting upon her excessively as she is truly the quintessence of cute. Presently they are joined by two more women, apparently relatives. They are quite the energetic family!
I was last here a month ago on a morning of cool rain. Some of the patio tables enjoy the advantage of being under roof. On that occasion an old man, closely resembling the manager, was intent upon chasing the crows away. Now crows are famously obstinate, but this man was equally persistent, which caused me to wonder whether he was a brother of the manager, enlisted to keep the crows out of the trash. I moved on before there was a victor.
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I am late to the courtyard after massage therapy. Ordinarily I would go to Panera, but today I need to buy fish at the market. There is still shade on the Starbucks side, but the sun will find us out erelong. Across at the optician's, the window dressing has gone from patriotic to nautical: large white ship's wheels hang above the shelves on which model sailboat and lighthouses are displayed, and seashells are scattered. Always in keeping with the season! As I pull up one of the tall, heavy chairs, an old gentleman with a French accent offers to help. I decline but thank him for asking. Perhaps he noticed my tote bag from Medicins sans Frontieres. No, there surely are no men as gallant as the Frenchman. The Italians pretend to be but aren't. The British once were chivalrous. The rest of the world is lost to machismo.
In this election year, several county and state offices are on the ballot, and primary voting is next week. One young man running for county executive has a campaign commercial complaining of his rivals, the rich man and the old man, who is the incumbent. I recognize this candidate walking through the courtyard - or his double. Just as I thought, he is too young!
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It is still cool and breezy in the courtyard on the last day of June; nevertheless, the shady tables by Starbucks are all occupied with people at work on their devices. A young black woman with a laptop and earphones is having a discussion with a client about marketing his blog on social media. Two old gents sit by the restaurant also talking business, and I wonder whether they might by Messrs. Zuckerman and Gravely of the property management firm. A younger man comes out of Starbucks to ask them what he might get for them. Is he a clerk? No, he returns with coffee - and blueprints under his arm. I worry. For the decades I have lived here, our citizens association has kept out major development in the village, but these days?
As the season progresses, fledgling sparrows join their parents here, fluttering their wings as they beg. Usually they are ignored by the grownups, forcing them to learn to fend for themselves. But today a mama sparrow, enjoying crumbs of my muffin, is sharing them with her baby, taking a bite for herself and then putting a piece into the fledgling's beak. Most solicitous, I daresay. Good mama, lucky baby!
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Pleasant on the patio at Panera, indeed, a rare June day in June, with July the day after tomorrow. A gentle breeze from the south stirs the begonias and ruffles the shade umbrellas. In front of me are an elderly black man and woman, sitting in silence. I suspect the woman may be his mother - no need for conversation! Lots of patrons are chatting together here enjoying the fresh air. The java is conducive. Three old women are discussing colonoscopy, not without a soupçon of drollery. They cover the whole Megillah: prep, anesthesia, procedure. The last sentence concerns the man who refused the screening test. One woman says, "They cut him open and sewed him right back up." Next topic! Meanwhile, the sparrows are eager for crumbs this morning. Even the resident mocking bird joins in.
In the before time, I always had a reason to come here. Not alone the chiropractor, there were other missions: massage therapy at the same office; the hair salon; and most often the printer. One expects things to change, but gradually over years, not virtually overnight. The chiropractor has remained, but the masseuse moved closer to the city, the hair dresser retired, and the printer moved across the river leaving only a satellite office. Now I just come for the coffee!
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In the courtyard, again on the shady wall outside Starbucks, I am treated to the vagaries of fashion that seem peculiar to our village. A woman goes through in a sundress printed all over with large owls. Not just any owls, these are barn owls with their staring eyes set upon white faces. On a dress? Eye catching, so to speak. She is accompanied buy her husband pushing a baby in a stroller. A check of the optician's window dressing signals the imminent approach of July: bunting is hung and glittery silver stars, and on the shelves stems of glittery fire crackers pop out of Uncle Sam's inverted top hats. Lots of people here for a weekday having morning coffee. Two unruly young boys racer around endangering their elders. Three young women are having a jolly meeting, laughing raucously over a bit of gossip.
I have a rush of relief spying the Bentley enter the parking lot and Grey step out in his Panama. The loss of his elder brother has him distracted if not disconsolate. For a man with dementia and renal failure, death is friendly after all. Yet it was rather sudden, and Grey could not be there anyway, given the state of air travel. You can still request an email copy of his prophetic essay "Travel: You can't get there from here."
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This morning I have taken my Rapid Pickup muffin and coffee outside to the patio of Panera, where summer begonias have been planted, red and white. The conclave of rabbis is also convening in the fresh air today, and of course here I can share my muffin with the sparrows. Far more numerous than in the courtyard, these city birds know a good neighborhood! Over the speakers a male singer is "tired of love songs," which he emphasizes by repeating the phrase ad nauseam so that his listeners will be equally disgusted. One wonders how anyone can imagine this is music. Th rabbis converse in Hebrew, so I can only surmise the subject to be of a deeply spiritual nature? At another table two white men, who could be father and son, are interviewing an African woman. She may be a wedding planner, or perhaps a teacher.
There is a stiffish breeze from the north, but it is not cold, quite warm in fact. A cold front is predicted in two days. Grey and I will meet in the courtyard tomorrow. He has had dire news from the old country, where his older brother has died unexpectedly. He reports on that today.
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We are having an early June preview of summer heat, so it is not the sunny side of the courtyard by the optician that is coveted this morning but the opposite side in the shadow of Starbucks. Not even the dappled shade of our courageous, long-suffering courtyard trees will be enough today. Along that Starbucks wall at the tall tables there sits a line of men engaged with their devices, but I am able to secure the table furthest back. My device is pen and paper. Nary a sparrow is to be seen whose eye I might catch with croissant crumbs. Perhaps they are hiding from the sudden, early heat wave.
Nonetheless, one may count on the courtyard for local color. An Asian woman comes through in stilettos carrying a red purse, and her hair appears to have been dyed to match. Over in the dappled shade, a bearded black man and a balding white man are discussing apartheid over Starbucks. At another table a man and woman are having the tamer java of the Vie deFrance. He has a blue band above his elbow, tight as a tourniquet, but I surmise therapy band - tennis elbow? Donning my mask for the stores, I am on to errands!
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Winter rains have given way to summer rains here in the Tropical States of America. We have the floods and the DSA, the Desert States of America have the fires. We also have the tropical diseases. Monkey pox? What's next! In any case, Corner Bakery has tables outside under roof, so I am taking refuge here with their delicious coffee and free oat milk. Even Starbucks, I learn, charges for nondairy. Really?
Inside is a crowd just finishing breakfast. Apparently fear of contagion is over, which only means more sickness and the elimination of more elders. But life is cheap where it is superfluous. Witness the now formulaic response to mass shootings here. Grey threatens to offer a "modest proposal." In answer to the pregnancies forcibly carried to term under sanction of law, especially in the south, parents have a means to be relieved of those unwanted children. Simply send them to school. If they are old enough, send them with an assault rifle to kill more babes before they are able to multiply. A real Joker that Grey!
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Giant yellow and pink butterflies perch on white trellis; shelves are covered in matching colors; small birdhouses are fixed atop vine-covered posts standing in flower pots!@ Summer in the courtyard! And is you are paying attention, that would be the optician's window dressing. Somewhere from the braves above me, a baby sparrow begs very loudly for breakfast.
Three me of varying age have met over coffee, and appear to be conducting a job interview for a company involving blue collar work, trucks and long hours. The young man I surmise is the applicant does not seem thrilled. An old woman with white hair comes in and joins a young woman already seated. They might be mother and daughter, and are speaking a Slavic tongue, which for all I know could be Ukrainian. Surely refugees are arriving here by now. Their plight is hard to imagine, and ample proof of why Ukrainians hate the Russians, who are historically bent on their utter destruction. A breeze from the southeast hits my back. The swamp air is back.
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I have not been to the Corner for some time; and this mourning, while it is mild, the awnings are flapping on the northeast side, so I have taken a booth inside. They still offer hazelnut coffee, and oat milk is free, unlike the Vie deFrance in the village - where rent is high. This place is not crowded, and the windows remain dirty - worthy of the muchachos in Tortilla Flat. Well, it will stay cooler in summer. The staff members here are not masked and neither are most of the patrons, except for the older ones like myself. The young have been told they will get sick - but not very sick. For an old person, only God knows if their time is up. One does not want to live too long, of course, but that horizon tends to be pushed forward as the years pass. With improvements in cancer treatment, I fear we may be tempted to outlive our skin!
In the beforetime, I would take my coffee and walk across to the department store to do some reconnaissance shopping. These days, after my early morning walk, I haven't the stamina, plus there is the contagion. Reflecting how dire conditions come upon us and fail to leave, I refill my cup and head home.
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A rainy week is forecast, and I am sitting at the only dry table in the courtyard, which is shielded by an overhang of the Starbucks roof. Most of this overhang protects only half of each table situated along that wall, but here at the very back the roof juts out enough to keep this one table and chair dry. I am the only person here braving the wetness, save for the sparrows and one lone crow, whose voice puts me in mind of my village outpost of the lockdown time, where crows enjoyed an often neglected trashcan.
After awhile two men come out of Starbucks and consider the very wet table in front of me. One goes back into the coffeehouse and returns with bunches of napkins, which are quickly used up in drying chairs and table. They sit and begin to discuss the one man's divorce. The other reveals that he experienced his parent's divorce as a child, and counsels how important it is for the couple to remain friendly. The divorcing man remarks on early signs of marital friction when their respective families were antagonistic. Bring back the matchmakers! I am inclined to declare. But thoroughly distracted by this rather personal conversation, I decide to move on to my errands.
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On my walk this morning I saw the hawk fly into the old nest. Then he flew toward me, perched on a line to check me out, and flew off into the trees. So they are using that old nest again after some years - like buying an old house! I must bring my binoculars hereafter. Later in the courtyard, the wind has finally stopped whipping us, and while the air is cool the sun is delicious. Its light reveals that I have pulled on a black blazer over a navy sweater - the height of gauche in my day, alas. We have had a good deal of blazer weather this spring, in fact. The dog man is here with an old bulldog. He is much subdued since the days he would go about the village with a pack of fosters attempting to shame us into adoption. Two Indian men sit drinking Starbucks. Given the resemblance, they are assuredly brothers. A woman on a red bike pulls up to the nearby rack and starts a conversation. She is a "flooder," and before she moves on we know too much about her health status.
There is a blizzard of petals on the brick pavement, and I surmise that, unless there was a wedding here this morning, the gales must have blown them over the rooftops from a neighbor's cherry tree. Not an "ill wind" after all!
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I am on the patio at Panera after the chiropractor. The sun is warm, the temperature mild, but the breeze a tad cool, especially in the shade where I sit. Yellow, orange and white violas are struggling valiantly to fill the flower beds. The sparrows sharing my muffin are joined by a mocking bird, a first for him, though I have heard his song from atop the light post. This time of year, the sparrows are more eager for nest materials - small twigs or scraps of paper.
A Chinese couple sits in the sunny corner engaged in a serious discussion in Chinese. Most people coming here are still in masks as they enter. One woman comes by in a long jeans skirt. How bohemian! She has the long hair to match. I still use Rapid Pickup, and I am such a creature of habit, my standard order can be had with one tap as soon as the app is opened. These machines are so smart! Grey and I will meet in the courtyard tomorrow, and no, he did not lose his fedora in the spring winds. It's a Borsalino after all! He will want to discuss Elon, the clever fellow who imagines he has the very algorithm to defeat disinformation. Tell that to the mocking bird, and he will entertain you with his impersonation of the kookaburra!
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The bell of St. Francis Episcopal across the street strikes three, and I am alone in the courtyard warming my hands on a decaf peppermint latte from Starbucks. There has been an unusual spring storm bringing frigid wind chills and even snow to some areas further north. I am late on my village errands, as the maids were late for their monthly service, and they cleaned the porch for the first time this season, quite an undertaking. They are very good, and my aging back is spared, thankfully.
Hereabouts covid restrictions have been eased, but in truth old people like me continue to observe them. There will surely be a surge in summer and again in winter. Indeed with so many abstaining from vaccination we must depend on natural herd immunity to relieve us of the scourge, and the virus enjoys a huge global population on which to test its mutations. What I miss is being able to finish my coffee as I shop in the stores, but that is a small inconvenience, and heaven knows there are far worse burdens in abundance.
As I pull out of the parking lot, the newly planted violas, blasted by the westerly gales, are trembling like St. Vitus. I hope Grey doesn't lose his fedora!
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For the week preceding Easter, the weather is borrowed from May, hence the courtyard is the place to be. The optician's windows are also in keeping: pots of small tulips, in red and white and pink and white; between these tall arrangements of varicolored cosmos sheafed together; shelves are lined in pink satin, and behind it all are white metal panels with blossom-shaped cutouts. A splendid effort, yet I still miss the mannequin Easter Bunny, so large he scared the children and reminded me of Harvey the pooka, of stage and screen fame, circa 1950. Two women come through, one of whom seems to have unpacked all her spring finery in some haste. She is in jeans, but both her sneakers and coat are printed with flowers and she carries a bag checkered black and white. Her companion in contrast is not the least flamboyant. They meet a third woman, and the trio disappears into Starbucks.
A waitress from the restaurant comes out to cordon off their patio tables, upon which she then places on each a small vase of fresh flowers. Nothing is quite as enticing as fresh flowers on one's lunch table, yet the Italian place next door has not caught on. It is passing strange anyway that we still have two restaurants in such a small courtyard. But why not!
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Corner Bakery keeps open somehow, despite the dirty windows and continuing low patronage, but doubtless things will pick up once people may again sit outside. The windows are now so bad they put me in mind of that hovel depicted in Steinbeck's Tortilla Flat, in which the occupants explained its grimy windows as serving to keep the place cool in summer. Among the staff who have returned to working here is one who has always been particularly contrary, not of a temper, unfortunately, to encourage business. Here this morning this recalcitrant woman has already been tested by two customers. The first, upon learning he could not have potatoes with his American Scramble, complains, "You're breaking my heart about those hash browns." The next person, a white-haired black man in a black overcoat and a brown fedora, is heard to protest, "Cold oatmeal?! I don't do that!" A man after my own heart, hat and all!
I am fairly certain now that the local hawks are again nesting. On a recent walk I heard the low, rasping sound at the very spot I recall hearing a chick of the last brood as he would eagerly devour his hard-won breakfast. Sure enough there atop a three were the two love birds - doing well for themselves, I daresay.
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Here it is the end of March, and we are having a January day, payback for a March day that January borrowed in its rough mercy. Unhappily, I find myself at Panera, the usual table by the door, where a blast of cold strikes me with each exiting customer. The place is not crowded however. A few scattered patrons are each absorbed in their devices. Aside from myself, I have never observed anyone involved with pen and paper, though I might count a woman long ago in the beforetime who was working in a coloring book - for adults of course. She was most artistic as I recall - stayed inside the lines.
The trademark sound track at every Panera is distinctively innocuous, contrived I surmise to offend no one. It strikes me as rather folksy, while at the same time new and urban. Exclusively vocal, it somehow manages not to be distracting, a great benefit in a cafe where people go to talk, work or think. Occasionally, I will be vexed by a lyric, as in the number now playing in which the male singer is incredulously rhyming the words: blame, change, and explain. With that I pack up to leave, after refilling my coffee. Will March go out like a lion? Two days to go!
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Back in the courtyard, I am enjoying the blessed spring weather, when the warm sun together with cool dry air is pure bliss. It is now officially spring, and hereabouts blooming trees are wantonly extravagant as spring bulb emerge at their feet, promising still more profusion. Indeed one of the restaurants on the courtyard, already cordoned for lunch, has fresh flowers on the tables. But I am not ready for lunch, still enjoying coffee from the French bakery, where I have discovered there is almond milk for the asking.
Fellow denizens are few: there is a young woman in a black dress printed all over with yellow irises, and a group of school girls in their uniforms. The skirts, no longer than a tutu, each are in a plaid specific to the private school, like the tartan of a clan. The public schools in the county maintain a high standard, but are not quite as prestigious. At least they don't dress the girls like Scottish ballerinas.
Grey is hard at work reviewing the copyedit of his essay collection, for which the editor is demanding a citation on every quote. It seems excessive, but he attempts to comply, and I am helping him. And now, on to errands!
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On my morning walks, I pass two hawk nests, both in sycamore trees that stand beside a deep ravine holding an intermittent rill. I keep my eye on them as spring approaches to see if they might be used again. There was hope for the older nest a couple of years ago, but the hawks decided to build anew. Readers may recall my reports on the three babies that fledged from that newer nest. This year I was excited to observe the older one being refurbished, and sure enough the pair of hawks flying in. Could they be the original occupants, or one of the fledglings grown up? The wonders of spring!
Later at Panera I am stationed at my table by the door with my coffee and cranberry muffin. Ever on the alert for sartorial peculiarity, I am floored when a blonde woman enters, her hair to her waist, wearing silky bell bottom trousers and a tunic length sweater. I daresay she could be an amateur actress coming from an audition. Rapunzel for a children's theater? Errands await - I warm my coffee and gather my things.
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The courtyard is warm and sunny on a cold March day with wind chills. As usual, I sit by the optician's wall, shielded from the northward. His Valentine decor gave way to a stark black and white: plaster, Grecian columns, and shelves covered in glistening sliver or shiny white fabric. Since the days of Linda's Passion, the florist, there has never been any Irish green in honor of St. Patrick's Day. Surely in our mongrel, human race everyone must have some Irish ancestry, even the optician.
I am the only denizen here today, though many hurry past from the shops or between them, shivering in the wind. Just as Mycroft Holmes observed humanity from the window of the Diogenes Club, I hone my powers of observation here in the courtyard. For example, here comes a redheaded woman in a red coat and green stilettos! Not a trend, I surmise. But I have noticed more young men adopting the "man bun." Young women better epitomize conformity in style; and given their notoriety for feminism, their uniformly long hair in ringlets is ironic. It could be the Disney princess look, but it suggests the cave woman. Well it's in keeping with their hirsute suitors!
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March began this morning trying to enter like a lamb: the warming sun breaking through clouds, an occasional light breeze, the thermometer pushing fifty. As the day progresses, however, a more leonine nature is exposed. Clouds have set in, and without sun a gusty wind bites. I am inside at Panera following the chiropractor, and having left my smart phone on the kitchen table, I had to pay the old fashioned way. Luckily there was no line, and a very smart, efficient manager in a clean apron and mask filled my order quickly. The conclave of rabbis was here having a lively discussion on current events, which I deduced, despite the Hebrew, by a frequent mention of Putin. The matter settled, they have gone, leaving myself and very few others in the place. The lunch rush will bring a crowd surely, unless people are now repairing to their bomb shelters. We are after all near the nation's capital.
But all he world watches in horror as the clock spins backward to 1939. Grey sees it as the first serious test to our civilization: modern cities destroyed, their citizens dead or fled. What truer example of the tribal mindset than the Russian soldier overheard to say, "We don't know who to shoot - they all look like us." Grey will take that up next week. Now into the lion's mouth!
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Corner Bakery is one of my morning haunts, its main draw being the hazelnut coffee and just lately the addition of creamy oat milk. They also have good muffins and a cinnamon crumb cake, lots on the breakfast menu; but I eat breakfast much earlier. They stayed open throughout the pandemic - readers will recall my curbside coffee runs - and now business is picking up, though unfortunately staff has not. The big plate glass windows that used to be washed are now a mess, which is distressing if one sits at the bar in front as I have taken to doing.
The mall behind us brings patrons here, and shoppers are gradually returning - to clear shelves the re-stocking of which hangs in the balance of global trade. This mall is slated for redevelopment, the plan being for the new urban mode with retail, office, and residential space. I cannot but wonder where or if Corner Bakery will fit in this scheme of things, though considering where we now stand in the "decline and fall" I will likely not live to see it. Well, warm up my coffee and on to clear some shelves!
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In the courtyard this morning, I am enjoying the radiant heat of the sun by the western wall, sitting behind two young women, both Asian and rather a bit chubby. They have apparently met here by chance, though being acquainted, and are discussing eyeglasses, a logical enough topic given the proximity of the optician's displays. One announces that she is on her way to a massage appointment. She then is called upon to explain the face rest to her clueless counterpart. The latter takes her leave after this interchange, appearing disgruntled. The two are replaced by a mother and her golden-haired toddler boy, who eyes me timidly. When I smother a sneeze into my elbow, he blesses me. What a polite child! Could it be that some of us are born with a good manners, or at least a disposition that tends in that direction? I thank him, of course, and compliment his mother.
Aha! Surely that is Grey's Bentley in the parking lot. I was not expecting him today, but yes, here he comes in his fedora, already with coffee in hand. He must have news on the new book, about which he is in close contact with his publishers.
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Our local woodchuck, aka groundhog, has had his day; upon which he definitely did not see his shadow. It was not only cloudy but foggy; thus we anticipate an early spring. We surely have already had a goodly share of winter, with lots of snow and below average temperatures. That beloved furry marmot must have passed the word to the birds, as I heard them all chirping gaily this morning on my way to the courtyard. But of course the sun's angle is warmer and daylight hours longer. Grey will have taken down his window candles after Groundhog Day, which coincides with Candlemas in the Church calendar. He tells me it is also the day at this latitude that the plants begin to respond again to light.
The courtyard this morning remains in that sorry state of extreme social distance, just short of cordoned off, but no great demand for the few tables available anyway. Like the birds I am enjoying the radiant sunshine. Window dressing at the opticians's of course, has a Valentine theme: mobiles with glittering red hearts, and on the shelves heart-shaped boxes covered in satin, and lollipops of miniature red roses standing in pots. I do believe that, while seasonal, these decorations are never identical. I shed wraps as it actually grows too warm, then on to the errands.
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I have been coming to Panera now for no other reason than the hazelnut coffee with almond milk. Corner Bakery offers oat milk, which is even creamier, but the village bakery has not caught on, and I am allergic to dairy. This morning my table by the door has sweat pants draped over one of the chairs. Is someone holding the place? Or has this been left behind? I get my coffee and seeing no comers, move the article to another table, of which there is surfeit with few customers here. I would not like to imagine there might be anyone else as particular about this table.
Wistfully, I spy wi-fi corner where I used to sit. Most people on their laptops today are solitary, but one is talking to his device, apparently having a zoom meeting. The conclave of rabbis is not here, but I recognize a man who was a regular before, a slight man, balding, glasses. Over the years we spoke once, about the weather. He sees me in passing, and I say, "You're back," to which he replies in the affirmative before scurrying on. Meanwhile the sweat pants have fallen to the floor and an employee takes them away. The stimulating caffeine having taken effect, I too press on.
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The chairs and tables in the courtyard are still stacked, but sufficient remain for the few people here, arranged at opposite walls and giving the appearance of a setup for a square dance. There are two young women by the Starbucks side, discussing snow days when they were in elementary school. One then moves on to tell the other about her wisdom teeth, which are painful and require oral surgery. A more boisterous voice is heard from the sidewalk of a woman complaining about the mailbox, which does not open fully as it once did. Presumably the change was to prevent people from stuffing large packages into it. Had I been close enough, I would have remarked that at least no one can plant a bomb.
Meanwhile, I fancy the poor, hungry sparrows are happy to see me, what with charity being perforce so scant. Naturally I share my croissant, doling out bird-sized pieces until each beggar has had his fill. It was mostly bread anyway.
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The new year has ushered in frigid weather and lots of snow, so I have taken my table inside at Panera. As it is not crowded, I did not yet resort to curbside. The main door, to my left, provides sheltered entry, keeping cold air out; but an exit to the patio on my left lets in the cold air each time it opens. I don't wonder that the viral scourge is peaking in winter as one's immune system struggles with cold, dry air just to maintain body temperature. Society now should be prepared for these surges of covid mutants every winter.
Panera seems to be doing well as far as the staffing problems. The Rapid Pickup shelves are well utilized, which probably helps, and of course the chains have a size advantage. The snow and subsequent ice, however, make it hard even to get here. We are imprisoned by the season as well as contagion. Memory grew dim after two relatively mild winters, and I forgot to leave my gate open, a cardinal sin, since by morning it becomes as frozen as my own arthritic limbs. Now opened by a few whacks with my alpenstock, it shall remain so until spring!
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But for two tall tables by the optician's and a line of them huddling by Starbucks, all the other courtyard tables and chairs have been stacked aside. Though they are not roped off, it looks ominously like two years ago, when only the bakery remained open, and I had to resort to my outpost across the street where the benches are set in concrete. The virus has caught up with our vaccines. Yes, we may not get terribly sick, but into the calculus still goes the risk that one might be the breakthrough case that ends up on a respirator.
Nevertheless, frigid as it is this January morning, making up for our balmy December, there is scarce competition even for the sunny tables. Fittingly, given our two snow storms last week, window dressing at the optician's now has giant snowflakes that give the impression of three dimensional paper carvings. Blue velvet lines the shelves, and smaller snowflakes glisten next to the eyeglasses. I spy the Bentley in the parking lot and wave to Grey as he gets out, wearing his warmest fedora - the Borsalino, made of Belgian rabbit fur. He is awfully excited to finally publish the book of essays, in limbo for two years. We have much to discuss!
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Winters will be more difficult, combining extremes of weather with viral mutations assaulting us even as our immune systems struggle. The omicron passes easily between people, so many are carrying it and a portion will succumb, especially if unvaccinated. Nevertheless, I am inside at Panera this morning at my table by the door, post-Christmas. By the new year I will revert to curbside, as the peak surge is expected next month. Of course, I have the KN95 and the "Full Fauci," a phrase I picked up from John Kelley's column in today's Post.
At this cafe, located across the street from several institutions of the Jewish community - the senior residence, nursing home and school - one often hears Hebrew spoken. This morning two men appear to be having a deep discussion in that language. Is it religion, politics? The occasional familiar term gives it away: chips, hummus, pita, falafel. They are talking about food! Well, what really is deeper than that? Meanwhile over the speakers a modern chanteuse crucifies her Christmas repertoire - melismas worthy of a muezzin. Speaking of which, an Iranian man interrupts the Hebrew conversation, which turns to Middle East politics, in English. The Iranian is most passionate about proud Persians, who hate the Arab regime, its religion and language. Farsi is not Arabic, he decries! Carry on, my good fellows...
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Thanks to our mild December the courtyard is still a comfortable refuge, and refuge is sorely needed in pandemic year two. Even under normal circumstances the holiday season is troublous and exhausting. Add the variables of an evolving virus, and we are caught in microbial warfare, covid against our hastily fortified immune cells. The true covid test was depicted in this morning's Post - the editorial cartoon showing a man flung over a shark tank labeled "Holidays" and a fiery cauldron for "New Year's." My sentiments precisely; if we can only make it to January without a cough or a sniffle, we pass.
Grey and I are following CDC guidelines advising us not to change holiday plans. We didn't have any, but we met here at The Tavern for lunch on Christmas Eve. We had the place to ourselves, so no risk, and we joked that most people were probably camped out on the floor at the airport, in the foolhardy assumption that the pandemic was over. The Tavern has those now ubiquitous heaters outside if one wants to sit out this winter. How else will restaurants survive? Indeed, will they survive?
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Warm southerly winds are keeping December temperatures above average, occasionally balmy; and with holidays approaching, people are shopping in person, driven out by online "out of stock" problems and shortages in general. Thus here at Panera it appears 10:30 in the morning is coffee time for the masses. I pick up my order and sit outside, chilly though it yet is, until the crowd thins. At 11:00, between coffee and lunch, there is a lull when my table inside by the door is free and I can sit with my coffee and finish this post. The omicron variant of covid has everyone in a chaos of confusion about how to respond, but experts are advising that the vaccinated may carry on with holiday plans and prepare to coexist with covid henceforward. Still at my age I may be back to curbside before the winter is over.
It is these southerly air flows causing the monster tornadoes when they bump up against winter air masses, and the monsters are reaching ever farther north. Grey and I miss the snow here, which while rarely prodigious would more often grace the landscape with gentle beauty. But winter is just beginning today, so there is hope - on all fronts. A happy Christmas to call!
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In the courtyard this morning, window dressing at the optician's has exchanged autumn leaves for Christmas wreaths: white with peppermint striped ribbon and silver balls, the shelves lined in red and strewn with white poinsettia blooms. The menorah still stands here, all lit and tall as the street lights, though Hanukah has been over for ten days.
Behind me a bald man is talking on this phone about a rail line in California. He refers to the "infrastructure bill" and partnering with Amtrak. In the course of this discussion one learns he was at one time a Congressional candidate and so has connections in the Congress. The other table in the sun has three women and one old man.The younger woman is dithering about an age appropriate Santa story to tell her youngster. She doesn't want to lie and is against bribing him to behave in order to get a Christmas present, apparently in the assumption that a child will be good out of his own inborn sense of morality. She does tell her child the nativity story, but then confesses that she doesn't believe that one either. The old man remains tight-lipped through it all. Alas, children raising children!
But now on with the mask and into the shops.
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At Panera on a very cold morning when even the violas in their beds are shivering, hearty though they are. These typical December days are now punctuated with others when warm winds from the south wail eerily, and dark clouds threaten rain. A full complement of seven men fill the rabbis' conclave this morning, but the cafe is not busy and the table by the door has my name on it - as usual lately - omicron perhaps? Two young women at the long table by the exit are in a lively conversation regarding their work, which may be related to computers. They are so animated that I suspect more than one double espresso. In the background I am hearing Christmas carols, very unusual for Panera which has its own peculiarly colloquial musical genre.
I am off to the Hallmark store in fact for Christmas cards and gifts. It may be crowded, and being a small shop, already stuffed with goods. In my KN95, I will be quick as I can!
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December tomorrow, and November already has been a preview of the cold months. But morning coffee in the courtyard is propitious even so, shielded from the north wind by the wall of the optician's and further graced by the warmth of morning sun. It is a bleak, Cimmerian day indeed when one cannot sit comfortably of a morning in the courtyard, praise be. Even on those lugubrious days, Grey and I , in years past, might meet here and brush off snow or dry chairs with napkins; but we have gotten older and the weather even worse.
Grey is in the throes of researching publishers for his book of essays, and there are lots of sharks in those waters, as we both know well. The industry evolves faster than a coronavirus. Just since 2018 when his biography of Jeremy Brett came out a plethora of various publishing services have come online with a surprising emphasis on marketing. We surmise that there has been a tidal wave of marketing majors set loose upon the world searching about for a niche.
Speak of the devil, I spot him in his camel fedora coming across the parking lot. He waves his silver handled cane in greeting!
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It is a day borrowed from February; yes, that cold, but auguring a November payback in mid-winter. At Panera, yellow and white violas outside are whipped by the north wind. Inside there is a long line, but few are dining in. I have ordered Rapid Pickup and take my table by the door; the app makes this strategy very handy. A woman comes in with two little boys on their scooters. They are Russian speaking. The boys park their scooters and proceed to tussle. A man sitting behind me is having a virtual meeting on his laptop with a client. From his end of the conversation, I deduce he is a Jewish lawyer, and his client is connected with academia. The terms "tenure" and "vested" come up, and the lawyer has to explain "mitzvah."
In the morning Post today was an article about the cultivar of a perennial wheatgrass known as Kernza, which promises a boon both to mankind and the planet being perennial rather than annual. We should take heart from such developments, those of us who chance to survive the plague. But here at Panera the line at 10:30 is longer than it was at 10:00, not boding well for the winter surge of infection already being seriously predicted.
Ah, well, outside I marvel at a young maple tree clinging to its flaming orange leaves when all the other trees are bare - a mitzvah!
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The courtyard on a cold afternoon outside Starbucks: I am indulging in a peppermint mocha latte. Yes, 'tis the season, albeit pre-Thanksgiving, but we must get on with it, given supply chain clogs and anticipated shortages and delays consequent. A man and woman in front of me are speaking Russian, punctuated with the occasional English word. The man is younger, and his companion may be his mother. He is wearing a jersey reading - from what I can make out - Georgetown Hoyas. Across from us by the optician's, two women converse in German; aren't we diverse today! A woman with a stroller sits down; she is not warmly dressed and quickly moves on, after consulting her phone. A man stops to ask where he can get something to eat, and I direct him to the Vie de France bakery, of course!
The courtyard trees are already bare, and I do worry for them, incarcerated in their tree boxes. The leafy bower as I call it, which I enjoy on my morning walks, is nearly leafless also. The trees had no sooner burst out with delicious reds and corals than rain and wind came along. The color came late, so the leaves were ready to fall. Will the trees prosper from a longer growing season? We must hope!
Now to the errands...
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The first week of November was a preview of winter, bringing the first freeze; but now a mild sunny morning in the courtyard starts a warmer week, to be followed by cold again. Of such are averages made. Windows at the optician's have shed the Halloween theme in favor of the gold and yellow of autumn leaves, on wreaths and affixed to four, foot-tall displays that oscillate slowly. Management has already mounted Christmas wreaths, prematurely I daresay, on the opposing chimneys; and adding to the dissonance of the season, a menorah stands ready by a light post, to be lit after Thanksgiving, one candle a day. Oh for those long ago days when Linda of florist Linda's Passion contracted for the courtyard decor. Yes, it was kitschy, but who dared argue with her life-sized Santa mannequin? And she kept the seasons in proper order.
A man works earnestly on his laptop, and two women are in a light heated conversation over coffee. A woman comes with an infant in a stroller. If she is the mother, she is old for it. Grandmother? People are unmasked unless they go indoors, but as they come and go they still bounce off each other, keeping a distance. As Grey observed in the beginning, inhibition becomes habitual.
Some crumbs of croissant for the sparrows and I am off on errands.
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I am at Corner Bakery on a stormy morning, recalling how in the before time I would stop before a shopping mission and have my hazelnut coffee to sip while strolling in the stores. Alas, as yet there has not been a mask one might sip through. The Corner has always been a fruitful environment, offering the stimulation of caffeine and eavesdropping. Today, for example, a man and woman behind me, from the gist of their conversation, seem to be sharing research for a biography, possibly of an early twentieth century male author who may have been gay. They leave before revealing any more.
Grey and I worry still about the cafes, the stores and shops, and he has posted here about the supply chain clogs. A column this week in The Post by two experts on the subject confirms our suspicion that the sudden redoubling of online shopping forced on consumers by the pandemic is a major factor, being that all of Amazon's distribution centers put together fail to come even close to the square footage available in stores where people used to shop. So even if there were enough workers to unload the cargo and truckers to move it, there is no place to put the stuff! To our chagrin and collective misery we are learning what happens when a large portion of seven billion people do the same thing at the same time.
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I am back at the Panera this morning, where I often gravitate on Thursday and always after the chiropractor. It is already too cold to sit out here, since most of the patio does not get morning sun, and even where it does the winds whip around the corners. Thus there are more patrons inside, including the conclave of the rabbis, whom I cannot help noticing have aged since I first encountered them. I cast a yearning glance toward wi-fi corner with tables by a sunny window where I once claimed a seat. Now I sit by the door in the expectation of fresher air. Pandemic adaptations!
A walk around my neighborhood confirms that lots of people are looking for fresh air, leaving the city for places with more open space. Old houses are demolished and replaced, empty acres sprout new construction, owners add porches or patios. As all this building involves a loss of trees, I wonder if that is the reason the Great Horned owl appeared in my yard, never before seen or heard in the forty years I have lived here. He is a large, fierce looking creature, yet with the softest, sweetest cry you could imagine. Did the poor bird lose his favorite nesting tree? There are two old hawk nests up the street still. Pandemic adaptations, avian style!
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October's bright blue weather, which we have not had since September, is finally back, with but twelve days to go. The sun is pleasantly warm in the courtyard, and there is a cool breeze. Whereas last week the crows had flown south, in recent days another large migrating flock has shown up. Hungry and boisterous, they pepper the sky.
A young black man is here whom I have seen before, dressed like a gypsy, dreadlocks exceedingly dreadful. He walks around expounding like a street poet: "I am so rich, I can do whatever I like! I really appreciate all of you guys." We all try to avoid eye contact. Four officious seeming women sitting together interrupt their committee meeting but briefly, then continue brainstorming about where to have a Halloween event safely.
Tomorrow morning is the annual village festival and parade, always held the week before Halloween, last year being the one exception in three decades. Children parade in their costumes; local officials, candidates in an election year wave and pass out flyers. The parade begins with a color guard, now mounted park rangers, formerly the Boy Scout troop, and ends with the latest fire trucks acquired by the fire station - always impressive! Sadly we have outgrown the Hunt Club with riders in full regalia on their mounts and the whole pack of frisky hounds. Grey will be there. The event reminds him of the old country. We will bemoan together.
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The strange, tepid cloudiness lingers on well into October, and more heat is coming before we see low temperatures below sixty degrees. Yet here in the courtyard, the window of the optician is decked out for Halloween in festive orange and yellow over black, with haunted houses in silhouette and a witch on a broom flying across the full moon. At least we can imagine autumn, weather notwithstanding. I have just had a haircut across the street, so at last I can see my reflection without grimacing. My old hair dresser, being in his eighties, took the occasion of last year's lockdown to retire.
Few people are here today: a man in an Oxford University sweatshirt, and two women conversing in French, among others. Of these two, one is fashionably dressed - big sunglasses, hair tied back, lots of jewelry. Her companion in contrast is in a jeans jacket. Sparrows flock for croissant crumb, which I toss one at a time so each bird gets a piece. Where just last week crows were lined up on roofs and wires, like the old Hitchcock movie, ready to swoop down for whatever offered, not so today. Gone south! A spitting drizzle beings, and I retreat.
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It is a mild autumn morning in a week when the southerly winds promise showers every day and low temperatures close to average nights. A fog, which ordinarily settles in at dawn, has somehow held off and now clings eerily about the courtyard trees. A jackhammer in the parking lot wreaks off and on havoc to our peace. Two cyclists come in on their vehicles, one a young man, one older, and from their conversation it appears they are doctors on vacation, using it to tone their deconditioned bodies. The younger man brags that he was at last able to go up a certain hill without dismounting. Soon, discouraged by the jackhammer, they take to their bikes and move on.
The sparrows are eagerly enjoying crumbs of my croissant, and I note that crows are flocking again as they fatten up before migrating. The usually wary beggars at this time are apt to steal a person's unattended lunch. The fog is lifting as I too get up fleeing the noise, and a waiter from the restaurant cordons off the patio tables for luncheon service. People still prefer eating outside, and after all we are not alone at the mercy of the virus, but more so of our unreasoning fellow humans. And so onward!
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Storm clouds are gathering and rain is just beginning, so I'm sitting inside at Panera after the chiropractor. Behind me a man is on a Zoom call that somehow involves trash collection and recycling. Is it county or private contractor? The cafe is not al all busy, though I notice the Rapid Pickup shelf keeps refilling. Others have caught on to my trick - no standing in line! Outside heavy equipment is assembled to repave the parking lot, while in the flower beds the red and white begonias are being replaced with colorful lantana. Their small, multi-colored blossoms resemble tiny mosaics.
Despite the on and off shower, some patrons are sitting on the patio under the shade umbrellas or the narrow awnings. Among these are some of the rabbis, as I call them, who are daily regulars from the nearby JCC. Here again I reflect on the days of curbside coffee last winter, and wonder if they will soon return. Grey and I bemoan the end of a carefree time, while marveling at how long it truly was, thanks to medical science. As for this new plague, he points repeatedly to the Mouse Universe experiment, while he hastens to get his essays to a publisher.
A lunch line begins to form and I move to go, hoping I do not encounter molten asphalt.
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On rare occasions, readers may recall, I go exploring for new cafes, especially since the pandemic has impacted my usual haunts. A recent such excursion brought me to an upscale shopping strip where now Le Pain Quotidien has opened. Their coffee is passable, though not hazelnut, and served in cups without handles. And I thought the French were noted for fine china - Limoges! I had coffee and an apple pastry, warmed, sitting at one of the few sidewalk tables, outdoor seating having become obligatory with contagion ongoing.
In front of me sit three women having a lively conversation. Two of them are Indian, from their accents, and one of these is extremely effusive. She has short hair and wears a shirt with a patchwork pattern. The other Indian woman has long, salt-and-pepper hair pinned up. They talk about pandemic escapes to isolated resort, a popular topic these days as I have noted. But before I leave, they have commenced a conference call, and it turns out they are teachers at a private school, the person on the phone being their supervisor. I leave them thus to their stratagems for teaching history to very young children.
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Back in the courtyard on a morning of residual summer heat though it is mid-September, proof of which is the window dressing of the optician's, now with yellow "School Zone" signs, and giant lead pencils matching red apples for the teacher, I am reflecting on last year and my village outpost across the street, when the courtyard was roped off. With vaccination most of us feel a wee bit safer, though Grey returns from his Maine sojourn dispirited. When he uses the term "instructive" expect more to follow.
Looking around me here, I can see what he means. The planters and the trees are looking thirsty; the large signpost that listed the shops has given way to a smallish diagram; and the "Zuckerman Gravelly Management" sign with their phone number is nowhere in evidence. Many is the occasion that I hear the distant echo of T. S. Eliot, "Not with a bang but a whimper." Of course in areas of the planet now subject to chronic fires, floods, or both, hammered time after time without respite - "with a bang" is surely appropriate.
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I am on the patio at the Corner, having picked up my car at the nearby dealership after a repair. They sent an Uber to fetch me. It is some hours before the monsoon, this one compliments of the Gulf Coast cyclone; and clouds are holding the heat down somewhat. The hurricanes roll over from Africa to gut punch the continent's midsection, then veer northeast for an uppercut to the mid-Atlantic - torrents of rain by tomorrow. As I sit looking out over the small parking lot, I muse about my "curbside coffee" last winter before vaccines were available. Aside from the optician's wall of the courtyard, I have yet to find outdoor seating that catches the morning sun, and even now people are reluctant to sit inside to eat. Business has picked up here though - at breakfast, being one of few places to serve it, and at lunch, coffee break as a lull between times.
Grey is off to Maine come Monday, and will post about the adventure when he returns. If the flight to Portland is foiled, he intends to head for the hills as he did last year. Ironical that such an accustomed trip should have to be regarded as an expedition, but here we are!
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The torrid monsoon time continues, unabated since the first week of August, yet people are ready to brave it here in the courtyard, while not so far prepared to gather inside the cafes. Two aging frauleins sit conversing in German, and at another table a well dressed woman with white hair talks with her young companion, who may be Indonesian. I am delighted to note the Tavern preparing to open for lunch again. The other restaurant, which is Italian, never closed entirely; so now with both facilities roping off tables, there are only a dozen left for the non-diners. The Tavern has added to the enticement with fresh flowers and linen napkins on its patio tables.
Grey plans to take his sojourn in Maine again soon if the planes fly. He prepared for the crush at security by registering for PreCheck, through he now fears the crush will be in PreCheck. In any case he will try, while the flight to the old country is still too daunting, not to speak of pandemic conditions in the UK. Meanwhile, as the chimes at St. Francis Episcopal strike the half hour, we soldier on!
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For a weekday morning, not to speak of the delta variant and a heat wave, the courtyard is unusually full. Two Indian gentlemen are conversing in English, though with heavy Punjab accents. Perhaps English is easier than their separate dialects. There is considerable chatter from the shade of the Starbucks wall, and I note that the courtyard trees, in contrast to days of old, are providing only dappled shade.
The chatter causes me to wonder what other species might be considered to communicate quite so obsessively. Some of our primate cousins, I imagine, but what springs to mind are the birds, forever calling to one another from the treetops. They are locating a mate, challenging a territorial interloper, or warning others of a predator. Crows are especially vociferous in the latter duty. Their localized squawking usually signals a fox or less often a hawk. With this on my mind as I leave the courtyard, a clot of bystanders has gathered by a small tree in consequence of a sick or injured juvenile hawk perching there. Fortunately, management employees are standing watch until Animal Control arrives. I walk on, loathe to draw more attention to the poor creature.
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I am again at the Corner in the cool of the morning with high heat expected later. Sparrows flock around, but I suspect they would not be interested in my chocolate muffin. Last evening's monsoon left puddles, so they have water at least. The current manager comes out with the order or the next table here on the patio. He surveys the empty tables with a worried look on his face, an expression I note is chronic. In general his manner is more aloof than one expects of someone in hospitality, but then conditions are untoward.
A strange old woman comes through in a long skirt, her white hair in a bun. She is Chinese and is handing out brochures, a petition for "end CCP," the Chinese Communist Party. To each person she approaches she says, "How ar'ya," and gives a slight bow. She is politely received by us all, except for one man who appears to be especially self-absorbed in any case. Her mission accomplished she wanders off. One can hardly imagine the CCP or any authoritarian regime being ended by petition when their response to any opposition is to terrorize. Yet the brochure, put out by the persecuted Falun Gong sect, says, "Sign the petition. Your voice matters." There's that word again, beginning to seem quaint, rueful. And so, onward!
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August has only just begun, and we are having our customary preview of fall weather. Yet summer is not over, to be sure, as monsoon time resumes next week. Independence Day frippery adorning the optician's windows has been replaced with a sailing theme: model sail boats, sea shells, glittery stars and starfish, and ring buoys. The usual suspects are here in the courtyard, solo or chatting. A youngish man comes in with a pup that looks like a small husky. The man approaches an older gentleman to enquire about his bicycle. A bald man with a salt and pepper beard is on his phone, reiterating "I'm happy to listen" several times. Always good to know!
Hungry sparrows are sharing my muffin, which is smaller than usual in spite of costing more. Rising prices and random shortages, I fear, raise the specter of food insecurity for everyone. Epic drought and wild fires across the globe give the lie to our "conquest" of nature. As for the viruses? "Return with us now to those days of yesteryear" before antibiotics, when we were stalked by multiple infectious diseases. But now, as the chimes of St. Francis Episcopal strike the half hour, I am off on my errands.
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The heatwaves keep coming, relieved in only brief intervals, albeit mercifully. So as not to stand in line at Panera, I still order Rapid Pickup, but I am sitting inside following the chiropractor. The conclave of the rabbis is back - also inside - on a regular basis. They are talking and laughing, and I surely hope they are vaccinated. An obese woman sitting by the window conjures the unkind yet irrepressible image of Humpty Dumpty, and a smile crosses my face as I am reminded of Grey's new essay "Just Call Me Alice," which references the whole of that prophetic children's book.
As I look around the cafe it is far from the bustling place it was two years ago, and I have yet to see any of the pre-covid staff return. When the shop first opened, I recall considerable skepticism that it would survive in this location, let alone flourish. But skeptics were inapt. The place is surrounded by apartments, with shops, offices and the Jewish Community Center nearby. Will this pandemic do it in? The chain is widespread; one less branch would be inconsequential. I decide to eat my muffin and take my coffee out to finish this post in the quiet shade of the patio.
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'Tis a hot summer morning in the courtyard, and the typical denizens are here enjoying their Starbucks, in couples - usually two loquacious women - or solo, with a laptop or absorbed in their handheld device. I have yet to see any of the old-timers, however, and neither has Grey - a changing of the guard, as Grey is posting today. The sparrows, of course, are ever faithful, eagerly sharing my cranberry muffin. A little girl screams with delight at the birds. She is here with her mother, of whom she appears to be a clone.
Our village has weathered the plague year rather well, aside from a dry cleaner who retired and the tavern, which may or may not sputter back to life. Indeed the shops are crowded on weekends with refugees from the city. But in the world at large, analysts wonder about "covid fatigue" - not the sometimes lingering symptoms of the illness, but the delayed exhaustion of workers and businesses that have hung on this long thanks to government aid, only now to founder, boarding up their shops, former workers abeyant. Meanwhile, we are assured that unvaccinated people are now likely to be sickened by the delta variant. By this means we may achieve herd immunity, but only if that occurs before the lambda variant defeats the vaccines.
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I have stopped at Panera before a hair appointment at which I look forward to losing what I took to calling DIY hair, in other words it will be cut professionally for the first time in over a year and a half. An unfortunate fact of aging, however, is the retirement of a person's dependable professionals, i.e. one's dentist, doctor, and yes, hair dresser. But we learn resilience, I suppose, and also that we can DIY, at least in the case of hair.
We are in the middle of a long heatwave, and not many people are here, either inside or out. A young woman comes in wearing a long, diaphanous, floral printed skirt, which makes its own breeze as she passes me at the first table by the door. I still use the Rapid Pickup so as not to stand in line - resilience again. People are gathering in the village courtyard once more, though Grey and I have not seen any of the old-timers who used to come often. We puzzle over rising evidence of pandemic exhaustion, in people and in business, warning us not to use "post covid" prematurely.
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Passing strange to me is the decline of businesses, small and large, having held on through a year of "lock down," only now revealing their exhaustion. The local Macy's is shuttered and a Godiva store among many others in the same mall. Sadder still, small startup ventures, including some promising cafes, disappeared. Nevertheless, I go exploring in search of morning java and a quiet place to commune with my muse, which is to say eavesdrop and scribble. There is Le Pain Quotidian, which closed in one location only to pop up in another. In the same strip as that francophile venue, I discovered Joe &the Juice, a more obscure but thus interesting place. It has a lovely patio where one can sit in the shade of a crepe myrtle, and inside is quietude by design, not only with sofas, a la Starbucks, but also books! The coffee was good and the small confections adequate. An omelet is offered and sandwiches for lunch.
I sat outside where I had to dry the table and chair with napkins, this being our rainy season. As I was the only one on the patio, an old gentleman coming out felt compelled to share his impressions. The place reminded him of Greenwich Village, and he was so happy to have discovered it. I concurred, adding the hope that it would not be overwhelmed with sudden success.
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On a rare June day as celebrated in poetry I am on the patio at Corner Bakery along with a good number of other patrons. A hopeful sign that an establishment will survive is the return of familiar staff, and today Ismenia, an older hispanic employee, is back. At the next table, two women are discussing the pandemic year, or should we begin saying the first year of the pandemic? They talk about travel with family to a secluded resort, gathering with friends in winter outdoors with heaters. They are both having coffee, and the older woman has a pastry. She reveals the secret of her survival to be fostering kittens, photos of which on her phone she then shows her companion. Next to these two is a lone woman knitting, a large cloth bag at her feet doubtless holding her handiwork.
The xylophone ring, default on an iPhone, gives away the age of its owner - not me, by no means - I went with "Ripples." I google this rare June day to remind myself the phrase belongs to James Russell Lowell: "Then, if ever, come perfect days; then heaven tries earth if it be in tune..." And today? Earth harmonizes!
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A cool, northerly breeze is blowing in the courtyard on a sunny late spring morning. The optician's window is red, white and blue with patriotic decor, anticipating summer. A girl drinking cold coffee cuddles a fluffy schnauzer, while her mother is preoccupied with her phone. Then the schnauzer is upstaged when a couple comes with a large Samoyed, impeccably groomed. The gorgeous canine compels me to compliment his mistress, and I remark that the breed is not often seen. She observes that they notice more of them since acquiring the dog. A trend perhaps?
The pandemic data have all been reassuring hereabouts, but still there are shortages in the stores, and every business is short of staff. The Tavern here on the courtyard, long popular for lunch, now cannot open until happy hour; and reassured though we are, we cannot rest easy until a greater portion of the populace is vaccinated. We scratch our heads over the young people careless of protection, who have the better part of their lives to lose. Sapiens? Hardly that, hardly that!
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Having procured my Rapid Pickup at Panera and filled my cup with their lovely hazelnut coffee, I am attempting to sit outside. While it is not especially hot this morning, few people are here on the patio. I am being serenaded by a mockingbird from atop a light pole. One of the mimics, this bird is distinctive in his triple repetition of each phrase, unlike the brown thrasher, who sings each phrase twice, or the catbird, who rambles on like a barroom drunk, thereby ruling all other birds nearby. I have just begun to share my blueberry muffin with the ubiquitous sparrows, when I learn why most patrons have gone inside. It isn't the heat, it's cicadas. In their slow, awkward flight, they careen into things, especially people. Coming from behind, they collide and startle, causing screams, expletives, and spilled coffee.
Thus I take my Moleskine and retreat inside, where I daresay things are beginning to resemble the before time. The courtyard tomorrow with Grey. He can swat off the cicadas with his Panama!
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At the Corner this morning I am still sitting outside, though another day of oppressive heat is forecast. Ahead of me in line were four girls, or so I observed before deducing that one was the mother. They are Pacific island people - Malaysian perhaps or Filipino. The tallest of the girls is carrying a toddler, her own child I perceive. The father of this clan, it turns out, is waiting on the patio. Though no more than forty years of age, he and his wife are grandparents - and he walks with a cane. Before I leave, the mother of the toddler is teasing the baby by hiding; and the little girl is crying, obviously insecure with her young aunties, while heartless Mamá appears to relish her power.
I daresay were further proof ever needed of Grey's theory - see below - it would be this pathetic tableau. The human species is only marginally sapient, driven like all other creatures to reproduce as quickly and as prolifically as possible. Falling birth rates? A blip - no more.
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A pleasant Memorial Day redeems the cold rainy days that preceded it, and the courtyard is buzzing as of old. Restrictions as to masking and distancing have been lifted, thanks to the fast, impressive achievement of the vaccine rollout once there was competent leadership at the top.
Defying his stereotype, an old White man sits at the next table in conversation with a young Black woman. She is studying American history apparently, and asks him about Thomas Paine. Yes, he has heard of Thomas Paine. He snaps her photo; then she asks if she can sit in the other chair at my table for another vantage point, and he takes another shot. Outside Starbucks is an old Black woman whom I have noticed before in the same spot. Her short, white hair is like a fleecy cap. She brings her own thermal mug, and relaxes quietly, taking in the scene much as I do, except I scribble.
Grey is posting about the cicadas today - odd little creatures, and so many flying about. Their wings do not provide much lift, so they crash down into the grass like overloaded cargo planes, then stagger about looking for a tree to climb - or a leg will do as well!
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This morning I am once again at Panera, where the patio is bustling, as everyone still wants to sit outside and the weather is fair. I am enjoying the happy chatter of the caffeinated, Spanish on one side, Hebrew on the other. In the flower beds, begonias are replacing violas, a sure sign of the changing season.
I daresay I will need to sit indoors as it gets hotter, especially if the patio continues to be crowded. Recent relaxing of the face mask guidelines have surely been illogical. On the honor system, the unvaccinated will naturally forego the mask and have even less incentive to get vaccinated. Those of us who are vaccinated will fall into two categories: those who will skip the mask, heedless of possible infection from the unmasked; and those still reluctant to risk this awful sickness when avoiding it might simply mean wearing the mask. In other words, most people will continue to cover their faces. A far more effective strategy would have been to link guidelines with the percentage of people vaccinated.
But what has humanity ever to do with logic? Now on to errands!
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Hot weather is forecast to sweep in a week or so before the Memorial Day holiday, but it seems to have taken longer than usual this year, a sign of my impatience perhaps to be done with "curbside coffee." This morning the temperature is not uncomfortable, but with no sun the patio at Corner Bakery is chilly whenever the air moves. Nevertheless, I bring my hazelnut coffee and muffin outside, standing a bit to gauge the wind. A man sitting at a corner table, presumably thinking I am looking for "social distance," offers to move, and I assure him he need not. Few patrons are here, and more are seated indoors. Vaccination goes well. Two young women sit talking, one with quite a loud voice. In some agitation she exclaims that she hates it here and wants to move to a small town. My, my! Urban life loses its luster.
Having explored the nearby shopping areas for a cafe with a patio that gets the morning sun, and learning that any little startup has been snuffed out by the pandemic, I am forced to consider investing in a kitchen coffee maker. Home brew?
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The patio at Panera has one sunny table in the morning, and if the wind were blowing that would be the answer. As it is not, I am nearby with just my elbow in the sun - and a tolerable breeze. At the sunny table are two men and a woman with white hair. One of the rabbis is here alone, and another loner, disheveled and ill at ease, is talking to himself. He summons music on his phone, and when I glance his way he is glaring at me.
Panera is hardly back to the bustling cafe it was in the before time, despite vaccination successes. For all the talk of vaccine hesitancy, I see plenty of lingering virus-induced hesitancy, what with the news from India and Brazil raising the fear of mutations. But with summer on the way, one is able to sit out at the cafes for months to come. Of course warm weather also brings the irrepressible urge to be too free with oneself. Saints preserve us!
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I'm back in the courtyard on a May day that we will surely pay back in July. The four trees are shedding their tiny seeds all over the tables, yet a goodly number of people are here, trying to keep a safe distance between each other. At lunch and dinner the two restaurants cordon off a few tables each, and they still have the tall outdoor heaters needed on cool evenings for people avoiding indoor contagion. There are five of the heaters standing at the ready.
A man and woman sit together, she recounting her life history, from which I deduce she is not as young as she looks. She enjoyed the village when her children were growing up, but after that, sold the house; and typically she and her husband moved to an apartment. Meanwhile, a large, fluffy white dog has sauntered over. He is not leashed, but is quite obedient when his master calls him back. This gentleman sits with another, whose canine companion is a small white dog. As I am now thoroughly immunized, I feel a bit safer, but hesitate to linger, knowing the crisis is not past.
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At Panera this morning, I am able to sit on the patio as the weather has turned summery. The umbrellas are up, and more tables are shaded by the building. The conclave of the rabbis is here at one of a few sunny tables. A lone woman is working intently on her MacBook, and next to her are three women chatting over coffee - young, old and older. A group behind me, two men and a woman, I had assumed were family; but as they get up to leave, they go their separate ways agreeing to meet here every Tuesday for breakfast.
The chiropractor's office had a celebrity today, a young woman who, I was told, is an Instagram "influencer," said to make $300,000 per month. My chiropractor, himself a family man in this thirties, was thoroughly demoralized. Wait till I tell Grey; he will be all over it! Now I must get home as people arrive for lunch and few will want to sit inside. Donning mask and gloves, taking my coffee and Moleskine - and leaving crumbs for the sparrows - I am off.
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The one thing that might save this cold, blustery morning in the courtyard would be the mid-April sun, which sadly has not a chance against a thick cloud cover. Thus am I huddled by the wall of the optician's, and will probably not linger. This is a day borrowed from March, in partial payback for the many April days we enjoyed in March that brought early blossoms to the trees. The windows of the optician's are newly bedecked for spring with painted bird houses and fancy butterflies on pots of violets.
I must say it is good to be back in the courtyard after last year's lonely exile to the outpost across the street, where the trash cans tended to overflow. But things are not at all back to the old crowds here, the regular groups. There are just two other tables occupied. At one, two women are discussing God, while at the other two men are talking politics and finance. How stereotypical!
I have heard that with the world having grown so quiet, wildlife is more in evidence, and indeed where I have lived for more than forty years, I am hearing owls for the first time. I believe they are the Great Horned Owls, a type that enjoys singing duets. Sure enough at dusk, the softest hoots and trills are heard. A mating pair, I hope!
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I am sitting out at Panera on a chilly morning, and with the sun on its northern trajectory the patio is in shade. Two old gents are enjoying conversation over coffee at the corner table. They may be doctors. The older one talks of serving on a Coast Guard ship that brought medical care to poor countries. His companion says he can relate, being the son of a Navy officer, going on to tell a story about his father that sounds like the plot of a novel. He tells the story of his father's war experience and of how he later learned that he himself was born in consequence of his dad's falling for the Captain's daughter. Only after surviving Vietnam, did he then come home to marry her. A mother and daughter passing through are not nearly as interesting, except that they seem so close in age. A discerning eye, however, will note that Mom is stockier and her shoulder bag is The Sak. Her daughter is skinny, in yoga pants and a crossbody bag no bigger than a wallet.
I believe Grey has something up his sleeve involving the convoluted ancient myth of Cassandra, so I will leave that to him. No one would believe me anyway!
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Just past Easter and already the sun is too warm in the courtyard, where this morning a loud constant beeping disturbs the peace. It comes from a bucket truck upon which a crew is working on the lights in the parking lot. Despite the racket, a few people are here at the carefully spaced tables. There is a young woman in tight jeans whose little daughter in contrast wears a dress printed with pink flamingoes; the child carries a unicorn. So I see little girls are still dressed like dolls, the while doubtless yearning to be allowed skin-tight denim. Highlighting this impression, a rather masculine young woman lumbers by. Then an old woman leaning on a cane minces her careful steps on the way to the salon.
Life goes on, yet at the bakery their hazelnut coffee is no longer available, raising doubts about their continued tenancy here. That corner shop seems to change occupants every decade or so. When I see Carmen, I must lobby for a Panera. But now, the pharmacy and gas...
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Following my monthly visit to the chiropractor, I am at Panera on a morning that is vacillating between hot and cold, even both at once, proving that polarities are indeed not mutually exclusive. As the lunch hour nears I have decided to take refuge in the car in any case. The flower beds have been planted for spring with wide strips of violas in multiple colors - yellow, white, purple, blue, red, orange - a riot of color! Cherry trees are in bloom everywhere, not just in the city, and tree pollen ironically raises appreciation for the face mask.
This year we will have the cicadas emerge from their 17-year slumber underground. They are innocent things, with red eyes and papery wings; and having matured they come up to mate, lay eggs and die. They are a delicacy for the wild animals - the foxes, raccoons, and squirrels - who have begun to smell them and are digging around the tree roots to get their first taste, leaving the lawn a muddy mess.
Grey and I will meet in the courtyard this week, and discuss - at a safe distance - that waifish woman heading the CDC and her fear of impending doom. Hard to take her seriously, but we do.
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The courtyard is sparsely populated though the morning is pleasant, with warm sun and a cool breeze. A young man with dreadlocks passes through talking to himself, or maybe earbuds are concealed by the peculiar bird nest on his head. Before wandering off he exclaims, "My parents gave me a gift of $4000!" Eventually three gents have gathered with their Starbucks; the younger one, in orange pants and dark glasses, is talkative. An acquaintance at the next table joins their conversation, announcing, "My father was a sniper," going on to name what public figures he had guarded.
Nice as it is, with the warm season coming, to again have the opportunity to eavesdrop, it is by no means as comfortable as of old, even while my arm is still sore from yesterday's vaccination. Indeed the vaccine protocols have sped up, and I have received the first inoculation against covid, as has Grey. We rejoice for a tiny bit of security!
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Back in the courtyard, I nab a table in the sun, which is warm though barely compensating for the March wind. The sparse tables are well-spaced, but there are few takers this morning. One man, portly with curly white hair, talks on his phone about a university position which I gather he believes he lost unfairly. Meanwhile, sparrows show up for crumbs of my cranberry orange muffin. Then comes a man passing through who has a peg leg and is dressed in a tartan plaid kilt and a matching cap - easily the strangest figure I have ever seen here. Is he really an amputee, or might he be in costume auditioning for the Scottish play?
Another first, the window dressing at the optician's shows a hint of green with St. Patrick's day tomorrow. No shamrocks, however, the green is lining the shelves, and white lilies stand in square vases. Even in the old days, St. Pat's was crowded out by Easter, when Linda the florist would bring out her giant Easter Bunny mannequin that reminded me of Harvey the poltergeist.
As the remaining tables fill up, the courtyard feels crowded, so I flee. We avoid one another now- like the plague!
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Approaching the Ides of March, I am able to sit out here at Panera on a warm, sunny day, forecast to be repeated all week. The one drawback is a gusty, shifting wind. The northerly gust seems to covet my pastry, threatening to blow it clear away. No one else is sitting outside, but when I went in to pick up my order, I noted one of the wi-fi regulars was back with his laptop. I nodded to him, and he looked puzzled, not recognizing me - the mask, the hair.
The mad scramble to be vaccinated against covid dominates the news in every jurisdiction; and with a third vaccine now available the pace quickens, even as mutant strains emerge and spread around the world. The hope is that new techniques of genetic engineering will allow us to keep up; but at some point surely we will be getting so many booster shots our arms will swell up and drop off. No, it appears to me that early in 2020 the human race fell off a cliff, all at once together, like the lemmings. The Ides of March - beware!
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Sure enough, here I am back at the village outpost on a cold but sunny morning, cordons once more in the courtyard leaving but three tables available in the sun, clustered together and occupied. A row of tables in the shadow of Starbucks proved too cold with a chill wind, so I have taken my coffee and pastry across the street where the two benches, unassailably bolted to concrete, afford a seat in the warm sun.
Plenty of social distance on this side of the street, but I regret the conversations I once might overhear in the Before Time, any place where the wondrous effects of coffee foster chattiness. There were business affairs transacted, couples in the flirtatious stage, gossips impugning in-laws; and very often most outlandish raiment to be sighted on passersby in the courtyard. I enjoyed banter with clerks and bank terrors; indeed I was a friendly person in the Before Time. Now, having aged ten years in one, I must come off as a mean old, witch. No vaccine for her!
A gust of north wind, and I am off to errands - on my broomstick.
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I am in the village late today, after lunch in fact, because the county liquor store does not open until noon, and I need to replenish my port and bourbon, which run out eventually, though I do not drink very much - medicinal amounts, as ladies used to say. Since it is afternoon, I treat myself to a decaf latte - soy, peppermint mocha, no whip to be precise - and I am sitting by the optician's wall. The courtyard is cleared of tables, as though for a ball or perhaps a square dance exhibition.
Grey and I, in touch by phone, have been commiserating about the covid vaccination lottery, bemused at officials apparently confounded by simple arithmetic. Even when hundreds of millions of doses have been produced, how long will it take to administer them? The variables are the number of persons that can be mustered to give the shots and how quickly can they work. A rough estimate yields a long, long time. But as he and I were left out of the lottery before we knew it was one, I am feeling like Cassandra to his Jeremiah!
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On my walk this morning, a wedge of geese flew over me quite low. They tend to fly low when there is overcast, which there is now for days on end, going on a year. The geese were absolutely silent, not calling to each other as they usually are; but I could hear their wingbeats, upon which estimable sound I was flying with them!
Now I am curbside at Panera, drawn by the stimulating quality of their estimable coffee. Last week, the chocolate muffin at the Corner was a crumble; this morning the blueberry muffin is so loaded with berries it barely holds together. Well, I need to hone my curbside skills - then a trip to the carwash. With temperatures stuck at near to below freezing, there can be no lingering in the courtyard; and in any case, seating there is again reduced to a few tables at the edges. It appears the leaders of the local regime grow increasingly faint-hearted as the plague wears on. I may soon be back at my village outpost. Alas!
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February is often a cold and snowy month here, and true to form temperatures persist below average with weekly aliquots of snow in paltry amounts. Coming out this morning, I had to lift the gate over thin shards of ice before proceeding down the driveway over leftover snow. More by week's end, as usual. Here at Corner Bakery I'm having the chocolate muffin and curbside coffee, trying in vain not to get crumbs on me as I eat in the car. Indoor dining is still verboten, what with the "UK variant" and the "South African strain," a strain indeed.
Grey and I have been discussing the not unlikely possibility that pandemic conditions may continue for the remainder of our abbreviated lives. Salvation by vaccination is appearing to be a pipe dream. Even if hundreds of millions are vaccinated in one country, there will remain billions on the planet upon whom the virus can improve its infective and deadly powers. What I will need to improve is my skill at curbside eating. Really, they should have called this a chocolate crumble this morning!
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For several days, snow has come in dribs and drabs, gradually piling to perhaps three inches. I see the same weather pattern that persisted through the summer and fall: days of drizzle and overcast, except now the drizzle is frozen. In any case, the woodchuck will most certainly not see his shadow today, not her nor in Punxsutawney, so crocuses and daffodils will show up soon. At this latitude, plants begin to respond to longer days on Candlemas, also marked today. Time to take down my Christmas candles, which have lit up the windows for two months now.
I waited for the temperature to rise above freezing before setting out, so needless to say the courtyard is a sloppy mess. The optician's windows are decorated for Valentine's Day with large, flower bedecked hearts in the center and smaller red hearts sticking up like lollipops in cups printed with tiny cupids. We must be grateful for any and all signs of good cheer when weather combines with the now seemingly permanent pandemic to leave us all stuporous. But on to the errands...
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Outside Panera with my curbside coffee and the Moleskine, I survey a misty streetscape lightly dusted with last night's snow. I have just come from the chiropractor, the only doctor I continue to see in person and the only one to offer material assistance. As he is young, we often talk about how things have changed in my 70-plus years since the web so rapidly became the nervous system of a social organism, and computers and smart phones took over.
Sitting here with the windshield misting over, for example, I reflect on weather forecasting, which once was a matter of local experience and now the sole province of computer models. Lately on my weather apps, I have been jarred to note the term "haze" being used for fog. In times past, haze was a word heard only in summer when it described a combination of smog and humidity. In winter a fog may reduce visibility, but it is far more attractive than haze. It is a heavy mist, a cloud hugging the ground - which remonstrance only serves to show how easily I now am jarred by anything inapt. And so home, through the mist!
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At Corner Bakery one may still go inside to order or to pick up a phone order, and one has leave to fill one's coffee cup. Indoor dining is not allowed, and the patio, as I have observed here before, does not get sun until afternoon; so it is too cold to sit this time of year. This morning I was waiting behind an old couple having some discord between them. She had a long, grey ponytail, and his red buffalo plaid shirt tail peeked from under his jacket. He was very anxious about being inside, saying it was too risky, while she, who was the apparent reason they had come at all, was dithering over which pastry to take. Finally they ordered and paid and escaped to the cold, clean air outside.
With the increased contagion of mutant viral strains there is indeed more fear about, but a majority of us hold out hope that our new president will find it possible to scale up production and distribution of vaccines. For now, even at the Corner, I take my coffee in the car. It's what I'm calling "curbside coffee"!
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I am back in the courtyard on a bright, sunny day, sheltered from the wind and sharing my cranberry muffin with eager sparrows. The optician still has frosty white wreaths on display against a red background. Two women are here - women of color, as they say. One of them, as though to enhance the designation, is dressed all in pink, down to the gloves, hat and mask. The other woman is interviewing her, from what I can gather, for a child care job. She speaks of difficulty working from home due to distraction and lack of space. The one in pink concurs with a hearty laugh.
As I sit scribbling, the courtyard is filling up, uncomfortably, with others keen to take advantage of the felicitous weather. In these "trying times," there is much discussion of the effects of isolation on a preeminently social species such as ours. But there is more to it. After all, thanks to the internet most remain in contact. What sticks to us with greater tenacity is the sense of confinement. I am Little Dorrit in the Marshalsea!
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I continue to stop by the Corner Bakery occasionally even though it is too cold to sit out in the shade of the building, and indoor seating is not allowed. I go there just to check on their continued existence under these Covid restrictions, and this morning as I approach I am happy to be greeted by a large banner above the patio reading: OPEN. One may still go inside to order and to fill one's coffee cup, which I do, then sitting out at least long enough to finish half of my chocolate muffin before retreating to the car.
The courtyard in the village is blessed with morning sun and, depending on direction, shelter from the winds - that is when the sun shines. January here was once typically sunny, cold and dry, but no more. In the past year, rainfall has been nearly twenty inches above average, and between the dark days of pouring rain, we are treated to dark days of persistent overcast. The rain forest moves northward! I must alert Grey to the tropical bird just sighted in our nearby National Park along the C&O Canal - of all things, a painted bunting!
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I am back to curbside pickup at Panera. Windchills are too biting and covid stats too high, so I order before leaving the chiropractor and my coffee and muffin are brought out as soon as I pull in. Then I park and slide my seat back so as to have room to eat and write. These days the old dog must learn new tricks! The young ones, I believe, not only are accustomed to new ways but also to the necessity of adapting to constant change, always relearning how to do things. What they do not yet realize is that with age it is one's own body demanding that one adapt to its constant deterioration - no time to learn new operating systems!
The roads are emptier this morning than I have ever seen them, bringing back the analogy to the neutron bomb effect heard earlier in the pandemic. Shops are closed, some for good, falling like dominoes. I do miss sitting inside Panera, grabbing a table in wi-fi corner to eavesdrop on fellow patrons. Now silly people talk about freedom. From real fear there is no freedom.
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The bit of snow we have had lingers in icy cold temperatures. The courtyard is deserted, and tables and chairs have not been cleared. Nevertheless, having the place to myself, I brush off a table, tilt the chair, and dry it with a napkin. The restaurant has added tall heaters to its patio, with indoor dining restricted again, but one wonders if such desperate measures will save them this winter.
Seeing the baker come out with a tray of fresh croissants, I took one with coffee, and the croissant is indeed bursting with warm cream cheese. Sparrows are here also to enjoy the crumbs, and I wax nostalgic for the seasonal decor of Linda's Passion, the florist. She would have her life size Santa mannequin sitting on a bench this time of year, startling the children foolish enough to assume he was alive. Nostalgia begins to have odd manifestations!
Grey has nearly finished reading Apollo's Arrow, and keeps me abreast of what he has learned. Our existential war with microbes, for example, began with the advent of cities. No surprise; density is microbial paradise. Nature seeks balance when any species gets out of hand. Now a dash through the snow to the markets!
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Window dressing at the optician's is appropriate to the frosty morning: large white wreaths bedecked with white poinsettia and silver ornaments, with snowflakes falling over all. Indeed our first snowfall is forecast for tomorrow, amounts depending on location. Few people are in the courtyard, but the market is open, and a man stands asking passers-by for a cigarette. How times have changed! He won't find one these days, poor soul.
Once again there is no indoor seating at Starbucks, so the line to grab-and-go forms outside; and today the county council will decide whether to reinstate a ban on indoor dining at all restaurants. Many of these are already looking deserted, and one wonders sadly which ones may never reopen. Grey's post today invokes the "D" word, and it truly is hard to see how depression can be avoided with so many people, among survivors, ruined financially. The vaccines are scarcely known at this time and are more likely to bring false confidence than normalcy.
Yet here in the courtyard stands a tall menorah with six candles lit, and high on the opposing eaves hang two large, lighted Christmas wreaths. Thus we carry on!
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A spiking pandemic converges with the winter season, which brings the traditional holidays that wrap up autumn, the ones when we all gather together around the hearth, except not this year. We are further alerted not to eat inside restaurants or shop inside stores. Making matters worse, December is treating us to January temperatures and March winds, in spite of which limited seating in the courtyard will be snapped up especially on a sunny morning. I have a table on the optician's wall, but there is no avoiding these winds, so no one is lingering. The danger as I see it, even apart from the virus, is catching a sniffle or a dry throat starting to feel scratchy. What then, we gather together at the testing site?
At least the courtyard does get morning sun, unlike the cafes I frequented in the long ago times. There is a lot of coverage on the effects of loneliness and isolation these days, but I also note the draining weight of being persistently thwarted of one's accustomed life and habits. Yet somehow, regardless of conditions, someone always can be seen to suffer more.
Off I go then to the nursery for a poinsettia. My watch words for all excursions are safe and brief!
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The vagaries of weather having been amplified to extremes by climate change, most of a morning may be spent standing in one's closet determining what outfit has the best chance of providing comfort. Add to that the frightening surges in this viral pandemic and to venture out for any reason becomes freighted with sheer anxiety. It seems people feel safe around friends and relatives; then when they test positive, they report their suspicion that it must have been the restaurant. Pity the restaurateur! I told the manager at Corner Bakery this morning that if only his patio were in the sun, the place would be good for another month.
As it is, the shade and the blustery wind make for a brief stay before I retreat to the car. That's my strategy for each foray - safe and brief. The next stage is curbside pickup. Grey and I keep in touch by FaceTime, and he has coined a new metric: BP versus AP, before or after the pandemic, not to be confused with British Petroleum and Associated Press!
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This autumn has brought many windy days and when the wind is out of the north, it funnels straight into the courtyard, as it is doing this morning. Of course that makes it inescapable, yet one couple is here braving it with me. He has a white beard and wears a black skull cap and gloves that are not matching. She has her back to me and is nondescript in the uniform black. He begins, "My theory is..." But he is such a low talker I don't get to hear what it is. Anyway I do not linger as my fingers stiffen in the chill and the wind whips these pages.
I did have a brisk walk earlier, and I should note that the house that once had the two seasonally bedecked lawn chairs is now for sale, as I suspected. This is the same house that has retained the last vestiges of the early days - of the Hunt, the horses and hounds - an era long gone, now defunct.
The pandemic surging again, I make my way through the line outside Starbucks, now reduced to curbside only - no indoor seating and winter coming!
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Years ago when the Vie deFrance bakery took over adjoining space formerly occupied by the drug store, I rejoiced assuming they would use it for indoor seating. Many is the time I have rued the fact that they did not, leaving Starbucks the only refuge from cold or inclemency for a morning coffee, at which times of course Starbucks would be packed to the rafters and buzzing with highly caffeinated patrons. Came this year of nature's wrath and our awful comeuppance of covid restrictions, our village bakery was spared lockdown because it does not have indoor seating. Now with the virus spreading worse than ever, even in our state where parameters had been holding at low levels, lockdowns will likely be needed again.
We underestimate how easily people deceive themselves. In a time of high anxiety they may latch on to a cause, firmly convinced they are passionate about it; and with this shield of a rationale go forth into the city streets in concert with myriad compeers, often accosted by a like myriad of opponents. That they are thus exposed to a deadly pathogen only enhances the rectitude of their cause.
I for one will set out for the village bakery for a coffee and a pastry - in my parka!
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In the village for the past few weeks, crows have been gathering in a large flock, reminding one of Hitchcock's old horror movie, in turn based on the short story by Daphne DuMaurier. But no, nothing sinister here. The family groups crows usually keep to assemble in preparation to migrate. This morning - a sunny, mild day for November - they are nowhere seen nor heard.
The courtyard is abuzz, and I am pleased to note the optician's windows have an autumn display: large wreaths of colorful leaves with a tall plume of dry grasses in the middle. The inference I draw is that the two old retired brothers who do the window dressing are alive and well - praise be! Two women near me are having a therapy session, which belongs in a psychiatrist's office. They are discussing miscarriage, whether or not one should grieve. Upon such indiscretion (something in their espresso?) I retreat to the bakery. There I find a group of Spanish chatterboxes, but they are twelve feet away - at least!
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In Rockville again at Panera, attempting to sit out on a cold, windy morning, the sunny table at the southwest corner is taken. But there is one other, which I secure before going inside for "rapid pickup." The violas that were planted when I was last here are white, blue and yellow, with ornamental grasses interspersed. The group at the other sunny table is two couples and a darling Bichon in a sweater. One of the young men is either a loudmouthed smart aleck or has had too much Panera coffee. He is clearly a movie buff, who has probably spent most of his life planted in front of a screen.
Having pity on the poor sparrows in this cold weather, I toss them crumbs from my blueberry muffin, upon which the Bichon starts whimpering jealously. As wind gusts pick up, I prepare to concede before the umbrellas fall over, while the chatterbox and his friends are checking on wait times at polling centers. I am off to an actual store, my strategy: one item per foray.
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The courtyard seems terribly constricted of late, not only by the six feet of distance required between the few tables, but as well by the added tables given over to outdoor dining at the two restaurants. Yes, there are two, even for this tiny courtyard in our small village. And yet I have a table, and a couple of women are here enjoying their Starbucks together on an overcast, mild October morning. Observing them, I reflect that wherever there are women companions, we invariably see a lively talker and a patient listener.
Earlier on my walk, the scenery was precipitately autumnal, the poplars nearly bare already. One old house that I pass had always had two wooden lawn chairs in front, which would be adorned according to the season: wreaths for Christmas, hearts for Valentine's Day, pumpkins for Halloween. It is the house I described weeks ago where the remnants of an equestrian past are in decay - the white board fence, a horse trailer, a falling down stable. An old couple lived there still, with a daughter as caretaker. A few weeks ago, one lawn chair went missing. Today both are gone.
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I am at Panera this morning for no better reason than their hazelnut coffee. Other missions that last year made this an adjunctive stop have moved online, and even the salon is foregone since a haircut must be maintained at intervals out of keeping with the much longer era of this pandemic. So I come for the coffee, and this morning have used "rapid pickup" rather than curbside, so I am not long inside to pick up my muffin and fill my cup.
It is windy outside, so I take the one table that is getting sun. Landscapers are at work on the flower beds, switching out the summer begonias for autumn violas, and before long they are digging right next to my table. Retreating from the dirt and dust, I move around the corner, only to find a north wind whipping that side with full force, causing me to reflect upon the coming return to isolation: from cold, from disease, from people. Even family gatherings are to be abjured. Surely in these times we might circle about the tribal campfire - or the fire pit?
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The problem I foresee in the courtyard as winter comes is that denizens will be attempting to emulate my cold tolerance to avoid contagion, rejecting the cozy indoors of Starbucks, the only available indoor seating in the morning. That will far extend the period when the courtyard may itself be too risky. I try to pass the word that ventilation will be key to indoor seating, but what restaurant will be in a position to bankroll such an upgrade, which may be of questionable efficiency anyway?
I am sitting here nevertheless due to a windchill outside the bakery. The crow family is especially bold this morning in their claims to my muffin. I suspect they are preparing to migrate. On my walk earlier I spotted two hawks atop a bare tree basking in the first rays of the rising sun. I stopped to watch them, and one swooped down over me before turning a graceful 180º and flying off. I fancy he is one of the season's new additions. These hawks do not migrate, nor the sparrows.
My strategy being not to tarry, I move on.
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In the courtyard this October morning, people are clustering in the sun, too close for comfort. A group of men converse with a local constable, their chairs presumably distanced adequately - no masks. Well, so far one cannot drink coffee through a mask. I have opted to sit outside the bakery, where sun and shade mingle comfortably under the awning. I am alone here until a couple with a small dog sits down. They are Spanish speaking, and the woman is heated over some subject, rattling on in the rapid staccato that vindicates Grey's assertion regarding Spanish - too many syllables! She really is quite percussive.
'Tis the season of "moon weather." I left the house not thirty minutes ago in a woolen blazer and scarf, which I now must shed as I leave for the nearby farm stand for pumpkins, apples, and with luck some ripe tomatoes!
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This morning I am at Panera following the chiropractor. I ordered "rapid pickup" this time, but brought it outside. The weather is still mild and cloudy, with rain expected to bring cooler temperatures. Inside the cafe a line was stretching out - lots of customers but apparently short on staff. Here, while I am not close to other patrons, I still hear the chatter Panera coffee tends to elicit. A woman with a strong Brooklyn accent has a small dog, whose name is either "Sparky" or more fittingly "Barky." In front of me two women converse, and one goes on about "yard waste," apparently something to do with recycling.
The border of flower beds is doing well, planted with the red and white begonias common these days. Before I leave, a young woman comes and takes a table, swabbing the bench with a wet wipe before sitting down. What I am hearing, however, is that transmission of this virus via surfaces is exaggerated, and with winter coming the concern, especially for restaurants, should be proper ventilation. Let's hope!
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Most unusually, temperatures have been considerably below average for mid-September, so that this morning - the day of equinox - I am seeking the warmth of the sun in the village. In the courtyard, people have clustered in the sun, too close for comfort, and I have taken a table outside the bakery as I now do more commonly. Jacinto, our young maintenance man, goes by and we exchange greetings.
I came for a flu shot today before they run out as happened last year. I have gotten it before sitting down with coffee and the Moleskine, perhaps in the nick of time. Three people were waiting ahead of me and a line was growing. Lately it seems nerves are always on edge at the pharmacy, and civility breaks down. Yet as I sat waiting to be called and listening to each customer give his or her date of birth, I realized they are all younger than I. Please by polite, children! The young man giving the shots was most cordial and good at his job. So here I sit, fortified I hope against the one pathogen if not the other. When it grows too cold, I will perhaps have the courtyard again to myself to enjoy the morning sun sheltered by the wall of the optician's.
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A week of September had passed before the Labor Day holiday fell like a ton of bricks, and autumn weather felt free to visit us. Suddenly and delightfully the mornings are cool and the nights likewise, their peaceful darkness noticeably longer. Grey is more disgruntled than ever these days, denied his sojourn in the north due to quarantine rules. But ever resourceful, he took to the hills instead - the nearby Blue Ridge Mountains - and he is back to report. We will meet outside the bakery, at a safe distance.
Very few people are here as I wait, and everyone has a proper face covering, one even with a plastic shield. She has brought a small, brown, curly haired dog. I am noticing women sporting unaccustomed lengths hair, some in that awkward stage when short hair grows out, a stage that those already long-haired do not experience. Unfortunately, there comes the realization that getting a haircut means that awkwardness will just return every six weeks or so - with a repeated risk at the salon. Saving me from these dismal thoughts, comes Grey. He has taken out the fedora - no straw after Labor Day!
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In the village this morning, I sit overlooking my former outpost across the street, from which I surveilled the unsettling quiet for some months in spring. It is now September and, though just the first day, I am harassed by a yellow jacket right on schedule. A long delivery truck of paper products unloads outside the bakery, so I am further back at one of the steel tables management has set about the center. From where I sit, the truck, being grey is camouflaged against a grey sky. The round white planters this year have been filled with green and red vines and spikes of ornamental grass, more artistic in my opinion than the red and white begonias that became such a commonplace.
As for the courtyard itself, it remains a jumble of chairs, stacked and unstacked, and restricting cordons resembling police tape. I understate in saying it is most unwelcoming, yet being summer still, available tables do fill up. People retreat from the cold, as will protesters of whatever political ilk. All things considered, nature guides us silently, sending plague to check our untoward behaviors. If that is not enough, winter will do.
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Driven back to the chiropractor by increasing back and hip pain, I have stopped afterward at he nearby Panera, ordering curbside and sitting outside in a stiff breeze. Patrons are still few, but a grey haired Black woman is here, accompanied by a younger man, bearded and chubby, in shorts and an orange cap. The two appear to be related, as they speak of relatives, Melva and Earl. The man has something of a drawl, while the woman's diction bespeaks a church lady. Is the younger man her son? He is apparently well raised - running to pick up trash when it blows across the parking lot, and getting up again to open the door for an elderly White woman.
I note that the style manual is changing to capitalize the tints when referring to race, just when the White and Black races were being seen to blend more appreciably. Yes, of course "Black lives matter." Would that we had leaders good enough to deal with the issues rather than exploit them. Moving on, I notice that the flower beds here have not been filled. Come now, people, chins up! Faces into the wind!
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It was my first venture into Starbucks since the early winter, once again occasioned by the maids coming late, making it mid-afternoon. Compared with its former bustling, buzzing, jam-packed interior, the place was ghostly - two clerks and one barista only, and no one seated. Flustered by the mask and the loud espresso machine, I was asking for a "tai chi" latte, realizing just then the similarity of the term with "chai tea." Of course I got the latter, suppressing a wisecrack for fear of spewing any virus.
A good number of people were sitting in the courtyard, and while the available tables were the requisite distance from others, I decided to sit outside the bakery where no one was sitting. A local constable passed in his car, making rounds to see that we were behaving, or maybe to stop for a latte himself. Just recently, alerted by a teller, he happened upon a bank robbery here, apprehending the elderly perpetrator without struggle. As it turns out, the old man is a notorious bank robber in these parts. Well, all in a day's work!
***********
August has come, at last breaking a month-long heat wave, and as there is no rain this morning, I am again outside the French bakery in the village, seated on the shady side - the only person here. It is not a bakery such as any self-respecting French person would own, but it is suitable and convenient. Staff have soldiered on this year, though today the usual filled croissants were missing, and the Latino baker was looking stressed.
These tables were moved to the side wall to allow that six foot distance between. During the week, the village being small, it is not difficult to keep one's distance. On weekends, however, the shops get crowded, with customers furtively attempting to dodge one another. I wonder whether more of us are beginning to think there are just too many people - or were - which more retiring souls concluded long ago. Before I leave, a car with a Texas license plate passes, reminding me to put up the mask and pull on the gloves. People from the hot spots are jumping ship like plague rate!
***********
Needless to say, our schedules are considerably disrupted this year due to the plague. (Yes, let's use the proper term here!) So I am not always in the village on the same day. This morning, for example, there will be no foray on account of our other existential crisis, climate change - heavy storms, buckets of rain. It is warm though, and the drenched birds at the window feeders seem to enjoy fluffing their feathers to bathe in the shower.
Anyway, I must go to the village tomorrow for grocery pickup, the schedule for which finally stabilized once the store hired more people to fill online orders. The last time I went for my coffee fix the shady table by the ice cream shop was clean for once. Was it the last pounding monsoon, or Jacinto? I will check on it tomorrow. Today, to the patter of rain, I will curl up with a cup of tea and Dickens' Little Dorritt.
*********
It is indeed hot here outside the Rockville Panera, where I have stopped following my first chiropractic appointment since March. Noting my stiffness and deterioration, the good doctor was assured regarding the value of his ministrations. I have ordered curbside pickup, then parked, taking my coffee and muffin to a shady table, blessed with a lively breeze at present. The tables are spaced and are not full in any case. This cafe is surrounded with shrubbery that serves as habitat for lots of urban sparrows, for whom abundant bread crumbs make it the perfect home. This morning they also enjoy a share of my muffin.
There is indoor seating, but as long I can sit outside I will. I fully expect businesses to be closed again before long, given the enormous strife infecting the nation, equally as grievous as the pandemic. Crises are piling up in layers. Head for the hills! O, Canada?
**********
I am late to the village today, as I had to wait for the maids to finish. We are all masked and gloved as befits the circumstances, and I cannot do without them, given my increasing stiffness and fussiness as I age. It is the height of summer heat this afternoon, probably 90º even in the shade where I am sitting. A portly gentleman waddles by on his way to the ice cream shop. In spite of the shorts he wears, I refer to him as gentleman because of the straw hat. Though it is not a Panama, I give him the benefit of the doubt. Mercy is due with extreme heat, and he is amiable enough. He passes by again with his ice cream, commenting that now he has to get it home before it melts, and I wish him luck.
The freedom to strike up a conversation with amiable strangers is a sad loss now that we must all be suspect as contagious. Of course as Grey has observed recently, at the scale of modern society we tend to be alienated anyway. Why then when it becomes a constraint, does it feel more onerous?
***********
It is Bastille Day, and what better place to be this morning than the Vie de France bakery in the village, where if you care to scroll back several years through these courtyard posts, you will find it once was celebrated with an accordionist and a mime. Today by acute contrast, I am greeted with the din of a jackhammer as nearby workmen busy themselves on some repair. I in turn have repaired to the tables outside the ice cream shop, where I enjoy a delightful westerly breeze. An extremely agile young man goes past balanced on a jet-powered skate board. Jacinto also hurries past, and I give him a thumbs up. Not daring to suggest he have someone clean these tables, still sloppy with ice cream, I remind myself to keep some towlettes in the car.
The old accordion player was not French but Italian. Nevertheless, he brought out his repertoire of French songs: April in Paris, Under Paris Skies, The Poor People of Paris, and of course Le Marseillaise. On a good day - not too hot - I might sing along on the choruses, and as much French as I could remember on the anthem. Now upon that reminiscence, "Marchón, marchón!"
**********
Yesterday's monsoon dragged into the wee hours, rumbling and flashing most dramatically, and even this morning we are left with an overcast. Thus again I am under the awning outside the bakery, protection against raindrops as well as sun, and a good spot to watch the elite of the village pass in their fancy cars. Chief comedian of the village jesters limps through the parking lot, favoring one knee, and drives off in a red Lincoln Navigator. The community is fairly affluent, and wealthy people tend to be cautious, which taken together, calls into question the actual wealth of our mask-free President Trump.
Meanwhile, the fledgling hawks were in my yard this week, squawking loudly and answered from a distance presumably by the parents, whom I surmise may have been trying to lure the babes toward the national park land. Then there was one youngster left, stubbornly resisting but getting no response to his pleas, which each day thankfully became more distant. I trust he has seized his independence.
Now comes Grey in his mask, gloves, and Panama. His old Bentley is fancy enough for me!
************
I am on an adventure this morning. Realizing that "contactless" is rapidly embedding in our collective psyche, I have downloaded the Panera app, which I am now using for the first time. Sure enough two parking spaces near the door are designated "Panera Curbside," where I simply tap on "I am here" to have my order brought out by a clerk, properly fortified with mask and gloves, as am I. The hazelnut coffee, which I have not enjoyed since early March, is divine. The coffee in the village is adequate but rarely fresh.Today I have a complimentary cheese Brittany, and I have purchased a box of four more. At least now I know there will be hope of refreshment after I next see the chiropractor, which I must for the mercy of my sciatic nerve.
There are patrons sitting outside at carefully spaced tables, and indoor seating has also resumed; but for this morning, the last rare day of June, I have moved my car to the shade, only to learn how difficult it is to eat a cheese Brittany in the car! Nonetheless, a successful and a worthy adventure.
********
The summer has only just begun, and it appears it will be monsoonal. The air heats to boiling by late afternoon, and storms ensue. This morning it is already hot, and I am again in front of the bakery enjoying the shade of their awning. They now have ten tables, too close for comfort, but only one other person is here. One could sit around the corner by the ice cream shop, prepared in advance with a disposable wipe to clean up the ice cream.
Quite suddenly it seems no longer enjoyable to venture beyond the fortress of one's home. No, no, do not go out just for fun. Business only, and even there the cloud of risk hangs - the pall of fear. The insane unrest in the cities is surely as much about this wrenching psychic injury as it is about justice and equality. If we can't land a body blow to the virus, maybe a statue will suffice. Then how hong before blows are landing on actual bodies? The Red Horse follows the White - but who listens to prophets?
**********
To begin where I left off, the two hawk nestlings I observed last week were not there today, and I assume they have fledged. The juvenile I saw grappling with his breakfast, however, was in the same tree making the same hoarse call intermittently as he voraciously devoured his catch. I had my binoculars this time. So all appears to be well with nature's supply chain.
Then on to the courtyard, where contrary to Grey's thoughts on inertia, the few tables available have willing takers. There are extra tables and chairs provided by management outside Starbucks and the ice cream shop. The latter is promising as it faces north, but the table is sloppy with ice cream. So I end up in front of the bakery, trying to keep the requisite distance. The villagers are careful enough - their hygiene suspect.
**********
While I will not call this a dispatch, I confess I am well aware of validating Grey's point about inertia this week, since I am indeed back at the outpost this morning, but for the old reason - shade! Courtyard regulars have returned to the few tables that have been made available, and one remaining unoccupied outside the bakery was in the sun. I would have taken that one even on a hot day had the outpost been trash-strewn. As it is not, I am here to note that violas have been replaced with strips of red and white begonias, a sure sign the season has changed.
Speaking of which, on my walk this morning magnolias were starting to bloom, and even more exciting, two baby hawks were peering over the edge of their nest, the very one built in late winter, which I worried had been forsaken. These hawk parents were surely circumspect, as I had not observed any activity there until today. In fact, before I got to that sycamore tree, I saw a young hawk struggling to heft his prey to a high branch. His first kill? Birds commonly withhold feeding to prompt their nestlings to fly - one of many lessons we may take from nature!
***********
This morning the village jesters are still tailgating in the parking lot, while my village outpost has been abandoned to the crows, doubtless appreciative of abundant garbage. However, the bakery has put out four tables with chairs - half the old number - and even the courtyard has some few tables liberated. The problem, as I see it, is that without enough staff to empty the trash, surely staff is lacking as well to disinfect tables between patrons. Nevertheless, I am occupying one outside the bakery, making a note to bring wipes next week. I have been the courtyard chronicler, lo, these many years on behalf of Grey's blog - too late to reform!
Meanwhile, the nation's capital reels from protests over yet another ghastly police killing, as though a pandemic were not trouble enough. But the poor babes appear to be ignorant of the lessons of Gandhi, among others. Throw rocks at the police? You only recruit still more racist thugs to join the force. No, no, no! Throw flowers!
**********
Dispatch from the village outpost: On one of the first summery mornings, yes, I am here again, where the trash can, following yesterday's holiday, is overflowing. Indeed, strewn on the pavement are four cardboard take-out boxes, various small cups and soiled napkins. I suspect a family, dissuaded from crowded beaches, came only as far as the village; but as there is no wind today, I further surmise that it was crows who raided the trash for their breakfast. Going into the bakery, I passed the village jesters but did not salute, as they appeared to be in a heated argument with a younger man, perhaps of a less liberal persuasion than those Brooklyn comedians, who harbor no affection for our dear leader.
The maple tree behind this bench, which I wrote about a few years ago when it was quite young, is now blessing me with grateful shade. But I move on to the nursery in search of petunias and basil, so on with the mask and the gloves. Grey and I commiserate, especially about the inaptly blithesome of our acquaintances.
*************
Dispatch from the village outpost: The chimes of St. Francis Episcopal strike one o'clock as I cross the road with coffee and croissants to the lone bench that has been the only seat in the village since the courtyard was closed off on March 22, and that only because it is bolted to the sidewalk. My morning foray was delayed by the maids, who still manage to come once a month, for which my lumbar spine is eternally grateful. The hispanic team of two comes with masks and gloves and carefully disinfected equipment.
This pandemic exercise has been a peculiar discipline. We are permitted to go about for essentials, like food and medicine, but advised to keep such outings to a minimum. Thus as we sally forth of a morning we are forced to weigh our reasons in terms of what is indisputably necessary. In my case I learn my accustomed trips to shops and cafes were certainly never out of dire necessity, though in my defense I most often would combine them with some more practical mission - the printer, the post office. The engine of an economy, however, is consumer confidence. Workers and long supply chains depended on those shops and cafes. Now the shade of Herbert Hoover stalks the capital.
Well, on to the bank, at least the drive-thru window.
**********
Dispatch from the village outpost: The month of March must have been terribly put out at having to behave like April, since we continue to pay interest on that debt in the middle of May! The winds are barreling out of the north this morning as I take up my post on the lone bench with the gusts at my back, serving fortuitously to keep my hood on. Even the poor violas are shrinking. The village jesters still come, standing by their cars with their coffee, talking and laughing. I salute them in passing, reflecting to myself on those times not long past when the courtyard regulars, myself included, would crowd into Starbucks in harsh weather. Today there is a police car standing in front of Starbucks. Did the officer come for coffee or to disburse the patrons waiting curbside?
Grey and I constitute a book club of two - I simply must read what he is reading! Thus I am also well into Defoe's work concerning the Great Plague of London, which is thought to be based on the personal experience of the author's uncle. It is indeed riveting, and dare I say prophetic.
Leaving crumbs of my apple muffin for the crows, I am on to the pharmacy.
**********
Dispatch from the village outpost: First I should report that there is still no activity in the new hawk nest, but I did witness on a recent walk the rare sight of four fox kits gamboling on a neighbor's lawn. I knew that fox pair was up to something! It is spring after all, and here I am again on village errands, stationed on the lone bench with my hazelnut coffee. A family of crows is annoyed at my interrupting their pillage of the trash can, which stands unemptied. I am moved to share my coffee cake in recompense.
There is a steady, cool breeze this morning under cloudy skies. Indeed, you would not know that May has arrived but for the occasional fair day when the sun makes an appearance, showing it is still in its proper place for the time of year. As though climate change were not enough, nature has a veritable arsenal of tools to hold us in check; but the mills of God grind too slowly for our incorrigible rashness. According to Grey, who is reading up on the Great Plague of London, we are fighting this pandemic with the same measures used 350 years ago!
Too cool to sit, I am on my way.
********
Dispatch from the village outpost: No it is not fake news, though I should be nominated for a Noble Prize, for here I am again occupying the only available bench in the village, with my hazelnut coffee and a box of croissants to last the week. April nears an end, yet the cool wet weather is forecast to continue into May. Across from me, the dainty white and lavender violas tremble in a gentle breeze. Sun would help, but it is overcast.
In "The Speckled Band," Helen Stoner, a prospective client, says, "It is not cold that makes me tremble. It is fear, Mr. Holmes; it is terror." Perhaps the violas tremble in fear. The coronavirus is as stealthy as the deadly swamp adder that threatens Miss Stoner. Those of us not yet stricken apparently go about unwittingly spreading it. As it incubates, it spreads still further. Its unlucky victims fall ill in the dead of night at home, thence dropping from sight mysteriously.
The courtyard always became crowded in summer - dogs, children, cycling clubs - perfect for people watching. Under the circumstances, this lone bench may be my new station in life - unless or until I drop from sight.
**********
For many days, there has been a tug-of-war aloft between sun and cloud, keeping the temperatures just in the range of chilly. Added to damp, the weather is discomfiting, especially with the fever stalking us. Nevertheless, I bundle myself for my morning walk. The hawk nest I reported on recently is still not in use as far as I can observe, causing me to wonder if the transaction is in doubt. Perhaps Mrs. Hawk has objected that the tree is too close to the road. My path takes me by one of the old houses, among the few that did not fall prey to remodel, a property still bearing signs of the glory days of horses, dogs, and children. A white board fence, badly in need of paint, its gate collapsing, encloses a paddock, while cross fencing in the back marks a corral where an old horse trailer still stands.
The glory days have indeed passed. Grey was nonplussed upon hearing someone on television use the phrase "when the all-clear is sounded." Shades of the blitzkrieg! And so on to my village outpost in hopes it has not been found out either by fellow villagers or the constabulary.
*********
The erratic weather, with its violent storms, wild fluctuations in temperature, torrential rains, would of itself be sufficient to make one feel ill without the incessant suggestions that one is at any moment about to fall to a deadly virus. And I tend to be suggestible. Nevertheless, your indomitable scribe sits in a chilly wind, borrowed from March, at my post opposite the Vie de France bakery. My errand this morning was to find a bank branch with a drive-thru, which having accomplished I stopped at the bakery - of course - and next, to the post office, shielded as we are instructed with mask and gloves.
The world has gone mad, when Grey and I must learn to use FaceTime. Thank heaven he was persuaded to get a smart phone! We decry the lamentations going up about warnings ignored, budgets slashed, and as well the sudden new interest in statistics, a widely misunderstood subject which ought to be studied in high school. Meanwhile, I keep him posted regarding the new hawks' nest, and he tells me of the two foxes he suspects are raising a litter under his neighbor's enormous brush pile. But now, "once more into the breach!" as Grey has taken to quoting.
************
Gratefully, there is a cool breeze this morning as the sun is getting quite high above my village outpost. An overhanging maple is just beginning to leaf, but will provide shade come summer. It is now a full month since the courtyard was closed down, and I sit reflecting on the irony that I once sought out this bench whenever the courtyard was too crowded. Mitigation of the pandemic is well-warranted, of course, and for that matter, plague itself sows the seed of dread wherever it arises. The seeds are perennial, and will spring up for generations to come. Survivors awake to a world of agoraphobics. Still, somehow I have village errands - bank, pharmacy, post office, and groceries, though deliveries of the latter have resumed, albeit with scant supplies and tardy.
We are allowed to walk out-of-doors so long as we avoid all human contact. I find to my delight that hawks are again nesting in a neighbor's sycamore, near to the one they chose some years ago, which still holds the remnants of the old nest. I hope to be able to report on nestlings. Now to the hunt for egg dye - Easter that is!
**********
Another week of limbo in the village, but I am here on a pharmacy errand, so not likely to be arrested. The bakery is still open though, and I stock up on pastries, taking also a hazelnut coffee and going to that sturdy bench across the street, which shall be my outpost for the duration, or for as long as I remain standing. Those shops still open are very careful about keeping people six feet apart, and I still have hand sanitizer. I am careful even under normal conditions.
As I strode to the bakery, the two village jesters stood talking in the parking lot, no doubt bewailing the fate of their native Brooklyn. I saluted them and exchanged greetings, at a distance of course. Near me here on this corner of the crossroads, a bed of tulips is in bloom, orange and white with lavender violas interspersed. The joys of spring are dampened this year, but as Grey declared when last we spoke, nature's beauty always masks its treachery, especially in spring. Indeed, tomorrow begins the cruelest month!
*********
As a chronicler of sorts of our village life, I feel some duty to be here this morning, though I am not in the courtyard, where tables and chairs have been stacked and cordoned off to discourage anyone from gathering there and spreading a lethal virus, albeit innocently. Instead I have crossed the street where there are two benches that are bolted to the concrete. Fortunately I have my hazelnut coffee since the Vie de Franc has not yet been closed as "nonessential." So here I sit scribbling in hopes that the chill air has not become an inescapable miasma of pathogens. The damp cold of March is bad enough.
Grey is not one to gloat over his prescience, but is bothered above all that he is still alive to see it confirmed. With his wry wit he does see a silver lining. A large portion of the human population has been conscripted to test three ideas that may make it possible for large numbers of us to inhabit the planet sustainably: telecommuting, home schooling, and a government guaranteed income. Right on, bro'!
************
It is St. Patrick's Day and I sit in the courtyard bundled up against a typical damp chill of March.With this new virus and every cafe closing, I may soon fall back on my own coffee, bringing a thermos here for Grey and me. It seems this microbe is latching on to every nose it can access, making us all potential vectors, sick or not. But "social distancing" is social paralysis and economic rigor mortis. Alas, even once indomitable Irish wit is nowhere in evidence. The window dressing at the optician bespeaks rather the Ides of March, with Ionian pillars on a background of black and white stripes. Caesar beware!
The sun emerges as the chimes of St. Francis Episcopal stike ten. The two old gents I refer to as our village jesters are here, but not jesting. In their distinctly Brooklyn accents they are talking politics - what else? Before I leave, they get Jack on the phone, the oldest of the old-timers, kidding him about being in solitary confinement - and assuring him he is missed.
**********
With public health experts and news media telling us to keep a good distance from our fellow man, the several cafes that I frequent in the mornings are noticeably less frequented. Very little is yet known about this new virus, yet it certainly appears to be riding in on the White Horse, as Grey would note, referencing Revelations chapter 6, which he has been doing for years. He is clever about reminding me without actually saying I told you so.
In any case, at our age sudden death rouses far less dread than heretofore. I am at Corner Bakery on a shopping expedition, and a white haired woman ordering ahead of me has asked for the senior discount. Curiously her roots are dark; she has dyed her hair white! Upon leaving, I hold the door for two women each with a dog, one of which is a yellow lab puppy in an official looking vest. They are service dogs, and the puppy is in training. Nonetheless, cute as a button, he attracts considerable attention!
************
Did March come in like a lion or a lamb? The answer is always ambiguous, and confusing the matter further this year was leap day. If 29 February should be considered the actual first of March, the entrance was leonine, while the real March first was in contrast a lamb. Of course the importance of this determination comes at the end of the month, which folklore tells us will be just the opposite. In other words, it is anyone's guess!
Suffice it to say, it is windy in the courtyard this morning, and I am huddled by the optician's wall, where the windows still display valentines. Since learning that this decor is the work of two retired gentlemen, I find myself worrying when they are laggard in changing it up. Surely St. Patrick's should be next. There's a young woman here working on her laptop, and she gets up to leave as a wind comes turning the pages of my Moleskine. She has left some papers which are now blowing about the courtyard. Before I can get up to chase them, another old woman beats me to it. Ancient denizens are apparently more conscientious!
************
I am at Corner Bakery taking refuge from a rainy morning. Hereabouts, I learn from weather news, rain is the new snow, as of the latter there will likely be none. In front of me here, are two old men speaking a language I do not recognize. I suspect it is Greek, though it might be Russian. One man is thin, with a proper Greek cap and a good head of hair, graying at the margins. The other is short and chubby, with just a fringe of hair circling a bald dome. Though I can see him only from the back, I easily imagine this bald man resembling Mr. Quilp, the evil dwarf from Dickens's Old Curiosity Shop. Sure enough, as they leave I hear that low, gravelly voice of none other than the villainous Daniel Quilp!
I must tell Grey, who is meeting me here, about the characters he just missed. He needs cheering up, having just turned 75. One old friend died suddenly a few weeks ago, and another now appears to have one foot in the grave. Thus with some urgency does Grey himself labor on his essay collection, repeatedly comparing it to the Great Grimpen Mire!
*********
True to the groundhog's prognostication spring has come, and it is still February. Winter will interrupt for two days at most, then mild temperatures resume. Indeed, it has been a year without a winter at all - no snow nor the prospect of snow. Like Alice, I have passed through the looking glass: prevailing winds now come from the south, heavy with tropical moisture; temperatures rise at night and fall during the day. Adding to the eery impression, our Red Queen goes about imposing punishment before a verdict is given.
In any case, I am coatless in the courtyard, just a blazer and the indispensable muffler. A small woman passes through with four children, one an infant in her arms, the older ones stair steps. People are variously dressed, some in their puffy coats, some only a hoody, and many with no wrap at all. When the sun peaks through, it makes all the difference, as it rises higher on the horizon approaching the equinox. The weather being a boon to microbes, I wrap my muffler around my neck, lest Grey warn me of the White Horse - that would be Pestilence. Here he comes now - the old man not the horse!
*********
Another cold, drizzly morning finds the Starbucks crowded, so I secure one of the tall tables with my hat and gloves while I go for coffee and a slice of pumpkin loaf. When I come back, a young man has infringed, but I sit down beside him and ask, "Is that your breakfast young man?" He replies with a grunt, and I start to wonder if he might be a she. Nearby a man in yellow-mirrored sunglasses and a cap, sits with a much younger boy. The man is long-winded, giving a sermon as it were, though I can't follow it in the hubbub.
Across the courtyard, I see the optician's windows are dressed for Valentine's Day with hanging heart mobiles and heart shaped topiary of miniature red roses. The hanging hearts are of course covered in glitter and dangle from red satin ribbon. Before I leave, the dubious young person has moved to a free table and is greeted by an old woman. The another old gent recognizes him as someone familiar to the establishment. A former employee? A mystery boy - or is it girl?
*********
Except for a blue plaid scarf, the woman sitting in the corner here at Panera - straight dishwater blonde hair, dark glasses, earbuds - is dressed all in black. She is working with colored pens, so I surmise an artist. The conclave of the rabbis is here, talking energetically in Hebrew. Every Panera, I find, is fertile ground for interesting characters, as I assume my fellow patrons regard me also. The weather is mild and damp, and in fact the illustrious Phil of Punxutawney gave his unusual verdict two days ago that spring is fast on its way. Good news to most people, who simply want to shed their puffy coats, hats and scarves. Irregular seasons, however, are not salubrious in nature, where the cold of winter is needed as a check on insect pests and plant diseases.
These days looking at the untoward weather around the world gives pause. If it's warm in February what will it be in July? As I rise to leave, the woman in black with earbuds is laughing to herself. On to errands - neither the chiropractor, the masseuse nor the hair dresser today it is the printer.
**********
On my morning walks, I am more likely to see raptors in the winter, out hunting for breakfast. This year, in fact, there are two pair of red shouldered hawks in the neighborhood - most unusual - and I am hoping they will nest here come spring, as they did some years back in my neighbor's sycamore. On a rare occasion, living near the river, I sight a bald eagle flying over, immediately identified by his white head. Recently I saw two of them, probably a couple made famous by an "EagleCam" that spies on their family life. Indeed last year there was a love triangle, and the elder male went missing and was presumed dead, as I recall, from battle injuries.
These are my musings as I later sit at Starbucks. Tim, a courtyard regular, is here, a short old man with bushy hair and mustache, who was apparently spurned by his regular chums for his rightwing views. He is regaling an unsuspecting stranger about having poisoned something - was it deer or rats? Meanwhile, shallowness is on vivid display by two not-so-young women, stuffed into yoga pants, exchanging tales, in tacit competition, of cushy vacations. Well! on to the supermarket.
************
Back in the courtyard at last on a sunny cold day, I am sheltered by the optician's wall and awaiting Grey to pull up in the Bentley, doubtless in his Borsalino fedora, though with this fickle weather he fears he might leave it somewhere and lose it. When I joked that he should get a deer-stalker, he asserted that the rustic hat did not even befit Sherlock Holmes but was the dubious contribution of illustrator Sydney Paget, presumably because it was worn for hunting, albeit game not criminals!
The window dressing at the optician's is up to speed, with hanging white snowflakes above shelves covered in blue. Recently I had occasion to learn who is responsible for these windows, when I decided to get an eye exam in anticipation of renewing my driver's license. The clerk, who does not do the windows, was nonetheless talkative. They are done by two elderly gents, twin brothers, who had illustrious careers, dressing the windows of posh department stores, and were even involved in staging shows in Las Vegas. I gave her Grey's card with our blog address, telling her that I never fail to describe their seasonal changes. When she began to gossip about Linda's Passion, whose kitschy courtyard decor had drawn complaints, I was gratefully summoned by the optometrist!
***********
As it is a Rockville day, I am here at Panera with a hang-backer in front of me. She stands so far back that her intentions are unclear, but erring on the side of politeness, I assume she is a line of one and stand close behind. Her wild hair is a caricature of someone holding a finger in a socket. She orders oatmeal and sits down by the eastern window in the wi-fi corner, joining a tall young man whose hair and beard are similarly nappy. Mother and son? He wears a basketball jacket and shoes.
I take a table nearby among a few of the wi-fi regulars with their devices. One is a thin, balding man with glasses, whom I often see at the same places I frequent. I have been tempted to ask him if, like me, he comes for the hazelnut, but I hesitate to intrude. Today as I don my coat, hat and gloves, he speaks! Being a cold day, we exchange remarks about the weather and the possibility of snow, upon which we are in accord, appreciating it in moderation. Next time I must ask him about the hazelnut.
*********
It is a mild day in January here in the courtyard. To put this in context, in a normal winter there would likely be a short January thaw, a portent of spring. But this year January temperatures came in November, so it seems we are now treated to the month we missed. As further proof, the winter cherry tree in my yard, which should have bloomed in November, is now belatedly trying to do so. Pity the poor confused trees!
People are in good spirits though, considering how awkward the midweek holidays were - two solid weeks of weekends! At one table, six black men, a rare gathering in our village, are laughing heartily. Two young girls by the Starbucks window discuss their futures. One declares her wish to join the military, explaining that she is patriotic and also that she might take advantage of higher education, perhaps to be a surgeon. Her friend calls her crazy. Indeed, the prospects for military service, I daresay, are increasingly fraught. And so, shedding my hat and scarf, I move on.
*********
The weather being unusually volatile this December, I am again indoors at Corner Bakery, listening to the chatter induced by their excellent coffee, self serve and evidently self serving. Of the two women behind me, one is complaining copiously about her younger sister, who gets drunk and looks to her for rescue at all hours. Then opposite me sits a boy and girl just getting to know each other, perhaps, I surmise, having met on a dating app. He is the one on a caffeine high, talking endlessly. He lives with his parents, bragging of all the comforts he enjoys at no expense. She listens patiently to the spoiled rich brat, so he is really into her, of course. Beware, young woman!
It is for just such youngsters that Grey is writing his essays, though he realizes they are the very ones unlikely to be interested until it is too late. He also knows that essays have a way of becoming passé in a hurry, in his case before he has a change to publish. He is soon back from the old country, and we will meet in the courtyard, weather be damned!
**********
I am at Corner Bakery, where one may people watch - and listen - and in winter take up a pen without frozen fingers. This morning a Chinese woman is here with another, whom I surmise is her grandmother. They are having coffee and pastry, and the young woman is most solicitous of the older, going back and forth to the coffee station until all is quite perfect. At another table a tiresome woman is regaling her companion with an exhaustive account of a recent journey.
Such conversations have become so common I begin to suspect I am the lone remaining person who is not a globe trotter. I have traveled, but not lately; roads are clogged with traffic, and many routes are under heavy construction. But airports are the worst: one approaches with little confidence of actually being able to fly in a timely fashion. To the contrary, be prepared to camp out. I fully expect to see sleeping bags for rent, sanitized of course. I must suggest to Grey that he write an essay on travel. The old chap happens to be away even now, not globetrotting, just the old country for Christmas.
**********
I am writing this on the back of my grocery list, as the Moleskine - quelle horreur - has gone missing! Distracted by holiday crazies, I left it in a shopping cart at the drug store yesterday, and await its retrieval from the manager when he comes to work. Alas, if prisoners can smuggle their writings out of jail cells, I will not be deterred by this mishap.
It is freezing cold in the courtyard, and I sit at the only table getting morning sun. As we approach the solstice, that wondrous star is at its lowest trajectory. It is the week before Christmas, and the window dressing at the optician's is at last in step: white wreaths with peppermint striped bows, skinny pines in pairs on cotton snow, white poinsettias, and two tall wooden soldiers, one in a white coat, the other red.
With stiffening fingers, I am off to the drug store, hopefully to reclaim the Moleskine!
*********
The weather is increasingly inclement after Thanksgiving, and the courtyard is empty. Large lighted wreaths are installed on the opposing chimneys, and a tall menorah awaits the occasion to be lit. The optician, however, is somewhat laggard in removing the harvest decor from his windows. Since the Vie deFrance bakery has only outdoor seating, and Starbucks is full to capacity on a rainy morning, the village is sorely in need of another cafe. Starbucks is the workplace for many, so there appears to be no turnover. People sit with their laptops all morning long.
Nevertheless, I manage to grab the last available seat, which is by the door, where icy air blows in every ten seconds. An old woman is next to me with a very tall coffee, known here as a Grande. She wears a black NorthFace coat, red vest with coordinated chain-patterned scarf. With paper and pen in front of her, she is nonetheless staring at her phone. She gets up to leave and smiles at me. In fact, the morning rush is thinning out, and glory be, empty tables appear before me! It is just past ten.
********
I am at Panera this morning on my way to shopping errands, and behind me sits a stout black man with an African accent wearing a yarmulke. His companion is an Israeli, also identified by his accent. From the discussion, it appears that the African may be trying to join the local synagogue, since the Israeli seems to be instructing him in religious matters, though he also touches on other topics, from buying a used car to dealing with marital infidelity. The Israeli man is patronizing to the point of unctuousness, so that I am at pains to restrain an impulse to turn around and smack him.
Meanwhile outside, the red and white violas that were planted in early October are still small two months later and still being buffeted by a north wind. That bed obviously has bad feng shui for flowers. Thus alerted by the poor violas, I bundle up against the wind chill and am off to the shops. Back to the courtyard tomorrow.
*******
Frosty weather continues, and on my early morning walks the lawns are sugared with rime. Often the temperature climbs thirty degrees before I get to the courtyard. Today though, I am off to the shops, this being the season for it, with a first stop for hazelnut coffee at Corner Bakery. It is strange to me that this place has become a favorite. Surely the coffee is fresh and one may come inside from the cold, but the view is a sprawling suburban parking lot, interrupted only by a line of those small trees suitable to such sites. For all that bleakness, the place feels like home; but of course unless I am meeting Grey here, I am otherwise immersed in my blog post.
I am distracted this morning when a man and a young girl sit down at the next table. Despite his booming voice, he proceeds to talk to her about a serious medical matter: DNA testing, handling emotions, and so on. At the bakery? Well, as I implied, it's that kind of place - they come to talk!
**********
On my walk this morning the leafy bower I pass through was devoid of leaves. Elsewhere after a nocturnal rain, the leaves are raining down, making a patter on the bed of those already fallen. Some poor young trees have been taken by surprise by hard freezes coming before they had time to adjust: sap was falling with chlorophyll still in the leaves. Now a winter cherry in my yard, which should be having its second season bloom, is hung with wet brown leaves ready to let go in the merest breeze.
Now I am alone in the courtyard, as it is cloudy with windchill. On such a day I would tolerate the coffee at Starbucks but every seat in the place is taken, most patrons with laptops taking advantage of free wi-fi. I frequently remind managers at Vie de France of their error in not providing indoor seating, so when they go out of business it will not be on me. Hopeful forecasts of sun are not yet fulfilled, but sheltered by the optician's wall I am reasonably comfortable, though my fingers are stiffening holding the pen. Perhaps I will have resort to voice memos... alas! I drop a fiver in the red kettle as I pass - the season is upon us and I love the bell!
*********
On Halloween I was at Panera, where two young women were sitting by the window in wi-fi corner, one in a hoodie glorified by the image of a scowling skull. The other's legs were very short, not touching the floor. The first woman was in a dither preparing her house to take in aging and impoverished in-laws. When the conversation turned to children, she commented that her son was learning Russian from his daycare provider. Aside from her macabre shirt and my pumpkin lapel pin, no other nod to Halloween was evident.
Now it is past Veterans Day - Remembrance Day as Grey has it - and the weather has turned extremely cold. Even in the sun, I cannot sit long in the courtyard, but long enough to note - glory be! - that the optician is in step with the seasons, switching his window dressing from jack-o-lanterns to symbols of harvest: autumn wreaths, cornucopias brimming with seasonal abundance. Let the winds howl!
**********
The day before Halloween and I am in the courtyard remembering the times not long past when Linda's Passion would decorate with pumpkins, witches, bats, bales of hay and sheaves of corn. It was a fun tradition, but apparently too lowbrow for the urbane vibe of our new mise-en-scene, part of which now are new planters. The old red clay ones have been replaced with gray rectangles and white hemispheres. These are planted with greenery, which, though it has a leaf like a geranium, has no flowers.
Seven women are sitting together with their Starbucks, and one exclaims, "Sitting out and almost Halloween! How awesome is this!" Well, it's only October. Awesome are two crows who sneak up cautiously for crumbs of my apple muffin. In spite of their size, crows are shy, not even as brave as the sparrows. As I leave, a group of elementary students on a field trip from a nearby prep school passes through. Very nice uniforms - but of course!
********
The trees are finally in their autumn colors after a dry start to the season. On my morning constitutional through the leafy bower and around the block, dogwoods were reliably red, while the maples seem a bit confused: Riotously colorful on the spectrum from yellow to red, but on many trees each leaf is multi-colored, and some are appearing;ring in that subtle coral that is my favorite blend. The trees are never more noticeable than when they show their true colors, and their size may be startling when they break out of the jungle green. I walk early, and when the rising sun shines its light on the autumn leaves, I am reminded how much I love their diaphanous quality just before they fall.
In the courtyard later, the four small trees there have lost nearly all their tiny yellow leaves. But where are the yellow jackets?
********
Unaccountably, I take the last cheese Brittany at Panera this morning, and it is just 10:00! Someone must have treated the office. Outside, ground crews are replacing the summer's lantana with cold-hearty violas: blue and white around trees and entrances; red and white by Panera, where they are bowing their little heads in a stiff north wind. Nevertheless, it is a good day to plant as rain is coming. With the Jewish holidays finally over, the conclave of the rabbis, as I call them, again assembles on the banquette, lounging and chatting convivially in the unique manner that Panera coffee seems to foster.
Grey is on his way to the old country to check on the home farm. Yorkshire has had a spell of beneficial rain, helping his project to turn some pastureland into haymaking. By the time he returns, it will be cold enough to break our the Borsalino!
*********
Gradually, cold weather is coming on, and indeed this morning in the courtyard I am huddled, for the first time, by the optician's window for the sun. There is a windchill, and the sunny tables are in demand. Four schoolgirls are trying to study despite the weather, but they finally concede and retreat into Starbucks. A balding man in jeans and cowboy boots is eating a wrap from Starbucks; odd that he has no coffee.
Bearing upon my recent comments about the return of the skirt, a woman passes by in a short, black, flared version. Her hot pink top is matched in her shoes. Chilly though it is, her legs are bare, in keeping with a trend now so old as to be the new custom. While men are rarely seen without socks, women no longer cover their legs or feet. When not wearing athleisure, they have forgotten how to dress - quelle horreur!
Sure enough, the optician has succumbed and dressed his courtyard windows for Halloween: long placards showing stacks of grinning jack-o-lanterns, tombstones with skulls, and "Happy Halloween" in glitter. Two Asian men in dark suits and ties are discussing business in their native tongue. They are joined by a compatriot and then two Americans, casually dressed - of course! Discussion continues in English, and I learn the Asians are Korean rather than Chinese as I had thought. Their business has something to do with home security. A father comes through with four sons, the relationship unmistakable given a strong family resemblance. The boys are stair steps in age.
It is a mild morning but winds are forecast to turn northward, and indeed the northern sky is dark, hopefully promising much needed rain. The new weather extremes bring boom or bust!
*********
It is the Jewish New Year; and at Panera all the well-dressed people emerging from their cars outside in the parking lot are heading on foot to the nearby synagogue, the men donning yarmulkes, women stepping smartly on high heels. There is a considerable local policer presence for the occasion, since the Jewish community has a number of "soft targets" on this corner. In America the tribal warfare already dawns, the craziest of the white Christians ready with assault rifles to attack helpless innocents. The conclave of the rabbis, as I call them, is not here today of course, but three women near me in wi-fi corner are cackling in Spanish.
The background music at Panera is distinctive, as any regular patron knows. While I do not follow the myriad of ever shifting popular styles, I find this sound akin to bluegrass; it has the strummed instrument accompanying the wailing hillbilly, though it lacks the banjos. But on to the errands, which I carry on in the relentless heat while impatient for the autumn weather!
**********
It is the first day of autumn, and the sun is welcome in the courtyard due to a cool breeze. The sparrows are eager for my apple croissant, and while the optician has apparently forsaken seasonal decor - see the last post - the supermarket has pumpkins and mums on display. A man with a buzz cut is studying a music score, and when a friend enquires, I learn it is Haydn and he is a singer. The friend comments, "There's no hidin' from Haydn!" That's our village jester! A young woman walking her dog is stopped by two doggy fans, who elicit the information that the little Bichon is thirteen and his name is Porter. She has come for Starbucks prior to taking Porter to the park for a walk.
Before I leave the first yellow jacket accosts me - a sure sign of fall's official arrival!
***********
Since I became a chronic "backer," as the docs call us, I have a team of maids come once a month, who clean the house better than I ever did. They come the third Tuesday of the month, precluding my morning in the courtyard. Nevertheless, I come after they leave and have a coffee at Starbucks, decaf as it is afternoon; and, yes, of course I am a pumpkin spice fan.
In the courtyard are three unusual cyclists; they are old women, with all the gear, helmets included. You go, girls! Meanwhile, the optician's window dressing causes equal consternation. He has tall placards adorned with colorful rectangles, and on the shelves are miniature carry-out boxes in the same colors. It is a departure from the seasonal that opens a yawning abyss of speculation: Is he struggling to coordinate with the cobalt blue outer woodwork? (He was not consulted on the new color.) Might he foresee a climate without seasons, as the seas boil in perpetual summer? Maybe he retired and his heir cannot abide pumpkin spice. I've lived too long perhaps!
**********
As I go about with my Moleskine eavesdropping and people watching in the cafes, I am kept abreast of fashion trends, at least among the hoi polloi. I find, for example, that what I call spandex nudity is a popular style referred to as "athleisure." In other words, leaving the gym, one need not bother changing clothes. For that matter, whatever one has slept in, once known as pajamas, may stay on all day, irrespective of venue.
Here at Panera, where the lantana outside the window is billowing in late summer color, a chubby woman is likewise spilling out of her short black dress. Skirts and dresses - flared - are making a comeback. Expect a revival of square dancing to come! Grey is back from Maine, refreshed, though I daresay a bit more flummoxed by the trip than heretofore. He will report next week, and is working on a poem, "Flying to Portland."
*******
We often have a preview of autumn weather in the month of August, and this morning's chilly air mass fills the bill. Unaccustomed as I've become, I sense a pesky cough coming on. Nevertheless, lots of people are enjoying the courtyard. Two young girls are sitting on the pavement with a puppy, drawing the usual adulation afforded baby dogs. The animal appears to be a Husky with peculiar white fur tipped black. Oblivious to this little beauty, two older women pass through engrossed in conversation. One says to the other, "Send me a Bible verse now and then." A young woman comes with a baby, the woman in an unusual grey dress printed all over with blackbirds.
Grey is preparing for his annual sojourn on the shores of Frenchman Bay in Maine, so no blog post next week, but he is sure to have tales to tell on his return and doubtless a new poem.
*********
The courtyard has a polyglot group this morning, not at all unusual in our village, with a French school and a German school in the community. Sitting at one table with their Starbucks are three young blonde girls who are quite obviously sisters. Their broad, high cheekbones suggest a strong Nordic heritage, and sure enough they are speaking German. A curious little sparrow alights on their table, though there is nary a crumb to be had, and they react as though it were a bee.
At another table there is a large Iranian family, with five children - three boys and two girls - and a frisky Bichon. Then there is a Russian couple sitting with a young woman, who may be related, and has assumed a half lotus position in her chair. The man eyes me suspiciously. Is it in the Russian genes? Weather continues blazing hot, broken only by the monsoon, with alerts of flash flooding. Grey and I endeavor to carry on, albeit not always calmly!
***********
The courtyard is abuzz on a cool Saturday morning. The old-timers have their table; these are all old men, and there are two Chinese tables, one with six young men and one loquacious woman, the other with the old folks. A blonde woman in a print dress and black platform shoes passes through, pulled behind a balky labradoodle. It is mid-August and the optician has changed up this display windows. Gone is the marine theme, replaced with large yellow "School Zone" signs, red apples for the teacher, stacks of books and lead pencils in holders - along with eyeglass frames of course!
The high heat has brought monsoons every afternoon this week. Humidity in the air bubbles up until it explodes in thunder and lightning; then the rain comes in a cataract, pummeling the earth. Thankfully the seasons change in their cycle, and the surest signs of autumn here in the courtyard are the yellow jackets and the rain of little yellow leaves from the courtyard trees. Then Grey can switch his Panama for the Borsalino. I will be glad to see it!
********
Readers know that when errands or appointments take me in that direction, I indulge my taste for hazelnut coffee at Panera, where they now offer a pastry called a cheese Brittany. Fifteen seconds in the microwave and molto buono! Like the courtyard, this is also a good place to study one's fellow man. This morning there sits a white-haired woman, thin and straight as a pole, her companion quite otherwise: overweight and slouched with very dry, dyed hair. At the next table are two men speaking Hebrew; one with his back facing me is bald, the other does most of the talking. As I know not a word of Hebrew I have no clue about their conversation, other than it is one-sided.
The neighborhood, which has a large Chinese community, also draws many Israelis to the Hebrew school, nursing home and large senior residence, all supported by the Jewish community. The Jews and the Chinese I find to be equivalently communal. I should bring that up with Grey, as he polishes his essay on breeding. Meanwhile, we are having a monsoonal summer. More on that next week.
*********
The heat index is 93 degrees and the air quality is unhealthy "for sensitive groups," so I am taking refuge in Starbucks, where my summer favorite is a tall, soy, mocha frappuccino lite. It is not very busy, but the tables are taken by patrons with laptops - I get the last one, with my Moleskins, a primitive version of the laptop, as I like to say. Those sitting in the courtyard outside inhabit the deepest shade, which is along the wall of Starbucks. There is a young woman in yoga pants and sandals having a cold coffee and taking notes in a very small pocket book. I say! Do I now have imitators? While she does have a phone, she is scratching away most diligently, in which process I note a considerable tattoo on her exposed arm.
A black Porsche pulls up in the lane, and I witness something which could only happen in our fair village. The driver gets out, and leaving the car open and the motor running, comes in for his coffee. He returns shortly to his car, which no one apparently has even entertained the notion of stealing. Well a Porsche is not a Maserati!
*********
Once I had persuaded Grey that a smart phone would soon be a necessity, and he had procured an iPhone whom he calls Mycroft, he has - like the rest of us - become dependent on it. We often discuss the dangerous vulnerability of these dependencies. Indeed I am naked in the courtyard without mine this morning, having forgotten it at home. I have the Moleskine, but I often consult the dictionary and the Wikipedia apps, and I collect notes on fellow courtyard denizens.
Today there sits a mixed race couple, the father Caucasian and the mother Asian, with their son and daughter. Mom is in tight white pants and stilettos. Dad stares at his phone (see above), while the children, following my example, feed the sparrows, more discreetly, I daresay, than most youngsters. Presently, a girl comes through with a labradoodle puppy, who grabs all the attention - the dog of course, not the girl - a frisky pup with curly brown coat. Briefly an old white man in camo stands before us all, scowling. While he does not appear to be armed, I decide it may be time to move on. Words to live by!
***********
Just a week ago the village and surrounding areas received a pummeling Deluge, sufficiently biblical to warrant capitalization. I note from the trucks in the parking lot today that a number of companies have sprung up offering post-disaster services: fire, flood, hail, wind, mold. The apocalyptic horsemen multiply! Nevertheless, here in the courtyard two stylish women in designer shades, torn shorts and bejeweled flip-flops sit languidly discussing the sorry tales of flooded basements and washed out roads. At another table a young girl sipping a green smoothie sits with an older man, who looks unusually desolate - PTSD already? I did note "trauma" listed on the truck of one recovery service, though that may have referred to crime scenes.
The optician's two display windows, bunting gone, now show nautical decor, each with a large ship's wheel flanked by model sail boats, while the eyeglass frames float on sea blue platforms. Uncommonly I am hearing the loud rasp of locusts in the courtyard trees. Ah, summer... now endless, and relentless!
**********
On a summer weekend, the courtyard fills up. The one past had six of the regular denizens at their table, including Jack with his walker parked nearby. He started years ago with a cane - next step a wheelchair. There were also two little girls blowing bubbles to everyone's delight, and a representative number of the small, fluffy white, energetic dogs. This morning, a weekday, comes something rarely seen in the warm months: a brave little sparrow upon my table for her portion of my apple muffin. She must have lots of fledglings to feed! At the table next sits and African couple with their Starbucks. Despite their readily distinguishable accents, they speak English; but the accent prevents my catching the drift of their conversation, except that it is of a personal though not intimate nature. Relatives?
Grey arrives at his usual time in the Bentley, sporting his Panama of course. He keeps a stiff upper lip notwithstanding the irksome weather - persistent drought at the family farm in Yorkshire, and apocalyptic drenching here in the States!
***********
In summer, morning shade in the courtyard is on the eastern wall, the Starbucks side - no more huddling by the optician's. We are in a monsoonal phase, and even before the afternoon storms begin, winds come up, at least breaking the awful heat. But the air is wet, to the point that extracting sufficient oxygen may require gills. Three men are talking politics, including one of the village wags, who despite his age is a liberal New Yorker, Brooklyn to be precise. A younger man is conservative, and the third, a doctor, is moderate - the whole political spectrum at one table. The New Yorker is also an expert on food, by nature apparently, and given to hyperbole. So when the discussion veers off onto what to eat for the upcoming Independence Day holiday, he knows exactly where to go for the most spectacular burger - sin par!
I leave a good half of my croissant for the sparrows. Fledglings are showing up, distinguished by the quivering wing as they beg to be fed.
Blustery again in the courtyard, and this morning I take extra care not to upset my coffee. I share my croissant with a tiny female sparrow, who flies off with her beak full. She must have hatchlings. A white-haired man comes in with a teenage girl, who holds the leash of a brown and white husky. The dog attracts the attention of passersby, one of whom stops to discuss related breeds such as the Malamute and Samoyed, and to commiserate about shedding. An old couple sits with their Starbucks frappes, discussing politics. Despite the breeze, the sun is quite hot, so I am surprised to see a woman in a black dress - to her ankles. Well, it is a sundress!
And here comes Grey, holding on to his Panama. He contends that the economy of Ecuador would boom if everyone went back to wearing the genuine Panama hat of Carludovica palmata, made only in that country.
*******
Again it is blustery in the courtyard, and for just the second time in my history here, I upset my coffee cup. As luck would have it, this misfortune coincides with another rare occurrence, that being I did not take napkins! Well, some coffee remains, and I make do with tissues.
Two women are here with a crying baby in a stroller. One sporting a Gucci bag remarks, "Life without a nanny!" Dog man is also here with his faithful companion Coco, the English bulldog. He leaves, however, when a man and woman arrive with two dogs. One of these latter is a Shepherd wearing a vest that reads, "Do not pet service dog." Despite the chilly breeze, the Fourth of July holiday is coming soon, in keeping with which the optician has dressed his windows in bunting: flags sparkling stars, cardboard fire crackers. I fold my bespattered Moleskine as two more women arrive with frisky toddlers.
***********
The overcast this morning is keeping the temperature down, yet the courtyard is well populated. Two women are doing mutual research on their phones for beach accommodations, a sure sign that summer is around the corner. They are looking within a radius of a four hour drive, perhaps New Jersey or the Outer Banks. A thin girl passes through, all in brown with black heels, speaking on her phone in Hebrew. At another table a girl with a typically feisty Bichon pup appears to be advising an older man in a red cap and a basketball fan-shirt. Might he be a divorced uncle?
Grey sends a message that he is on his way. He has been upset about the sorry business going on in the old country, and particularly the recent state visit, though he was proud as ever of the royal family. As for Americans, he says if they wanted a monarch, they may as well have stuck with King George!
**********
Though it is still spring, in recent years it is a rare June day when a dry north wind causes me to seek a sunny table in the courtyard, as is the case this morning. Four old-timers - regulars here - sit talking at the table next. Aside from a nod or occasional greeting, in recognition of our mutual occupancy, I do not get involved with other habitual denizens. What I know of them has been picked up over time by eavesdropping.
Two in today's kaffeeklatsch have some reputation as the village jesters. One who is especially garrulous is talking about some venture capital investment involving biodegradable plastic. I gather this when the other says, "Show me the money!" which appears to be a running joke between them. They go on to gossip about a woman friend who is terribly sweet and sadly a slave to her doctor husband.
I spy Grey getting out of the Bentley and wave him over. He is just back from his spring visit to the home farm, looking dapper albeit weary.
*********
Weekends in summer the courtyard fills up: families with babies and dogs; several of the regulars, who have aged and are now only seen in the warm weather. Jack, a villager who has lived here longer than I, uses a walker, having graduated from a cane. Decorating the optician's window, the large colorful butterflies remain, but the kites are gone and the flower baskets replaced with mini boxwood topiary.
I love the seasons of the temperate zones and enjoy the signs of change. I even miss the kitsch that Linda's Passion brought to the courtyard before the renovation: the trugs with artificial flowers and vegetables, bird nests, the pumpkins and corn shocks in autumn, the life sized Santa and Easter bunny. It was over the top in an ingenuous way. As I sit, a young girl outside Starbucks is ranting on the phone with her mother, and a Bichon-Shih Tzu mixed breed begins barking at his counterpart at the next table. Clouds roll in, and I retreat.
**********
The vagaries of spring weather continue, though the hot spells are now longer than the cold. Today the temperature is perfect, but the breeze coolish. As I approach the courtyard, I am singing a theme from "The Barber of Seville," which was playing on the radio. Another old woman eyes me suspiciously. From a distance I also notice how tall the courtyard trees have become, especially the one nearest the western wall.
A man is here who has become a regular. I call him the dog man, because he is known for patrolling the village with half a dozen rescues, hectoring passersby to adopt one. He sits with a couple with whom he is having a confidential conversation, from which I learn that he once was a school teacher. His bulldog Coco sits in his lap with her head resting on the table in perfect contentment. He must have a close friendship with the couple, since before I leave he has started to tell them that his wife, from whom apparently he is long separated, has, for no reason he can understand, filed for divorce. Ah, Mycroft! "This is the spot to study humankind." Yet errands await.
*********
The spring mornings are still cool; and when the schedule allows, I venture out for a walk. Though I have suffered the heavy pollen and the viruses for weeks, today I was brave. The old hawk nest in my neighbor's sycamore that I mentioned here several posts back does have new material added, but I did not see hawks. Another animal may have moved in, but I keep hoping the pair of raptors I do spot on occasion is responsible. Part of my path is overhung with trees; I call it the "leafy bower," and it is leafier than ever given the excessive rain. I feel cosseted there as in a refuge; but the trees are thin, and the way they lean, I worry that sooner or later they will fall into the road.
Now in the courtyard, I encounter a large black man with two large dogs, a black and a white. They have the Shepherd physique with Samoyed fur. Fortunately they are well behaved!
*********
A perfect spring day with blue sky and cottony clouds, temperatures warming but humidity low, and the courtyard is well populated. A young woman in fiery orange stares into her phone. Another woman in a short skinny dress passes through walking a frisky, frizzy Bichon. There is an old Indian woman behind me who has a heavy Hindu accent. Two cyclists arrive feeling the heat of their exertions. But our blessed courtyard trees are fully leafed out. I wonder at - and simultaneously pray for - their survival.
As I spent the morning having tea with a neighbor, exchanging views on exactly how the world will end - bang or whimper - it is afternoon. Many denizens are eating lunch still, and I have come for Starbucks chai tea soy latte. Bang or whimper, every frame of timeless, quantum reality holds a new Starbucks latte!
***********
For the last several years, since developing the low back problem, I have been persuaded by Grey to hire his house cleaning service. As I am a fairly tidy person, they only need to come once a month, and an efficient team of two Latino women has the whole house sparkling in short order. They come at an awkward time, however, so that if I must go to the village, it is afternoon. I now use these occasions to go to Starbucks for a chai tea soy latte.
Last month I got there, fortuitously, just before the after school crowd of noisy youngsters. The place was gaily decorated, with paper flowers and cotton clouds hanging from the ceiling and a garland of more paper flowers draped over the counter in front of the cash registers. I suspect this was the idea of an employee who is Indian, to celebrate the Hindu festival of Holi, a fete of spring color. We love our immigrants!
As I was about to leave, a young man was handing out samples of coconut milk with strawberry, which I politely declined. The latte is sweet enough.
*********
Summer style weather and the courtyard has come alive. As Mycroft proclaims to Holmes looking out the window from the Diogenes Club in the Affair of the Greek Interpreter, "To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot!" There is a circle of nine young girls from the nearby elite girls' school, counterpart to the elite boys' school. They are proudly recognizable in the short, plaid uniform skirts. At another table, two Iranian women sit talking, identified by their accent. One is well dressed, all in spring navy, setting off her pale grey hair. A man and woman sit eating, not talking, apparently long married. An old woman is led from the salon by her nursemaid to a chauffeured Mercedes. This is not the same woman who used to come every week, first with her husband, then a helper, now no more.
As the happy laughter of the schoolgirls fades into the parking lot, a woman comes with a Labrador puppy and ties his leash to the charging station. She goes into Starbucks, and the poor pup whines pitiably. Fortunately she is quick to return - to sweet puppy kisses!
***********
It appears that the florist Linda's Passion has been deemed unsuitable to the new cosmopolitan vibe here in the courtyard. Her mannequin Santa and the giant Easter bunny that roused memories of the tall rabbit haunting Jimmy Stewart in "Harvey," lost their appeal. Who even remembers that film or the play about that eponymous pooka? Well, I for one will miss the pumpkins and witches at Halloween; but Starbucks has stepped up and is holding an all-day Easter egg hunt this Sunday in the courtyard, and the optician's window has baskets of varicolored flowers with flying kites in a rainbow spectrum.
Aside from the fact that it is "hump day," the courtyard is unaccountably vacant. The sun is warm with a light, cool breeze. The courtyard trees are slowly leafing out, and the planters are filled with yellow and purple violas. Of course I must get on with errands, but before I leave others have come, including workmen with ladders and orange cones, after the chimney again.
*********
I am in Rockville this morning for a haircut, and of course Rockville means Panera for coffee first with my latest favorite, the cheese Brittany. When wi-fi corner is crowded my next choice of perch is by the door, where I can observe the sartorial predilections of the patrons as they enter. In the neighborhood, besides the Jewish community, there is a large representation of Chinese; and today a China doll comes in wearing a pink blouse over skinny black pants on even skinnier legs. Between the pants and her black stilettos a gap of very pale skin is shown. Everyone else being in the usual denim uniforms, China doll wins the prize for style.
Denim, though, I daresay, may be giving place to the famous "leggings," which I call spandex nudity. We have only for men to adopt this style and we will all look Shakespearean! And so, to the salon.
*********
It requires at least half an hour of a morning to determine how one should dress in order to be comfortable. The expected high temperature might be sixty-seven, but I will be home before that, and there will be winds. It is now below forty degrees, but sunny. Can I wear only a blazer with a cape over it, without catching my death of cold? How many layers must I be able to shed in order not to be too warm? Here in the temperate zones, it is called "spring." April to be more precise, a heyday for the flu vises to colonize the respiratory tract!
Yet once ensconced in the courtyard I am indeed comfortable, and doubtless will shed the cape, hat and gloves before I leave. The tables and chairs are dusted with yellow pollen, another seasonal pleasure, and the planters have been filled with violas in all colors. The growing season begins!
***********
Between torrential rain storms that continue to transform lawns into bog, we enjoy some pleasant spring weather. All manner of birds proclaim their territorial imperative in song while searching for nest sites. Some years back local hawks built a nest high in my neighbor's sycamore tree and raised two nestlings - probably it is recorded here, way down below the page break. I have since kept an eye on that tree, hoping they might return, and today on my morning walk it appeared that new nest material has been added on that old site. I will be even more vigilant, of course!
But on to the village and the courtyard, where workers put finishing touches to the remodel project. Some shops are getting their new doors, and at the Vie de France bakery retractable awnings, black and white striped, have been installed. The pharmacy, however, still has no sign, and according to Carmen, our property doyenne, they have perversely nixed the offer of a new portico. Well, break out the umbrellas - no refuge from the elements!
************
With March windchills feeling like ten degrees Fahrenheit, the village Starbucks is mobbed; the only seats left are two stools by the fancy brew station, that being the place where the coffee equipment appears to have been taken from a chemistry lab. It is noisy, of course, but one young woman sitting with three friends has a cackle that pierces the din - perfect for Halloween - and she makes two syllables of the word "coo-wool!"
There is barely room to take notes on my iPhone, let alone open the Moleskine, so I do not tarry. Outside I come upon an old white man of military bearing walking a German shepherd on a leash. The man stops and gives the command "heel," but the dog does not perform to his satisfaction. Thus with each command he yanks the chain until the poor animal is whining. In fear of the man more than the dog, I hasten away.
*********
Regular readers will know what I mean by a perfect day for the courtyard: early spring, cool air, warm sun, light winds. Yet it is very quiet, and so far I am the only one here, though shoppers pass through to the deli.
Adding to the mystery is the window of the optician's, which puzzles me as never before in all these years. It is hung with black and white Chinese lanterns, and the eyeglasses are displayed on black and white checkerboards. The only inference one night make of anything seasonal are black fans, unfurled and sparkling. Carnival, perhaps? But Fat Tuesday is past. We always called it Shrove Tuesday, the emphasis being on penitence rather than bawdiness, further evidence where none is needed that the gap between British and French is much wider than the Channel. And speaking of Brits, here comes the Bentley - I will have company!
*********
Despite the wind, the sun makes a rare appearance, and in the lee of the optician's, it is safe to sit in the courtyard. Not many others are here, however. Two hispanic women converse over coffee, keeping an eye on a very cute little girl - a toddler - wearing a fleecy coat with pink and blue hearts all over it. The women, obviously, are mother and grandmother. The mother is in a sweatshirt, the front of which reads, "You, Me, Oui." Multilingual! A scruffy looking man passes through the courtyard, walking a furry white and tan Pomeranian as cute as the toddler. The dog is wearing a coat, he is not.
At this time of year, with spring coming but not quite here, people do dress variously. The modern weather forecasts, with their "feels like" temperatures, are not reliable. They need to factor in the angle of the sun, which on a sunny day can make 45 degrees quite comfortable. As it is, I never leave my muffler behind, and of course Grey looks for any opportunity to wear his Borsalino - here he comes now!
*************
Errands having backed up during snow storms, I am in Rockville at Panera for mid-morning coffee and my new favorite pastry, their cheese Brittany. A peculiarity of this Panera, being near the Jewish Community Center, is a conclave of the rabbis, as I call them. Not understanding Hebrew, I am unable to eavesdrop, through a young woman who joins them, doubtless the daughter of one, deftly combines Hebrew with English.
Closer to my table, two talkative women are discussing summer camps for special needs children. One of them has an autistic son. As they leave, she tells her friend that she is
"doing scooter." She describes this primitive vehicle in detail as a novelty that she has just lately discovered! I've lived too long, to quote my late cousin Lucille, who died just short of age 80. And so, on to the shops!
********
Unusually, I am in the village in the afternoon in anticipation of a snow storm that is to begin tonight and continue all day tomorrow. I hastened through errands and have planted myself in Starbucks to rest and enjoy a classic chai tea latte. It is a sunny day with a chill wind, and people passing through the courtyard are variously dressed, some in puffy coats, others none. Amazed at the coatless ones in winter, I wonder if it is vanity or penury.
Carmen, the property manager, is outside talking with John, foreman of the renewal project. Workmen have in fact returned to work on the facade of the pharmacy, which formerly had a long portico where one might stand out of the rain. We wait to see what will replace it. The latte is overly sweet but reviving, and thus fortified, groceries in the car, prepared to weather the storm, I head home.
************
It feels like an early spring rain, the air itself shocking one to attention as it smacks the face, yet spring is still six weeks away. Adding to the thirty plus inches above average last year, this continued wet pattern is conjuring fears of "water world." All is mud and then frozen mud, then mud over frozen mud, like the tundra, or what I call "winter lasagna." The courtyard will be a wasteland until summer, I fear, with Starbucks having the only indoor seating. But then the bakery should have added seating long ago when they took extra space.
Meanwhile, another refuge is the Bakery, the Corner that is. This morning I am treated to an intense conversation at the table in front of me between an Asian woman and a large man in baggy old clothes, who is unusually testy. They are discussing improvements to a "mansion" that apparently factors into a divorce settlement. She is advising him how best to make these improvements before his children move in, and she stay on point, ignoring his personal, even political, side remarks. When he snaps at her, she threatens to quit. I feel fortunate when they leave before violence breaks out!
***********
With Candlemas approaching last week - we call it Groundhog Day - and wind chills below zero, I took refuge in the village Starbucks, adjacent the courtyard. Their coffee is reasonably palatable, modified with hazelnut syrup and soy milk. The optician's window opposite had large and small paper snowflakes hanging, and I was relieved that they were not rushing Valentine's Day.
Candlemas is the day when at this latitude we regain ten hours of daylight, and the plants begin to respond. I leave my window candles up from Christmas until this day, adding their bit of light to the darkest season, though in fact I like the long, peaceful nights, unlike most. As for the local groundhog, he doubtless saw his shadow on the sunny morning of 2 February and scurried back into his nest under the shed. Thus despite a brief warm spell this week, the month is likely to bring more cold and snow, typically.
Meanwhile in the optician's window, snowflakes have been replaced with old-fashioned heart-shaped boxes and shiny red plastic hearts hanging from red ribbons. Can spring be far behind? And just pulling in, the Bentley is spotted!
*********
Over the years, winter in the courtyard is increasingly uncomfortable. The weather is more extreme, I tell myself, due to global climate change; but of course, I could be more sensitive due to age. In any case, I find myself taking refuge more often in those cafes where I can sit inside with my Moleskine and good hazelnut coffee.
Panera is an especially fruitful place for observing a diverse humanity. This morning in the sunny window sits a blonde Russian woman in a white sweater, red nail polish, and a long white neck scarf, discussing a legal matter with an old man, who is bald except for a narrow white fringe. Behind me is a man with wild hair whom I have seen several times recently. He has a Brooklyn accent and talks on his phone about his business. Apparently he also eavesdrops, because today as he leaves, he hurls some caustic comments - in Hebrew - at the table of rabbis, much to their bewilderment. Come to think of it, he might easily be cast as an Old Testament prophet!
Our beautiful new brick paving here in the courtyard is standing the test of winter. Quite a deep snow fell days ago, but it has been removed, and Jacinto has taken the precaution of spreading ice melt. Nevertheless, I am solo this morning, and while there is no wind, there also is no sun. The summer's weather pattern of constant rain continues under winter conditions, so none of the bright, dry January days, at least not yet.
People passing through glance at me warily as if they are thinking I am either crazy or risking frostbite. But I will not stay long, having several village errands. Sparrows in this cold must be huddled in their roosts, but the crow family stands watch. They are shy, yet one swoops down bravely for a piece of apple muffin. Grey approaches from the bakery with his coffee, and yes, in his Borsalino. He will be in a tizzy over the state of his homeland.
**********
On a super cold January morning I am taking refuge at the Bakery, where tables are full and a hubbub of chatter goes up from other refugees. In front of me a young woman sits talking with her grandfather. They are Indian, and she has a typical Indian accent, replete with Britishisms. She tells him about a dietary allergy and its gastric symptoms. Given the numbers of Indian doctors now filling medical practices, I often bless the British Empire for teaching them English! Behind me two business men are consulting, and one with a piercing voice expresses amazement about a colleague being ninety years old.
Service here at the Bakery depends on your order number, which you are given on a cardboard at the cash register. Your food then finds you at your chosen table. As I go to leave, a passing server asks, "Are you number one?" I regret not having a snappy rejoinder.
*************
On Rockville errands, I always stop at Panera first. There is the hazelnut coffee, which seems to run out as soon as I walk in, though there is sure to be a fresh pot waiting. Now there is a new pastry they are calling a "cheese Brittany." It is small and especially luscious warmed briefly in the microwave.
Here in wi-fi corner by the sunny southern window sits a woman assembling jewelry. Her sweater has a South American pattern in russet colors with figures of llamas, causing me to surmise that it may be alpaca wool. Next to her are two young women, one in tight jeans and high boots, a red sweater and a large diamond on her left hand. She is the major contributor to a lively conversation - schools, day care, a trip to Israel. They are still gabbing as I leave - it's the caffeine!
*********
Sun would have been welcome in the courtyard this winter morning, but no, there is heavy overcast. At least the winds are calm. I am the only one here though, sitting as always by the window of the optician, still decorated for Christmas. Well, the twelve days are not up for another four. Jacinto stands talking with two Anglos. They are standing so long, in fact that I must infer they are waiting for someone - Carmen perhaps, or foreman John? I did not think Jacinto's English was that good. Finally they shake hands and walk off.
The absence of sparrows is an indication of how cold it is, but I leave some crumb of my apple walnut muffin nevertheless. The temperature hovers at 43 degrees Fahrenheit - it has for so long as to seem ominous, some augury about the number, 4-3... then? Grey returns from the old country soon, and I will rejoice to see the Bentley pull into the parking lot. If the weather holds, he will be in his Borsalino.
*********
The hoar frost was so heavy this morning it appeared on the lawns like a light snow. Here in the courtyard it even coats those tables that have yet to be graced by the rising sun. My table by the optician's wall is among the exceptions. Of course I have scarce company here, save for two young girls who are giggling profusely over their respective experiences of drunken oblivion. Such fearless children!
Winds are calm, so I am able to sit awhile in the quiet of Boxing Day. I learn from Grey that this occasion brings a variety of activities in Britain, from shopping marathons to rugby matches. It is also the feast of St. Stephen, so he and I regard it as the day good King Wenceslas looked out. Exactly as it did last night, the moon shone brightly and "the frost was cruel," when a poor man came in sight "gathering winter fuel." Then ancient legend has it that the good king set out through the bitter weather to help the poor fellow - a pleasant reflection as I set out with extra gratuities for my several village helpers.
*********
The biblical rains continue, every weekend, but between times I can repair to the courtyard in the shelter of the optician's wall. His seasonal window dressing has mammoth Christmas ornaments hanging from beaded ropes with wire Santas and snowmen interspersed. Somehow there remains room to exhibit eyeglasses. While the sun is warm, a brisk northwest wind is producing a 38 degree windchill. I am always amazed to note how many people, irrespective of temperature, are coatless. Do they not own one? Are they of Nordic ancestry? Others are bundled up like myself. Grey has persuaded me that since cold symptoms often begin in the throat, it behooves to protect the neck; and so like him, I now have a good number of woolen mufflers.
Few people are here today, but one young woman passes through wearing tight jeans, a black purse swinging on her arm, and blazoned on the back of her camo jacket the word "Whatever." Nevertheless, she drives off in a black SUV, a Lexus.
**********
There was quite a hoary frost on the lawns as I set out this morning, so I am huddled here with my hazelnut coffee at the Bakery. It is not busy, though I suspect the shops are. Flummoxed by the holidays, I too have shipping to do. I enjoy the Christmas and Hanukah lights, alleviating the darkest season, but the custom of exchanging gifts surely is de trop, alas, yet mandatory it seems.
Grey reports from the old country with his new smart phone, pictures and all. It is sunny and cold there. The hay is all in for the livestock, so without those banal worries, he frets over the future of the British economy, blaming those arrogant Belgians for making trouble just as they did in 1914. Sensible leaders could work things out and avoid all this drama! As I head for the shops, I leave the jowly, white-haired man to his Apple macBook and his phone call, something about marketing a product that he fails to name in quite a long conversation.
**********
The wind whips the banner over the courtyard, and without sun there is a decided windchill. I will not stay long as my fingers are getting too cold to write. The banner serves to announce "we are open during construction," since work has indeed resumed. A spiffy new sign has gone up over the tavern, and this morning two workmen are busy hanging a new sign, larger than the old one, over the Italian restaurant. The paving work, which I thought would wait until spring, is proceeding at the farther end of the center, with Mr. John as overseer as before, wrapped in a puffy coat but no hat.
There are two menorahs here, tall displays, and I am caused to reflect on the dissonance of the colors blue and white with the red and green of Christmas. Together with the newly painted shops in various wild shades, the courtyard is a visual cacophony! I must remember to snap a photo for Grey.
*******
Another cold, blustery morning in the courtyard, but I am chased from the sunny wall by a crew with a ladder hanging the large Christmas wreaths. A menorah awaits placement on the side. At the next table, a diverse group of four men engage in a lively conversation. Two are Middle Eastern and bearded, one is Asian holding a dog wrapped in a coat, and the fourth is Anglo. With a voice that projects, the latter appears to be the leader, and is giving advice on a variety of topics, from sports to travel. A woman with two young energetic boys passes through, or rather runs through calling after her sons to stop. They are not listening; they will have to learn everything the hard way.
With the holidays closing on our heels, Grey will be off to the old country soon, to see his nephew, check on the home farm, and have Christmas at a historic inn in Matlock with an old friend, as has become their custom. I must caution him to avoid politics; all the talk there is about the silliness of Brexit and the plight of Theresa May.
**********
With Thanksgiving Day this week, the bistros and delis are bustling, customers already picking up pastries and side dishes and ordering the main course. I have resort, meanwhile, to the old saw, "I don't make dinner, I make reservations." If pressed I suppose I could still take the catered route.
The day is blustery but sunny, and I am the only person sheltering in the courtyard until seven tourists arrive and take a table in the sun with their coffee from the French bakery. I surmise they are tourists as they speak a Nordic language I do not recognize, and eye me hesitantly. One man wears a cap with "Johns Hopkins" on it - visiting scientists perhaps? Come to think of it, given the shy glances they might be Finnish, the Finns being famously shy.
I am missing Linda's harvest decor and the mannequin Santa that followed. She was getting old; things change. I must ask Grey about timelessness again. He rounds the corner from the bakery, clutching his fedora.
********
Denizens in the courtyard this morning enjoy the Indian summer sun even as a chill wind flaps the large banner overhead - the one that reads "Open during construction." It appears, however, that the paving work at least may have stopped until spring. New black lampposts with down lights have a retro look, and a solar charging station has been added for our indispensable devices. This is called a "Street Charger," and of course it assures ones connection to the social nervous system.
A woman working on her laptop has an old golden lab dozing peacefully at her feet, when a young boy passing through with his mother asks to pet the dog. This youngster was raised right! Of course he receives permission and the old pooch is delighted with the attention. Dog stories are exchanged, and I learn that this one, now rolling on her back to have her tummy scratched, is "Haley" age eleven.
Here comes Grey crossing the parking lot. His faith has been renewed in the electorate after voters were compelled to restore the balance Congress was intent on eradicating.
*********
It is Election Day here, and the copious rains that have plagued us for six months continue. I voted early this year, but not everyone did, so weather will have an impact on this unduly consequential vote, with the world watching. The governorships are particularly significant since states will redraw congressional districts after the 2020 census. This is exactly how a rightwing minority of Americans has taken hold of all power, and this election will signal whether or not it is too late for the rest of us.
Meanwhile, I have of course taken refuge at the Bakery. A young man was eyeing my favorite table as I approached it, but he graciously acceded, giving me hope for the future. Among the young, there may be a quieter, less strident cohort than their pugnacious elders. Beyond the window, the trees in their abbreviated season of color create a scene of autumnal solemnity. I wonder if Grey will repost that Frost poem?
***********
I have reached the courtyard on a windy fall morning a bit later than usual and unexpectedly after something of a misadventure. There was supposed to have been a meeting of a neighborhood ladies' group, which I once belonged to and whose meetings I still attend occasionally. I received an email that a new member was hosting, so I wanted to be supportive. She is scarcely a neighbor, living much closer to the city in a quite old established section. In preparation, I consulted Maps and Google and Waze, concerned that I would need to leave in morning rush hour and might be caught in a traffic jam.
Thanks to my research this did not happen, but when I pulled up in front of the house the street was oddly quiet, no other cars arriving or parked. I climbed the stairs to the elegant Tudor style residence, quite certain of the address, and rang the bell. After some while, the young owner responded - in her bathrobe. Had I not heard the meeting was cancelled due to lack of attendees? Well, no. I apologized and she apologized, and thus I found myself in the courtyard as usual - with doubtless a much better cup of coffee and a tale to tell!
***********
The construction project is occluding the courtyard, while it appears some buried lines or pipes are being laid. Yet a banner has been hung above us - from Starbucks to the optician's roof - proclaiming, "Yes, we are open during construction!" It is flapping loudly in a stiff north wind this morning, though I am reassured to note perforations that keep it from falling. Mr. John, the foreman, is meticulous as to safety, and this job is a big challenge.
I am the only one sitting, sheltered in the sun by the wall of the optician's shop; some others are coming and going to the market. It must be too windy for the sparrows, but two yellow jackets are especially determined to taste my apple croissant. I am at pains to wave them off with a napkin long enough to finish it. Catching me by surprise, here is Grey coming around the plywood barrier with his coffee and pastry. He has begun a new essay on aging, a topic upon which we are both experts!
*************
Autumn is finally asserting itself with a cold wind this morning. On my walk it blew a flock of migrating birds out of a treetop to pepper the sky in their flight. Above the courtyard the sky is a melange of dark gray clouds breaking up next to clear blue and the sun coming out beneath. A white haired man in Nike shorts limps in with two old yellow labs. Very sad eyes - the dogs' not the man's. Our tradition of Halloween decor is missing this year, presumably due to the construction, but the optician's window has flying witches and grinning jack-o-lanterns, framed by the new blue exterior paint. Next to the brown Starbucks, Chipotle has chosen an appropriately hot red. Begonias in the planters have already been switched out for the hardier violas.
The yellow jackets are bad this season, vying with the sparrows to share my croissant. Ah, Grey's Bentley enters the parking lot! He struggles with the essays, but has posted several on the blog. He approaches clutching his Borsalino.
**********
Construction continues at an urgent pace in the village, replacing the sidewalks before the snow flies. There is the fall festival in just two weeks, so perhaps that is the deadline. Some interesting paint colors have appeared on the courtyard shops: a swath of magenta on the gray of the restaurant, the door of which is now chartreuse. Starbucks is looking very Old World in its brown.
I detect some discussion of the SCOTUS debacle; one well-dressed woman seems especially agitated as she reads the newspaper to her husband. However at another table two ladies of the Christ Child Society are having a planning session. They are interrupted by an older woman in a buttery yellow hoodie, who stops to tell them a joke; they laugh politely. While it is a sunny morning, a strange man spooning vanilla ice cream from a gallon carton, is wearing a slicker and rain ht. Mercifully, we don't lock them up anymore. And so, onward!
***********
The autumnal equinox just past, the rising sun blazes at the end of Hunters Lane once again, bedazzling the dewy lawns on either side, as I take my morning walk. High above I catch sight of the waning gibbous moon, appearing a mere fingernail on the pale blue backdrop. Then to the courtyard where heavy construction goes on remaking the sidewalks. Shops opening onto the courtyard are getting new paint, each a different color: grey for the restaurant, cobalt for the optician, forest green the salon, and Starbucks will be brown. The optician will be challenged in coordinating his window dressing!
There is a family here this morning with babies, a dog, and Grandpa in a cowboy hat. It
is Mom's birthday, they announce as they ask an obliging hair dresser passing by to snap their group pictures. But I'm off to errands, if I can safely skirt the dump truck and the cement mixer.
***********
I am at Panera this morning while apocalyptic rains continue. The begonias outside that were fodder for a rabbit in the spring are surviving, accompanied by a yellow blooming weed. With the red begonias, the colors are lovely and appear intentional. Two British women in conversation share a head twitch - no more refills on their coffee! Another pair of young women are speaking German, but the only word I recognize is a place - Weisbaden. They might be discussing the baths or local politics, though their mellow tone weighs against the latter.
No one is talking about the weather; it is simply dismal, with a twenty inch surplus of rain for the year. Ponds are full, rivers overflowing; but good for the plants? They also need sun. My fall lettuce, planted early in the month, is struggling. Even people who live on high ground have begun to wonder when the flood plain maps were last revised. Ah, well, off I go for a haircut, with the ubiquitous umbrella.
**********
In spite of construction noise this morning, a goodly group is here in the courtyard enjoying sunny pre-autumn weather - at last a respite from the unusual summer of perpetual rain! Yellow jackets are here too in seasonal fashion, alarming three young girls, who quickly leave. Few people realize that foraging bees rarely sting and may be safely waved off with a handy napkin.
The repaving of the sidewalks is underway, replacing the concrete with spiffy pavers. "Mr. John" the foreman is doing a bang-up job of keeping things moving. Indeed as I go to leave I witness an encounter which could only occur in our humble village. A man in a BMW stops a man in the street to ask, "Is that your old Mercedes?" And to the affirmative response, "Is it for sale by any chance?" Well, no, but "it's beautiful."
Grey is back from Bar Harbor, his favorite place in the States, and surely there will be a new poem - the loons on Jordan Pond, orb weavers on the rugosa?
**********
The sky is blue over the courtyard this morning, yet few people are here. There is a heat advisory and air quality alarums. Two men behind me are talking finance. Without turning to look, I surmise they are well dressed when I hear the term "private equity." As the sparrows enjoy crumbs of my apple walnut muffin, a swarm of cyclists wheel in. One of these - something of a stud - has a skull tattoo on his arm and wears a shirt with the word "coconut" on it - a peculiar inscription to be sure. Then as I reflect upon the many vagaries of my fellow man, a very old white woman passes through on the arm of a very large black man. She has chosen the perfect escort.
Grey is off to his annual sojourn in coastal Maine, doubtless returning with tales of those crusty Colonials, as he likes to say, and perhaps a new poem.
************
This morning it is massage therapy that finds me in the vicinity of Panera, where of course I must stop for hazelnut coffee and a pastry. The fellow patrons also never fail to be delicious fodder for eavesdropping. A woman with long black hair, dressed in white, is trying to impress an old balding man in a suit. She seems to be a business consultant of some sort, heavy on the psychology - recruiter, head hunter? His reaction is restrained, so no doubt her fee will be determinative. He begs off, citing a luncheon engagement, and they adjourn. Further from earshot sit two women, one of whom is highly animated and talks very fast, as though she has had too much coffee already. She has recently moved to a rural area across the river, where her husband uncharacteristically now tinkers with a tractor. Yet another woman is truly a rara avis; she is black, with dreadlocks and dangling earrings, speaking on her phone - in Hebrew!
Back to a hot courtyard tomorrow.
*************
There is a cool breeze in the courtyard this morning, rare for August. A young girl has her white jersey jacket zipped up. She is in a lively conversation with a grey-haired old man, doubtless her grandfather, and seems an intelligent child. A small boy with his father is in a karate outfit; the back of the shirt reads, "Never give up." Presently I see Carmen again, better dressed than the last time I saw her (two posts back). She is joined by a contingent of men carrying rolled up blueprints, brief cases, laptops, and they take over a large table outside of the Tavern. Among them is the white bearded foreman, whom Carmen calls Mr. John. The agenda of this meeting is obvious to me, though I must say the prospect of major construction taking over this peaceful spot for an indefinite period is not agreeable.
Grey is coming shortly to report on his recent contact with Berkswell, England. He received a digital copy of the parish magazine yesterday which included his article on the Brett biography. He is relieved, having begun to feel ghosted.
**************
This morning as I join the other courtyard denizens who fill the shady eastern side, I reflect how comfortable the sunny western wall is in the cold months. A young man dressed in black, with black hair and stubble of beard, sits eyeing a blonde woman working on her laptop. She turns out to be the person he is meeting, apparently for the first time. They discuss some service she is involved with, perhaps real estate. His accent suggests Iranian. The sparrows are enjoying my croissant crumbs, some juveniles still flapping their wing to be fed. A toddler, testing his very young legs under his mother's patient eye, chases after them. How rare the child who can watch without doing so! But he isn't the only one after the sparrows. A crow, wary of taking a crumb from the pavement, pursues a sparrow all the way to the parking lot in attempted thievery, succeeding when the poor sparrow drops his prize.
As I leave, a woman in stiletto heels hobbles through. She is redheaded and wears a pale purple dress, causing me to wish that people with "red" hair would realize that their hair is not truly red but orange.
**********
The courtyard is well populated for a cloudy day, but then sunshine has been rare this summer. Being a weekday I am surprised when a horde of cyclists descends on the place. I soon notice they are all gray-headed gents, defiant of age and resisting their status as "over the hill." Carmen is here, our property manager, who now recognizes me. She is casually dressed, unlike in former times when she was always in heels and stylish. I surmise over work, when she reveals that she now manages thirteen properties for the firm Zuckerman Gravely. Naturally, I quiz her for information regarding the ongoing improvements. The courtyard itself, she says, will be repaved; but she assures me the trees will be preserved.
Carmen moves on as do I, and as I leave the parking lot the old cyclists come streaming out, at least two on recumbent bikes - a slow parade.
**********
At Panera on a cool day the air conditioning works too well, but with rain clouds threatening no one is sitting outside. Everyone works on a laptop, old gents in suits, young men in shorts or jeans and flip-flops. An Asian boy is tutoring a younger girl, who I discern is trying to write something concerning race relations, though she seems a bit young for the subject matter. They turn out to be siblings and children of the woman at the next table, wrangling a toddler. As she leaves, she collects her brood and folds up their laptop.
The summer has been very strange - cool and rainy to the point of saturation and flooding. Grey's Panama has scarcely been out of the closet apart from the first half of July. He has concluded that before long the western half of the continental U.S. will become desert, due to perpetual wildfires, and the eastern half rain forest. Well, at least we will be able to grow bananas - and our own palmata.
**************
In spite of recent rains, I am in the courtyard, armed with napkins to mop off a chair and part of a table. This rainy pattern is phenomenal in its persistence. I call it "spigot weather," as though someone in heaven has a hold of the rain tap randomly turning it on and off - very unusual for late July, positively apocalyptic! As we morph into a rain forest, the optician has fittingly dressed his window with green parrots perched on gold stanchions amid fern fronds, and hung between parrot pairs, a tapestry of jungle animals.
With some strategic eavesdropping I glean that the remodel of this corner of the village, which began with work on the brick chimneys, is to include replacement of the concrete sidewalks with pavers. This bodes considerable disruption for a long time, but as I wrote before, so long as they spare the courtyard trees, it is still my "third place." Too soon that hand on the spigot turns "lefty loosey" and my over-used umbrella is unfurled again. Off to the errands!
*************
In summer, I try to pick the coolest morning of the week for my walk and then to go early. While my route does not pass Stewart's meadow, the noise of backhoes and bulldozers is to be heard later throughout the neighborhood. For a history of the parcel you may go to the Past Post Archive and scroll to the very bottom. The land is now divided into three lots and one has been sold along with a custom home to be built. So the scrub trees which, after many years were on their way to becoming a forest, must go. None have been spared, alas.
Later I am off to Panera where I sit inside out of the heat. Two older women are talking about elder residences. The one who does most of the talking is in white pants with a bag that matches her shirt. She remarks that living in such a senior residence would be like being on a cruise ship - always seeing the same people and isolated from the world at large. Meanwhile, outside the window I note the begonias are growing nicely. Did they catch the rabbit?
************
It is a rare June day in July when in the courtyard both sun and shade are comfortable, and with a cool breeze it is positively halcyon. A heron passes high above on its way to the riverbanks and identified by the long legs trailing behind. Unfortunately, despoiling this peace, the Jug Lift is back with a crew working with a buzzsaw on the optician's wall. The project seems to be focused on the facades of the shops and the roofs. The foreman is a gray bearded gent in a white North Face cap, who seems always too preoccupied to interrogate. Nevertheless, people sit gabbing.
A tan young woman wearing a heavy pendant necklace talks very fast to her companion, an old, heavy woman with wild, dry, white hair. The younger one says she has "tons of money," yet she and her husband are turning their house into a B&B. Alas, further details are drowned out by the buzzsaw.
********
On errands, I have stopped at Panera for their hazelnut coffee, and I sit inside out of the hideous heat. In fact not many people are braving the outside tables. While it is rather late in the season, the flower beds, which I can see from where I sit, have been newly planted with begonia seedlings. Weeks ago when I was here I was amazed to see a rabbit hopping fearlessly aid the original planting munching away. Passing in the parking lot is a truck as long as one and a half railway boxcar; splashed across the side is "Skinny Cow." That must be a lot of skim milk!
The heat index is much in the news lately. As I leave I notice a car with two kayaks on top - one way to beat it, though torrential storms have made the river dangerous. I try to top off my coffee, but the hazelnut is out - it is always the first to go.
*************
It is beneficent here in the courtyard this morning, where an old golden lab sprawls under one of the trees at her mistress's feet. A young girl asks permission to pet her, and of course dog and mistress oblige. Workers are atop the other chimney - the one opposite where they worked last week - and the area beneath them is roped off. There is one bicycle in the rack, which turns out to be the chosen mode of transportation of an old woman sporting a flowery quilted backpack. She is duly equipped with helmet as she pedals off.
It is election day here, and as we are a solidly blue tribe in this jurisdiction the primary is decisive in nearly every race. Grey and I often discuss the acceleration of tribalism, which is much more than politics. The available tables are filling up as the workmen are lowered down in the "jug lift." I am inclined to linger, knowing that soon the heat will become oppressive.
***********
A few regulars sit in the courtyard this morning, old gents who enjoy meeting here and gabbing. They are joined by an unknown black man in a suit - and kid him about being better dressed. Next to them is a couple, the white haired man in a red cap staring at a crossword puzzle and his wife staring into space. They speak not a word, causing me to wonder why some men seem fatally yoked to their spouses as though conjoined. School is out, so there is a table of young people, four scantily clad girls and one lucky boy, who doubtless, given the culture, fails to appreciate his circumstance.
With that thought, I begin to suspect I am spending too much time with Grey, who recently completed an essay on the ubiquity of misogyny. Meanwhile, workers are up on the chimney as the mystery project goes on, and I hope for the best.
***********
It is a morning when one may choose the amount of sun to have in the courtyard - full sun, full shade or dappled - in other words, delightful. Any change to the courtyard, being my preferred third place, is a threat. I am not partial to Starbucks. So I worry about construction going on nearby. It started weeks ago with a crew pointing up the mortar on the opposing brick chimneys. Now they have demolished the facades of two shops. Well and good, but worrisome is that the Zuckerman-Gravely management sign is gone, and Linda's summer decor has been removed. I must enquire of Jacinto; he still has the job at least. As long as they leave the courtyard trees, I remain loyal.
The sparrows are also loving the day and the croissant I share with them. If Grey shows up, I expect he will be in his Panama. Aha, sure enough!
***********
The leafy bower I traverse on my morning walk is leafier than ever after a rainy spring, and the grass is tall on some lawns where neighbors have been unable to mow. With serendipity, I am in the right spot when the waning gibbous moon peeks through the clouds and through the trees. I then pass a hawk hunting his breakfast from a fence post.
Later in the courtyard, the sun is welcome, as a westerly breeze becomes a stiff wind. An Asian man appears to be selling something to two young women dressed in sleek black and stiletto heels - is it a modeling job? A black woman has food from Chipotle; her hair is in dyed dreadlocks, giving her a Medusa look. Next to her is a bald man with a full beard. Sparrows are enjoying croissant crumbs, but no fledglings yet.
When I see the Bentley pull into the lot, Grey is here. We are very pleased with the positive reception the Brett biography has received. Ah, here he is - no Panama yet.
***********
It continues cloudy, so one may sit anywhere in the courtyard assured that the sun will not break through. We go days without seeing it. Two women are here with dogs: a yellow lab and a black one. When the younger woman goes into Starbucks, the yellow lab starts whining in a frenzy of separation anxiety - he must be hers. She returns quickly. A third woman passing through recognizes them and stops to talk - neighbors no doubt. I learn that the young owner of the yellow lab is an aide at Our Lady of Mercy Catholic school, and indeed all three are parishioners, causing me to reflect on how the village has changed. It was once, decades ago, an Episcopalian stronghold, and Republican, moderate Republican before the species became extinct.
After the women leave, a work crew comes, led by an architect with blueprints under his arm. They survey the opposing brick chimneys, upon which some weeks ago the mortar was pointed up. From their discussion I gather a project is afoot - a mystery!
***********
Rains on a biblical scale have been falling day after day, but I am here in the courtyard between downpours. The monotonous weather occasions some peculiar sights. One woman opens a fanciful umbrella with the sun at the top and clouds around the edge. An old woman has no umbrella but a very large, floppy straw hat, big enough to catch the rain. As she meanders, pushing her walker, she is a colorful creature - an aqua shawl, white pants, and red shoes.
No sooner had the frozen violas in the village planters been replaced than it was time to switch them out in favor of begonias, red and white. I notice these are very popular for public spaces, though they are surely the least showy of summer options. They are low maintenance. When this rain stops, after all, we will revert to drought, but for now Grey must think he is still in London!
*********
Spring comes to the courtyard and dappled shade is welcome. The sparrows, doubtless with nestlings to feed, are eager to share my cranberry muffin. The optician's window is bedecked with those large, iridescent moths and bird houses. There is much babbling from several tables. Two women, dripping bling, break into ribald laughter. I am hearing Chinese, German, Russian - the polyglot nature of the village is in evidence. One Chinese woman talks so loudly her voice drowns out the Westminster chime from St. Francis Episcopal just across the road.
Linda's Passion arrives with decor for the summer, but Linda's husband is by himself, which is worrisome. He garlands the trees with ribbon and puts up garden signs: "Let Love Grow" and "Free Weeds." Ah, here comes Grey - no Panama yet, too much rain.
**********
A lovely spring day for a change, yet I am at Panera consequent to a nearby appointment. The Israelis are sitting outside, and as I don't understand Hebrew, I have come in for better eavesdropping. Bingo! Three young women are in a deep discussion of health insurance: They are talking prices, policies, legislation - obviously professionals but not with the industry. Despite their apparent intelligence, I find myself wishing they knew how to show it. A dress trumps jeans, but a mini and no leg coverings on an overweight girl is just indecorous. Presumably they demand to be taken seriously anyway, but I struggle to understand the aversion to leg coverings.
The women adjourn and I am able to hear two men in conversation. One is bald, wearing a dark gray suit - in contrast to the women - and giving career advice to the other. He keeps repeating "worst case scenario" and asks whether a small office can be supported. Medical perhaps? As it becomes too noisy to hear, I prepare to leave. Back to the courtyard tomorrow.
*********
Today is really a transition day in the courtyard, fittingly since it is 1 May and trending warm at last. A woman is pulling off a navy blue top, which she wears shamelessly with black yoga pants. One does not wear navy and black, except perhaps when moved by the unseemly congruence of winter with spring. But then neither do yoga pants seem appropriate outerwear. Men are here at two tables talking business, and another on a laptop. An old couple passes through, stopping at the curb to recall where they parked the car. The ensuing discussion reveals a less than satisfactory emulsion of forbearance and irritation, leading me to surmise that they have been married a very long time.
Evidence of the dogged cold for the past two months were the frozen violas, a flower that favors cold, in the planters. As I leave I notice gratefully that management has replaced them.
***********
I call it "moon weather." In the sun, out of the wind, one delights in the cool air of spring; round the corner of a building, in its shade and smacked by the north wind, one may as well be on the moon without a space suit. But this morning I have my favorite courtyard table, sheltered by the optician's wall and warmed by the sun. It is a quiet weekday, and some workmen have ladders up pruning the courtyard trees. A man in a navy blue suit comes through, white earbuds hanging from a jacket pocket. Another man, employed at the salon, approaches struggling to carry an appliance, which may be a small fridge. As he rests it on a knee, two women rush out from the salon to help. Once they have a hold of the thing, the man leaves, to the chagrin of his coworkers.
Jacinto is supervising the tree work, and as I leave I tell him to take good care of our courtyard trees - the place would not be the same without them. He nods in agreement and wishes me a good day.
**************
The Bakery is buzzing this morning, perhaps due to our first taste of spring weather since February. The young manager, whose name is Elvis, is nearly as good as my Tunisian friend who transferred to a downtown cafe. Behind me are two gentlemen talking business. One is Indian, the other is a fast talker selling the proposition that quality and talent have little to do with fame and fortune. He uses the example of a deceased graffiti artist in New York whose paintings now command millions. Why? Because someone can pay that. In another corner sits a young woman, with an older one who could be her mother. Th young one is also a talker and cannot finish a sentence without using a swear word. Her companion gives her parenting advice - in a soft voice.
Back to the courtyard tomorrow to meet Grey. I must encourage him to put more essays up on the blog.
************
We had our winter in March and now April, with spring weather in January and February, causing us to entertain the possibility that our groundhog is no longer afraid of his shadow. It is cold again in the courtyard, but the sun is the saving grace. Easter decor is gone, and a few villagers come and go. When I greet one woman passing with her young daughter, she enquires if I have heard the rumor that the First Lady hangs out here, to which I assure her it must be an urban legend - then amending that to a "suburban legend." Well, some of the young yoga enthusiasts we see here could be mistaken for Melania, and we do have the accents! A horse-faced woman strides through - tall, long hair. She soon returns with her son - same face, same stride. I surmise he is her second child, having observed that the first tends always to resemble the father.
Alas, it is clouding up, and forty-five degrees can feel very different without the sun. Onward then -
**************
The weather report in the paper always includes almanac information: tides, sunrise and set, likewise for the moon, plus its phases. Still I am reminded that the timing of these celestial occurrences are more local; the Earth, after all, does not jerk along from one time zone to the next. Indeed, before people could travel so far so fast, one needed to set his watch from on town to the other. But I have my own somewhat fanciful parameters. The vernal equinox fell officially on March 20, with sunrise and sunset being exactly twelve hours apart. Hereabouts that correspondence takes place before the twentieth, while for me I acknowledge the equinox when, on my morning walk, the sun is rising just at the end of Hunter's Lane.
Easter is Sunday next, and here in the courtyard many a passerby stops to take a picture of her child seated next to the big bunny. Well, Sunday is also April Fool's Day!
***********
Back in the courtyard at last following a four inch snowfall yesterday. The hazelnut coffee is especially welcome. I don't know if Jacinto gets credit for it, but there is no snow here. The tables and chairs are only wet, and even in the parking lot there are no snow piles such as plows or blowers would have left. The weathermen yesterday were making much of the higher angle of the March sun, but it is just three hours since the sun rose. All that snow melted? Amazing! It is still sliding off the gabled roofs, but fortunately I am not under one.
The trees were glistening this morning on my walk and the landscape clean and white under snow - an increasingly rare pleasure . Grey harrumphed at my suggestion that he would fret over the foxes. An Englishman? Not bloody likely! But he was glad I got the article off the Berkswell parish about the biography of native son, Jeremy Brett.
***********
The first and likely only significant snowfall of the year awaited the arrival of spring, and I am in the unique position of being housebound. With the beautiful snow falling steadily outside, slowly accumulating on trees and shrubs and burying lawn furniture, I must close my eyes to imagine the courtyard, hoping Jacinto - the maintenance man - has tilted the chairs. I could have brewed my own hazelnut coffee, but I still have pumpkin spice tea left in my stash, which is delicious. And tomorrow I might be able to venture out, having left open the gate. Spring snow is not at all unusual here, since winters tend to be too dry. The cold of March combined with its dampness is a perfect recipe.
Grey no doubt is hunkered down by his fireplace, watching the birds at his neighbor's feeders and fretting about the well-being of the foxes. Squirrels, after all, store acorns in their nests for just such days as these. What do foxes do? Ah, now he can consult his smart phone!
************
Before the Ides of March, Linda's Passion has adorned the courtyard for the early Easter, which falls on April Fool's Day. There are bunnies galore around the courtyard trees, and a basket on each table with bird eggs and ribbons and flowers. The big Peter Rabbit lounges against the lamppost; he is not as large this year. The human size ones that used to scare the children must have been ruined by the rain. Typical of March, gusty winds prevail tempered only by the higher angle of the sun, and then only when one has shelter around a corner from the northwest exposure. I have the place to myself; even sparrows are scarce this year, but a few crows talk among themselves. They are strong enough to fly in the wind.
As Grey has announced, his biography of Jeremy Brett is published. In fact Amazon is already out of stock, and third party sellers have scooped up a few to sell at a discount. The ebook is coming soon, we are assured by Page Publishing; and he has given me the assignment of writing an article about the book for the Parish Magazine in Berkswell, Warwickshire, pursuant to the kind offer of the Parish Administrator. Well, well, this one might sell a few, unlike our last collaboration. No matter, it was great fun!
***********
Spring brings weather whiplash to the courtyard. This morning is cool, but the sun is warm, and those few of us here are huddled against the eastern wall. Two women sitting at the next table are impossible to ignore. One is a fast talker, in an old gray blazer and jeans, a purple knit skull cap and large loop earrings in one of three piercings. Her son is in Catholic school and she is amused to tell her companion that he announces his atheism to the religion teacher at the start of the term. Apparently the religion teacher is cool with that. The other woman, a low talker, counters by relating that her son in Jewish school refuses to participate in compulsory prayer. Mon dieu! I have come upon a cell of rebellious heretics!
Ah, here comes Grey in the Bentley - I'm saved. The book has been released, and as soon as the image comes up on Amazon we will be popping a cork.
***********
The Jewish day school across from Panera takes over the place mid-morning. The amiable rabbi has attracted several regulars, and the lingua franca is Hebrew. They do not monopolize wi-fi corner, being supernumerary. Eka, the ebullient Muslim employee, is hugely pregnant, her second child - at least. I have come from a medical appointment, and made it in time for the soufflés. They are good take-out for a quick dinner, though I have gotten out of that habit.
My table by the door is the perfect perch to appraise the sartorial aptitude of the patrons coming in. One young woman is in a long skirt upon which is a random pattern of boxes filled with black and white stripes. Well, it beats the uniform of skin-tight yoga pants, which ought to be called spandex nudity. I will meet up with Grey in the courtyard tomorrow. He now tells me there are two foxes at his place, a red and another with gray patches, bearing up his forecast of a litter this spring.
***************
At last a clear day, a morning above freezing if only just, and I was able to take my mile walk around the block to greet the sun. The lawns were studded with glistening frost, and while I spotted no hawks, there was the sweet warble of bluebirds and the stentorian proclamation of the cardinal - already! It is just the day before Valentine's; and when I arrive in the courtyard later, a grounds crew is taking advantage of this break in the early spring rains. Several members with roaring leaf blowers are cleaning up around the shrubs and trees. Presently I see Carmen, our caretaker from the management company, which explains the eager maintenance. I hope they are taking good care of the trees; without them, a parking lot is so barren.
Everyone is dressed in red today, and I did locate my Cupid's arrow pin. Off to buy cards!
***********
The ice fishing polar bears have given way to Valentine hearts in the window of the optician; nevertheless, the courtyard is recovering from the morning freeze, a syndrome plaguing us persistently. Rain is expected later, and welcome as we are close to drought conditions. Needless to say I am alone here, but there are village errands to do before the umbrella is needed.
If anyone is as brave - or foolish - as I am to sit out, it would be Grey, and sure enough I soon see the Bentley pull in. He waves as he heads to the bakery first for coffee, and I note he is in the Borsalino, his warmest hat. I must chide him that he risks having it rained on, though I know what he will say: "At my age what should I save it for?" With the cover of the Jeremy Brett biography being finalized, there will be much to talk about.
*************
In wi-fi corner at Panera, an old Russian man sits with a coffee as he confers with a young American about the purchase of a luxury car. The young man, who is not drinking, seems to be the salesman, as he speaks of the car price as "about 65k." But the conversation apparently digresses when I overhear him say, "His name is not John anymore - it is Olivia." Soon after, they adjourn to a white sports car in the parking lot, perhaps the very car under consideration. I can't make out the model.
Well, Russians no doubt are innately sensitive to the potential for surveillance, as we all will need to be with the global incline toward autocracy. Eavesdropping will lose its attraction. Grey is back from Yorkshire, and we will meet in the courtyard, barring inclemency.
**************
I am pleased to see that the courtyard has been washed clean by a recent rain. For the tiny amount of snow we have had upon two occasions so far this winter, heaps of salt were applied to roads and sidewalks, coating cars and everything in sight it seemed; the salt became ambient. There are wind chills this morning, so I am the only one sitting out. Not even a sparrow comes, but a crow perches on the chimney opposite, eyeing my croissant and calling to his fellows in anticipation. Of course I leave them a good portion of it, and I don't linger long.
A gentleman scurrying out of the market comments that I must be cold, to which I reply in the affirmative, tightening my fur-trimmed hood about my face. It is my warmest jacket, and there are errands to run.
*************
One can sit in the courtyard on a sunny, cold morning, albeit briefly, sheltered from a northwest wind by the optician's wall. Fittingly, his window dressing once again has those wonderful ice fishing polar bears - in eyeglasses of course. If one does dare to brave the cold of this winter, however, it is a solitary court one holds. Indeed the only other soul I see this morning is Jacinto, the young hispanic who took the place of Doyle as maintenance man, carrying a space heater into the tavern. Not even a sparrow comes to beg, and I worry that extreme cold will deplete their numbers. Wryly, I then reflect on the know-nothings in this world who cite every cold snap as refuting climate change. No extreme of weather or storm is so unusual that they cannot dismiss it.
The days are lengthening, and Candle Mass is soon to come, known in these parts as Groundhog Day, when at a certain latitude in the northern hemisphere we have ten hours of daylight, at which threshold the plants begin to stir. Hooray!
****************
Following ten days down with the flu, I am loathe to sit in the courtyard even though the weather has moderated. I believe it was not only the extreme cold but the incredible dryness that desiccated respiratory membranes, leaving one open to the rampant virus. A dew point of negative eight remains a mystery, equivalent to "dark matter." So I come to the Bakery to sit inside, enjoy their hazelnut coffee and write without danger of frostbite. Sounds of respiratory distress among my fellow patrons, however, are another danger. Can a person get this flu twice? I understand medical science is working on a universal flu vaccine, effective against any strain of the bug. If medical research were adequately funded, I do not doubt it would already exist.
Well, Grey is back from the old country soon, as the next book moves on to "cover design." Stay tuned!
**********
The courtyard has been virtually uninhabitable with our wind chills plunging to subzero for an unprecedented stretch of some weeks. The only indoor spot for coffee is Starbucks, and not being a fan, I am driven further afield for refuge. The Bakery being one is close to our old-style mall, which I visit on occasion for the purpose of reconnaissance shopping.
But the mall can be a vexatious experience, having become what I call the "gauntlet of the Dead Sea minerals." Hawkers, mostly Israeli I believe, spring out of various shops and kiosks offering samples of miraculous skin care products made from these minerals to unaccompanied old ladies. Their most annoying hook is, "May I ask you a question?" Well, after awhile even polite old ladies must resort to rudeness. I have become practiced at waving my cane in the air as I pass. This gesture was once an acceptable greeting between Victorian gents, but the hawkers probably don't know that.
*********
This morning driving to Panera, I passed a bagpiper standing on the lawn of the Catholic church. I hope he is a real Scot, because it is frigid outside and he was in a kilt. Immediately, I was jarred from revery by the radio - nothing dispels revery like the sound of a brass choir playing "Joy to the World."
Herewith, Grey sends an addendum to his last post. He did get somewhat carried away last week with his dateline Yorkshire: "The last hymn in the service was the carol 'Joy to the World,' which I recognized of course and sang out with gusto even while not believing that Earth received her king!" This came in an email with instructions to pass it along. There seem to be brave strains ofd joy breaking out worldwide. Well, the cattle, he writes, have ample hay and winter so ar is not severe in the Dales.
***********
The weather has been so erratic this fall that the poor violas in our village planters, hardy though they be, are frosted. I expect they will soon be replaced with cabbages, the solstice being upon us after all. Living in a forest as I do, the winter, despite a mere nine or so hours of daylight, is the bright season, when I can watch the sun rise and set through the lacework of tree limbs. In spring the green curtain descends.
The only other party in the courtyard this morning is an Islamic woman with her two small boys. She is identifiable by her headscarf, though neither she nor her sons are of the typical ethnicity. I wonder at the dominant place hair occupies among us, and muse upon the old musical "Hair." Remember? "The Age of Aquarius"? No?
Grey is off to Yorkshire for Christmas. Since collaborating on the biography of Jeremy Brett, we acquired friends in Berkswell, with whom he will doubtless be in touch. The book is coming soon...
************
I am glad to see that Linda's Passion has visited the courtyard with the traditional Christmas decor. The Santa mannequin is much reduced, but there are square pots of evergreens on each table and outsized ornaments in the trees. The optician has kept up, with snow persons in the window, wearing designer frames of course. I had worried about Linda, because her husband and an assistant had taken over the fall decorations, and I heard him say she was in ill health. The Christmas wreaths went up early - compliments of management no doubt - but Linda was late.
A creature of habit, I am reassured when things stay the same, a trait that is increasingly unfortunate in today's world. Tomorrow I am meeting Grey at Panera before he is off for holidays at the home farm.
***********
If anyone out there in cyberspace has followed this blog for any length of time, he or she will recall how I used to pride myself on braving the elements to sit in the courtyard scribbling - how I might be known, caught on surveillance cameras, to brush off the snow and dry a chair with napkins. He or she will then be dismayed at the speedy passage of time when I note that age is catching up, leaving me less brave. Nevertheless, I am here on a cold, cloudy and windy morning, jotting enough of this entry, until my fingers must be gloved.
The only others here are two young men collecting for a charity that supports rehabilitation of drug abuse victims. As I sit, a man in a motorcycle jacket approaches and donates money, volunteering that his son died six months ago of an overdose. I am caused to wonder if he ever reflects that his generation - the beatniks followed by the hippies - modeled destructive rebellion, against which there has yet to be a counterinsurgency. But soon I am securing my hat, scarf and gloves, to set out into the wind.
**********
At the Bakery, there is a bar facing the window - the modern trend where single people can sit side by side. Then there are three small tables near this window and parallel to the coffee urns. One of these tables is my favorite, and as I come here often, I joke that it should have my name on it. This morning all three tables are occupied: a woman on her laptop, a man on his phone, and another woman settled in with her book and coffee. Ah, well.
I am nevertheless looking out the window, where a line of small trees is always a delight as seasons change. Behind me a group is discussing the schedule for some activity they plan for Lent in the coming year. Apparently they are church people, and the activity involves four weekly sessions. But Christmas is still a month hence; in fact I am off to shop this morning - in a hurry!
************
A cold rainy morning, I have taken refuge here at Panera, securing the last table in wi-fi corner, next to one of the regulars. She is a woman of color, who is a poacher like me - no computer. Often she works in an adult coloring book, but today she takes pen to a slim journal. Have I started something, or was it J.K. Rowling? Another table has a blonde woman with horn-rimmed glasses interviewing a young bearded man for a position which I surmise to be blue collar based on their casual dress. Her arms are tattooed, and she has an intriguing scarf around her neck with an owl pattern.
Before I leave I recognize an employee from the Bakery and greet her with the observation that she is out of place. She explains that she comes here to study for the Graduate Record Exam and plans to begin a masters degree in teaching. Life goes on...
************
The fall weather has been unusually mercurial, it seems to me. The trees stayed green in a prolonged summer, then the late but hard freeze killed leaves before they had a chance to turn. This morning in the courtyard the temperature may be moderate but the stiff wind has a chill. As it whips around the corner of the optician's, I keep my beret pulled over my ears.
The few people here all huddle in the sun. Two women next to me sit conversing, sipping Starbucks. One is older, white-haired, the other talks about a quarterly podcast, which she helps to produce at the private school where she works. She goes on to tell of an Irish wedding she attended where the drinking began before the formalities.
I am pleased to observe that Linda's Passion is holding out against encroaching Christmas until after Thanksgiving. The cornstalks still whistle in the wind, and the pumpkins are defiantly orange. Having shared a very fresh croissant with the sparrows, I move on.
************
It is a cold and windy morning in the courtyard, the sun peeking through passing clouds. People scurry by clutching their coat collars; no one stops. The shelter of the optician's wall is nonetheless reliable. The shops have their Christmas wreaths up, though Thanksgiving is still a week away. Somehow we do seem to need more time for the holiday madness in our determination to maintain traditions despite the complexities of modern life, not to mention the persistent branching of the family tree. But a day to count our blessings, please! Gratitude is the oft-forgotten secret of happiness.
Early wreaths aside, the courtyard is still festooned with harvest decor. As I retreat from the growing chill, the wind rustles the cornstalks lashed to every tree and lamppost.
***********
A dark, chilly morning in the courtyard, the chairs wet from rain - Jacinto neglected to tilt them. He is the maintenance person who took over from Doyle some time back. Nevertheless, with ample napkins, I am able to sit and swipe the puddles off the table. Crows are flocking in larger numbers, preparing for migration no doubt, but they prefer the dumpsters in the alley to courtyard fare. Sparrows of course are glad to share an apple croissant.
I have the place to myself until a group of German men assembles. They are old and young and apparently celebrating some occasion. Upon a smart phone, through the miracle of technology, they summon another comrade, who is duly greeted by each. Might he be the celebrant? In any case, they soon break into song - German of course - and at least one, perhaps two of them are actually in tune!
***********
At last with Halloween upon us we have a cool morning in the courtyard and enough sun coming through the leafless trees to be comfortable sitting in the shelter of the optician's wall. Carmen is here, apparently getting estimates on roof work as our representative from the management company. She is striking as ever in a coral scarf and sweater atop tight black pants and high black heels. She does a bang-up job and has for some years; perhaps in consequence, she drives a Mercedes. She greets me as she goes off with two contractors to look at the roofs, which are of various materials for each shop in the complex.
Soon it is warming up, and I lay aside my scarf and gloves. Still it is cool enough, I gladly observe, to please the violas.
*********
The weather forecasters keep insisting that fall weather is on the way - next week - yet despite their insistence they have not been prescient. Summer seems endless, and even the trees withhold their colors. While temperatures may warm, however, climate change cannot alter the sun's trajectory, nor, I note, the seasonal switching of violas for begonias in the village planters.
It was warm weather for the village festival on the weekend, with local politicians parading behind a color guard of four mounted Park Police officers. The only music, in the sorry absence of a high school band, was provided by a fife and drum corps consisting of sixteen aging yet stalwart members led by an exuberant gray-haired woman. Of course there were loudspeakers booming the noise that passes for "music" for succeeding generations of increasingly deaf youngsters.
But today all is quiet again here in the courtyard as I feed the sparrows and muse upon the pumpkins, mums, ghosts and witches!
************
The courtyard is decked out for Halloween - Linda's Passion strikes again - and thus a ring of ghosts dances around one of the courtyard trees, in which are hung several orange witches' hats. The mannequin of the season is an adult-size scarecrow, and on each table sits a small pot with a live red pepper plant. We must hope there will be enough rain to keep them watered.
Two young women are here discussing their children's college applications. The one doing most of the talking speaks extremely fast, her words assaulting one's ear like automatic weapons fire. She haTemperatures s a girl who excels in math and science and a son who, likewise counter to stereotype, is artistic. Of the boy, the school's college advisor has told her, and she quotes, "It will be about packaging him." Well, no wonder she prattles in such a harried fashion! Or is it the Starbucks?
Temperatures have been above average for October, not boding well for my small lettuce crop, but lovely for the annual village festival soon to come. My favorite season!
*********
Noisy at Panera this morning. The coffee is flowing, large coffees, and people are chattering. An interesting couple sits by the sunny, eastern window, discussing a business related to health care. He is mixed race, in a navy blue suit and tie, a carefully folded handkerchief tucked into the jacket pocket. He does all the talking, while his companion - perhaps a colleague - takes notes on paper with pencil. She is a young, blond white woman, rushing the fall season in her high black boots. Before long the sun is too warm for them, and they move, with their coffee.
Beyond the courtyard today, I am nonetheless pleased to crack a new Moleskine - the one with 240 pages, which I feared they had discontinued. Not so, thankfully. Grey is meeting me here soon, and I must congratulate him on the birth of a great-nephew. I hope he has pictures!
It is breezy in the courtyard under a perfectly clear sky. I expect Linda's Passion will bring fall decor soon with the arrival of October. The old man is here who drives to the village on a tractor; odd as this conveyance is, even stranger is the bush-hog attached. A young woman arrives with a fluffy white puppy. As the old man leaves, he comments to her how frisky and curious the dog is, going on to add that after his last dog died he swore off, unwilling to suffer that "last chapter."
Then I am distracted by two glamorous young women in front of me. Apparently they work at the hair salon. Both have low, gravelly voices, as though in a poor imitation of men, but I am caused to wonder if it could be occupational - chemical exposure, hair spray? As I leave, the sparrows having cleaned up crumbs of my croissant, the local constable is issuing a ticket for a truck in the no standing zone. Law! Order!
*********
Our village has its own Hugh Boone, though without the twisted lip. (Sherlockian alert! Let me know if you caught that reference.) He is a wiry, grey-bearded man, who stands on the median strip at the stoplight holding a sign which says he is diabetic and needs money for medication. He has been manning that post most days, in every season, for many years, apparently making a good living, but at the least extorting guilt in the minds of trapped motorists. We villagers are a hardened lot.
This morning the courtyard is well populated, under an overcast sky. From the lately roiling tropics, we are getting only clouds so far. A lone woman works on her laptop; two young mothers arrive pushing strollers; the old woman who comes to the hair salon every Wednesday sits in a wheelchair, while her attendant parks the Lincoln. Poor soul outlived her husband, and now even her legs. Thus I move on, with the fervent wish not to live too long!
At Panera this morning, no tables are free in wi-fi corner, but of course I am so blissfully unconnected that all I really require is pen and paper. Even a napkin will do if I forget the Moleskine. A gathering of Israeli ladies sits in front of me with a baby in a stroller. Their loud chatter is distinctive, but as I know no Hebrew, it is not distracting, except for the occasional slip into English. Grey and I share the conviction that the English language is popular the world over because it is the most efficient as far as syllables required to get a point across. An elderly woman comes in, wearing what looks like a pajama top. She is very thin, her face haggard, hair stringy. She is joined by a companion, who seems to be in better shape, and they sit having bagels and coffee. They probably stepped across from the senior residence conveniently opposite.
As I ready myself to move on, wi-fi corner is emptying out. Coffee break over! And the child in the stroller begins to fuss - reassuring that humans are as yet not endangered.
**************
A delightful, cool, sunny day in the courtyard, autumn seeming to have arrived straightaway with September. The yellow jacket buzzing my apple muffin is further evidence. A man is here with his son; dad is all business, no talking, while the curious toddler wanders about followed closely by his father's surveilling eye.
A woman arrives with her little girl, and when the curious boy approaches his female peer, dad picks him up and carts him away. The woman then gets on her phone; she has time to kill between dropping one child at preschool and this little girl at elementary. The woman seems to be talking with a mentor in the real estate business, as her end of the conversation is respectful to the point of obsequious. Her child eventually grows bored and starts to whine. Pity the young child of today who fails in this competition for mother's attention, though perhaps fathers are again stepping up. The dad had more patience!
************
With September around the corner, a cool breeze is gracing the courtyard this morning, and the optician's window is reliably current. Large yellow signs emblazoned with "School Zone" are flanked with outsized number two wooden pencils, and next to the actual eyeglasses are red apples for the teacher. As the sparrows flock to crumbs of my croissant, an Asian girl watches in fascination. She starts to imitate their hopping and fluttering, trying to get close to them. She is at a table with three other children, the mama and grandmama, yet she appears to be the only Asian. I reflect that these racial divisions - claims of racial purity - are now easily confounded with DNA testing.
Well, I shall take this up with Grey, who is back from Yorkshire. Here he comes now, banging on to his Panama.
**********
As civilization slips slowly back to barbarism, it nonetheless persists here in the courtyard, where I sit admiring the pink and red begonias spilling out of our long planters. Though I am not partial to begonias, they have flourished this rainy summer to the point where even I must call them grand. The sparrows are liking my scone this morning, but six of them hang back, perched in a row on the gutter. One woman has brought her little boy and dog, a very affectionate, long-haired lab. The child is entertained chasing after sparrows. I note that boys, ever the hunters, are more prone to this behavior, while girls will watch the birds with awe. La difference?
As I leave this small outpost of civility, a woman in black comes through in platform sandals, rhinestone-studded, with red toenails. La difference!
************
Alas, according to a large wooden sign recently erected on the Stewart meadow, that six acre tract of native underbrush, which was on its way to becoming forest, is soon to be divided up for housing. So I sit in the courtyard on a lovely summer morning, musing over what was always the eventual fate of Mr. Stewart's folly. He was the scientist who owned the parcel and imagined that by never mowing it he would have a meadow. We may excuse his ignorance perhaps, since few people know that the natural history of eastern North America is forest.
Well, he had a meadow for very few seasons before it gave way to brush, through which saplings emerged. It is not yet a tall forest, but our growing deer herd enjoys its shelter. At least it was not down-zoned for townhouses!
************
Summer heat is back in the courtyard, which is well-peopled for a Wednesday morning. There are two old dogs here also, a yellow and a black, gray-bearded mutts. I hesitate to feed the sparrows, since the yellow dog is eyeing my croissant covetously, and when I do toss some crumbs, the pooch puts her head in my lap. A sweet old dog, and well-groomed. Her owner apologizes of course.
A couple of gentlemen with earbuds appear to be talking to themselves, but we must now presume are conducting urgent business. The man with the black dog is working on a MacBook, though I daresay laptops seem less common lately - yet another trend I missed out on entirely. But most of the cacophony goes up from twosomes - their tongues and brains loosened by caffeine.
*****************
As the chimes of St. Francis Episcopal strike ten, lovely puffy clouds drift eastward in a clear blue sky. A rare September day in August, compliments of the seasonal fall preview. Here in the courtyard are many singletons, reading or stroking their hand-held computers. Aha, an acronym - HHC - suggests itself! I hope it catches on, since we surely may stop calling them phones.
But one pair are talking business, a young man and a woman, who seems to be coaching him. She mentions a campus, so perhaps the matter is instructional. I notice as they leave that she is in a mini-skirt and spike heels, carrying a bright blue bag. I have noticed more young women in skirts lately, and I must say I never thought I would live to see it - and a mini no less! Well, not much food for thought here; Grey can't get back fast enough for me.
***********
Not August quite yet, but there are signs. We seem to be having our fall preview today, which we always anticipate briefly in that month. It is cool, breezy, and the sky is blue instead of dish water. Also the courtyard is uncommonly empty, as one looks forward to in August, when the city empties, with congress adjourned. Well there are still sparrows, even some babies, flapping their little wings begging to be fed by the adults.
Grey is off to Yorkshire on business at the home farm, but really in retreat from summer here in the nation's capital. He is eager to get on with the Brett biography, but we await word from the publisher. Meanwhile, without a single eccentric to report on, I must tell him how I miss seeing the Bentley in the parking lot and Himself - glorious in his Panama - striding toward the courtyard!
*************
Blessed in summer by the shade of four courtyard trees, I am doubly grateful for a light breeze relieving the oppressive heat this morning. Most of my fellow villagers are deep into one-on-one conversation, except for a cleric who is reading a book. He is probably from St. Francis Episcopal across the street, to which we owe the grace of the Westminster chimes. A young black girl passes through - a tween - in a tee shirt and grimace to match that say "Fight Back." Most interesting however is a couple behind me who converse sotto voce. From the little I can overhear, she seems to be interviewing him for some role in her personal life - psychotherapist, perhaps, or mediator of a marital dispute. At some point he asserts, "You trust me seventy to eighty percent," adding "my role is to support you." Ah, melodrama in the morning!
************
A much needed summer shower has set in this morning, so I have taken to my indoor refuge, the Bakery, along with throngs coming for breakfast. A table of five women, having a great good time together, sends up gales of laughter. An extremely thin woman in skin tight denims and L.L. Bean moccasins has her three sons with her - a wonder she is so thin! The old man sitting in front of me wears a tee shirt reading "Punta Gorda Florida," which is to the point as he is somewhat gorda himself. He sits alone eating a sticky bun, a cup of water, and stroking his phone.
Grey is about to join me. I must tell him that when one tires of the news, a resort is the old sitcoms, which have been able to come back since the advent of "reality" television, the latter continuing to save the industry big money. I call it cheap TV. Here he is now, furling his bumper-shoot.
***********
When villagers in the courtyard begin to favor the shade of the eastern wall of a morning, the summer has officially commenced. Even on a cool day like today the sun is too hot. Jack is here again with some new old faces. The regulars change alliances over time. One old gent, who carries a shoulder bag, started sitting with a woman. Tim used to be Jack's buddy, but he was disputatious. Such people will sooner or later sit alone. Life is too shirt.
Today a white-haired grandma is here with a toddler who keeps her running. She is very patient with the girl, trying to coax her away from her wanderings; but eventually grandma tires and they leave. As much as I would like to remain enjoying another of June's last days, I too have errands.
**********
I have come to the courtyard this morning - one of the last rare days of June - without my Moleskine. A bad sign! What if I am sitting with my coffee and scone, enjoying the dappled shade, and I am struck with an epiphany? Or if a remarkable person walks by, or I overhear a curious conversation - in English? Fortunately there are napkins - as much as I regret having to spell it without the "k" - and a pen always at the ready in my purse, along with a refill.
And Grey is coming to discuss the edit of the Jeremy Brett biography, which I am helping him review. He will enlighten me, I hope, concerning hyphens and "em dashes," of which there are five in my first paragraph here. Then, needless to say, all this will await transcription at home, unless I accidentally lose the napkin.
************
In wi-fi corner at Panera this morning, a young man across from me sits with his smart phone, attached to it with earbuds. He has a full beard and mustache, and a crew cut; I surmise it is easier to shave the skull than the face. An Asian woman with long black hair, quite straight in the Asian way, has a hot pink MacBook, in front of which she stares, deeply in thought. She is wearing black boots and a forest green dress that gathers - at the hem. But the standout for style in my view is the businessman in his grey suit and tie, talking on his phone; on his feet, cordovan brown slip-on shoes with wild red socks.
We all have our ways of standing out - don't we? - always missing the irony that these days we feel compelled to conform to nonconformity.
***********
Sure enough, this morning in the courtyard a crew is pulling up the violas and planting begonias for summer, red and pink. I still recall the summer of the glorious petunias, but that was when Doyle was here to haul out the hose and keep them watered. Begonias are low-maintenance, and I suspect that Doyle was underpaid.
I feel quite certain that one might demonstrate a direct proportionality between the temperature and the number of people here in the courtyard. As it is rather cool and breezy, delightful though it may be, we are but few. Crowds will come when it is blazing hot, with their infants, their dogs and bicycles. I suppose it holds down the electric bill. Aha, the Bentley! Grey is back from the old country. I see he has taken out the Panama, but today he has to hold it on!
*************
June has come, and "what is so rare..."! Sun and blue sky at last. With a checkup at the eye doctor this afternoon, I am in the courtyard, savoring the ability to see. Five young women are here in gauzy sundresses; private schools must have adjourned already. One of the girls is African American, and I reflect how American blacks are coming into their own, though I was reminded how early the backlash began upon watching a rerun of "All in the Family." And now? Archie Bunker ascendent.
Last night's rain, the last of an excessively wet May, was brief but heavy.The poor violas in our planters here were pummeled. Doubtless they will soon be replaced, and at home the basil I foolishly planted is likewise bedraggled. Torrential rain seems increasingly common, to me at least.
**********
After a dry winter, the spring has been quite rainy, which will surely revive those trees and shrubs that were on the brink. This week it has rained every night, clearing again midday. A little sun, a little rain - the flowers are happy!
Naturally I have taken refuge at the Bakery this wet morning. As I came in, a young, skinny black girl, shrouded in a hoodie, was in line. She asked the clerk for a complimentary breakfast, but having no card entitling her, the clerk said she would have to speak to a manager. My Tunisian friend would have given permission in an instant, but was not present. There ensued a discussion between the two clerks taking orders, one saying to give her breakfast, the other that someone would have to pay. Precipitately, the next man in line spoke up, "I'll take it. It's on me." This man appeared to be a working stiff, not wealthy by any means. Sadly, I found myself wondering if this is how we will feed the poor, just so we do not pay taxes?
**********
With summer-like weather the courtyard become irresistible, thanks largely to our four trees, and despite their tendency at this time of year to shed their tiny blossoms into one's coffee. Linda's Passion has come with summer decor: red geraniums, bird cages on the tables, butterflies on the faux boxwood. The long planters overflow with violas of lavender blue, white, and yellow. But it is still spring, too soon to put the woolens in mothballs. A cloudy, damp day can bring a penetrating chill that may have me grabbing for a muffler on my way out the door - and glad for it, sitting here with my Moleskine.
Grey has yet to take out his Panama. He is back at the home farm in Yorkshire, as we await the editors at work on the Brett biography. These days I worry about him traveling.
**********
The optician's window has given way to giant butterflies with wide, glittering wings of pink and green and black, veined in gold. Today the sparrows have to make do with samples of my scone. The scones from the bakery have a crisp crust but are crumbly inside. The poor birds have trouble holding it in their tiny beaks as they attempt, I assume, to carry some to nestlings.
We have made up for our rain deficit; and it is a fine spring day, of the sort when one wants the sun, yet appreciates a little shade from the courtyard trees. Two young women are deep in conversation about schools and children, while two old men sit together saying little. The way of the world - right here in our village!
**********
A refreshing spring morning with not a cloud in the bright blue sky, yet the courtyard is not busy, except for the sparrows, who seem grateful that I went for the croissant rather than a scone. It is that perfect weather when the air is cool and the sun is warm. Jackie, one of the regulars I have not seen in a long while, arrives with two other women. She talks of her house being on the market, but she does not want to move closer to town. Things change, always, even when we do not notice.
Ah, the Bentley! Grey is still in his fedora, in mid-May; the mornings have been quite cold. I must tell him about the rose-breasted grosbeaks that have been frequenting my feeders, migrating perhaps; and we will doubtless speak of the biography, which has been launched. He will be pleased that I secured permission for the covers from that British photographer, albeit not without cost.
***********
While I am taking up a table in wi-fi corner at Panera this morning, I do not feel so guilty since only one other person is at work on his Dell. Another old man is reading the Post, and a woman of color is coloring, using a bundle of colored pencils. Adult coloring books are enjoying a vogue, maybe from the modern necessity to hangout at airports for days on end. Coloring occupies the fingers as one thinks, like knitting once did.
The widow is here today, who used to come with her late husband. She is in conversation with a Muslim woman, but we greet each other. The Israeli contingent is large - five men and two women speaking Hebrew. The old man with the newspaper is met by a young African American, who grows increasingly agitated about some disagreement, possibly over a car. As his cursing escalates, I start to look for concealed firearms. Time to go!
**********
Already the Easter bunny is gone from the courtyard, along with all his eggs, his bench, his carrots. The holiday fell late this year, but still it is not yet May! The weather underscores that, as we continue to reel to and fro between cold rain and hot sun; but of course the flowers delight in it, so we must not complain.
Though the chairs were tilted, napkins were still required to dry them this morning. The optician's window is nicely decorated with little bird cages and colorful paper butterflies. No one was here when I came, but before I leave a few others arrive. Most peculiar is a Chinese man in a business suit and very dark glasses. As he stands prattling on in Chinese, another man is filming him. They are still at it when I pass again after my errands. Chinese investment in our humble village?
*********
A spring morning shower has sent me for refuge to the Bakery, recalling as I look out at the gentle drops, a wallpaper I once had called "Spring Rain and Wild Iris". To this day I have never seen a wild iris, but it sounds lovely, exotic!
Behind me here sit a young woman and man who seem to be discussing admittance to art school. She is an admittance counselor, and might be interviewing him for a position as one. Otherwise the place is fairly quiet. Though schools are on spring break, most people appear to have left town. I hope to be back in the courtyard between showers of much needed rain. Linda did indeed grace the spot with a new white mannequin rabbit, sprawled on a bench munching a carrot.
***********
Still March, and I am huddled by the sheltered wall of the courtyard. Sharing the shelter are the only other denizens: three German youngsters, a boy and two girls, doing homework. The boy smokes a cigarette, without so much as a guilty glance at the "No Smoking" sign. Ah, well! I grew up with secondhand smoke. Presently there ensues a "public display of affection", as one of the girls begins to hang upon the boy's shoulders. She does give a shy glance, noticing my presence. The boy meanwhile continues working and smoking impassively.
Before I leave, Linda of Linda's Passion shows up with a van full of Easter ornaments to decorate the courtyard - rabbits and ribbons, baskets of eggs. I wonder whether she has replaced the man-sized Easter bunny, but cannot stay long enough to see. Next time!
************
While I recognize that when it comes to weather averages are comprised of accumulated extremes, this year's winter and now spring have been record setting. One might expect, for example, to have an occasional warm day in January or February; the typical January thaw comes with regularity. But a long stretch of spring weather in February this year brought bulbs up, shrubs flowering and trees budding. Then it snowed, in March, also not unusual, but the following several days of deep freeze were. Buds on forsythia and blooms on Bradford pear trees are now a subtle but interesting beige!
All by way of explaining that I am again taking refuge at the Bakery, after another wild swing from balmy to blustery chill in but a few days, then back up soon in the course of just a week. Well, always a pleasure to be greeted by my Tunisian friend!
************
In the wee hours of the Ides of March, we had our only meaningful snowfall, followed by three days of a hard freeze; thus while typically a snow in March would be melted and gone the next day, this paltry layer of three plus inches turned to solid concrete. Readers know I am a hardy soul, given to brushing snow off the courtyard tables and chairs in order to enjoy my hazelnut coffee of a morning; but frozen fingers do not grip a pen very reliably, so of course I have taken to my refuge at the Bakery.
Luckily, the parking lot was cleared so I don't need to pull on ice cleats; and doubly fortunate the Tunisian manager is here, good for a big hug, a warm smile, and free coffee. Really, what is not to love about immigrants? With warm heart, and fingers, I ponder the strange rancor of my fellow man.
**********
Validating my recent observation, the courtyard is nearly empty despite a fine early spring day. My niche is protected from a north wind, typical of March, flapping the flags across the street; and the sun is warm, also typical as it approaches the equinox. Yet on the way here there was not a car coming in either direction; it might have been August in that respect, when schools are out and Congress adjourns.
I will swear that the capital city is evacuating, not with a bang but a whimper, perhaps preceding the bang. Return with us now to the pre-war days when robber barons were free to rob and the huddled masses were left to starve. Grey and I are thankful we are not young. Ah, here he is now, back from the old country, holding on to his Borsalino. Much to discuss!
*********
The Rockville Panera is quiet this morning. It sits across the street from the Jewish school that recently received bomb threats. But I have noted a chill in society at large lately, and less traffic. Those of us living in or near the capital city have the dubious advantage of early harbingers: Mexicans and others from around the world may be leaving; government employees are doubtless beginning the job search, or enlisting; and anyone fearing we will be the bull's eye of a nuclear attack might be looking to Florida. Mar a Lago? Well, well... I am after Grey to get his collected essays together.
Somehow life goes on, for what it's worth. Comes a young man in a gray flannel suit, being interviewed by a man with a Chinese accent. Not to be seen as stodgy perhaps, the youngster in the suit is also wearing tan shoes and red socks. Country twang on the sound system - what are we coming to?!
**************
Just as our resident woodchuck predicted, spring is early, very early. Cherry blossoms have popped, and daffodils, having had scant opportunity to grow tall, are abloom on short stems. But the weather is mercurial, literally and figuratively; so while it is mild this morning in the courtyard, the anticipated storm has already brought in clouds on a gusty wind. I have the place to myself, and indeed used all my napkins to dry the chair, which was wet from last night's rain. Our sparrows have become quite spoiled and will only show themselves for a croissant. My fresh scone will not do!
Grey is in Yorkshire, where he says it is also unseasonably mild. He returns soon, and will expect some advice from my research into the "right of privacy". Onward!
*********
I will grant that waiting in a doctor's office is the number one most tedious and anxiety generating experience. So as I sit in the waiting room of my ophthalmologist this morning, I can forgive my fellow patients glued to the small rectangular screens which they stoke delicately. They communicate with satellites, connected with the entire human population.
I for one am loathe to have a phone smarter than myself, though I begin to see it becoming an absolute necessity. I pull out my Moleskine and my Uniball Signo 207, medium tip, black, which requires no satellite. After this, the Bakery for their incomparable hazelnut coffee. My Tunisian friend will be there today, with hugs!
**********
Having just learned that my beloved massage therapist at the chiropractor's office is leaving for greener pastures, I am at Starbucks considerably discombobulated. Outside, the resident house sparrows are again huddling together in the shrubs, chirping merrily and puffed out against the cold. The typical crew is here, mostly from the gym across the street. But one young woman is dressed in winter white, tight jeans and a sweater with holes that bare the skin of her shoulders. Somehow she is able to walk on high platform heels. On the sound system a male singer keeps howling repetitively, "I think I want to marry you!" within the required limit of just three tones.
Alas and alack, the masseuse and I exchanged hugs as I left, though truthfully, I sometimes wondered whether her strong fingers might one day leave me paralyzed.
**********
Barely past Candlemas and the optician has replaced the ice fishing polar bears with red hearts, lots of red hearts. For the uninformed, i.e. those who do not read the Washington Post ("if you don't get it, you don't get it"), Candlemas is what we call Groundhog Day, the occasion when we hope for a prognostication from the local woodchuck concerning the arrival of spring. I must emphasize the local aspect of this tradition, since a single woodchuck in any location cannot be expected to make any sweeping predictions.
This year Groundhog Day began overcast and mild, and as our woodchuck, who lives under the shed, is an early riser, he likely did not see his shadow. The sun did not emerge until afternoon, by which time I believe he had decided spring had arrived or was soon coming. Affirming this view are the many denizens of the courtyard enjoying their lattes in today's record high temperatures!
**********
Starbucks is busy on the last day of January, a cold morning despite full sun. This one near the chiropractor is small, while the one in our village has expanded so as to offer a place to escape inclemency. Nonetheless, I still prefer the bakery's hazelnut coffee and can usually enjoy it huddled in the courtyard. Today walking across the parking lot, I was cheered by dozens of house sparrows clustered in the sunny bushes, happy confreres, their chattering causing me to reflect how much like us are the birds.
But birds seem happier. A song sparrow, for example, is already staking out territory in my backyard, his three-part song in numerous variations a great and cheery anthem to his kind, as I am sure it must be to any female song sparrow within earshot! Alas, on to my own bleak agenda.
*********
The optician, whose wall is shelter from a north wind here in the courtyard, has outdone himself this winter, dressing his window with polar bears and even larger snowflakes. One darling bear, in a black cap, red muffler, and green gloves, is ice fishing.
A black-bearded man is pacing back and forth, jabbering into his phone in Hebrew. The person on the other end is apparently saying very little. These international conversations always seem to be sprinkled with some English terms, like "Apple dot com". Are we great yet? As I leave on my errands, I notice more ice fishing bears in the window - how fanciful!
***************
Snow is one thing, sub-freezing wind chills quite another. As my old fingers cannot hold a pen at these temperatures, I am once again at my favorite refuge. There was very little snow, yet the parking lot is white - from salt! Readers will know from Grey's posting of the death of my despotic mother-in-law, so this morning I seek refuge also from the fallout - the web of legalities, the colossal mountain of debris. She was a seriously defective personality. Was she evil? Her influence was nearly persuading me that there must be a Devil.
I must take this up with Grey. I called him; he's on his way.
**********
Were it a sunny morning I would be in the courtyard. It is not very cold, just damp and dark; and here at the Bakery I get a hug from my friend the Tunisian manager. Were he Indian, his name would be Patel, that caste whose age-old tradition is hospitality. The place is not busy, but there is a very well dressed elderly couple seated by the window. She is in a quilted jacket, her white hair in a French twist set off by gold earrings; he wears a sweater vest and carries a walking stick with the carved rabbit's head. Their conversation, from what little I hear, centers on the words painted on the window - the Bakery name and one of its slogans - which they are reading backwards. As she helps him puzzle it out, I infer that he may be declining in some respect. She helps him into his coat as they get up, and hands him his cane.
Snow in a few days, the first of the new year. Boots in the courtyard!
********
I hit Starbucks just at coffee break time it seems. The place is buzzing, so I stake out the odd vacant chair. By the time I place my order though, the crowd has thinned. These patrons do not tend to linger. A Pike Place coffee with pumpkin spice is nice, but the pumpkin cream cheese muffin is gone. We are so quick to race through our calendar!
Of course it is the young people who are in a rush, yet another vindication of Grey's theory.They are in a hurry to mate and nest. Once their reproductive years are past, they can slow down, like Grey and me, and actually enjoy life. Well, with another influx of people, a young man has pulled over a barstool to sit with his companions, and I am taking up a large table. So onward, no place to linger!
************
Flocks of birds are being blown about like dry leaves in the gusty wind this morning, so I am glad to be inside at Panera. I cannot feed the sparrows, but I can see them in the shrubs outside the window. Of course lots of coffee is being sold, and everyone is chattering. One young man sits down with his laptop, attached to him with earbuds. He is mixed race, in a hoody, skull cap, and sneakers. As he hikes up this pants to be seated, I notice a pistol and handcuffs on his belt and beside these a badge. Undercover officer, or terrorist impostor? He looks harmless enough. Brave new world, alas.
Ah well, guess I won't linger today!
***********
The courtyard, even in December, always has the potential for curiosity and bemusement. Huddled in the bit of sun available as we near the solstice, I overhear, "There has to be a breakdown every time so I can have that teachable moment." This young woman, in a group of women close behind me, is a "facilitator", which seems to involve a degree in psycho-babble. They go on to talk about writers who can't stand to read their own reviews, in which context the facilitator pronounces, "If HarperCollins believes in you, you should too!" Heavy hitters here, just the kind Grey and I need right now. Alas, the dispiriting search for the right publisher!
Bemused, I leave a few crumbs for the sparrows and carry on.
************
Taking refuge at the Bakery on a cold December morning, a large noisome group is here. The woman in front of me knocks a whole cup of English Breakfast tea on the floor and becomes terribly embarrassed. A mop is summoned, and the woman wielding it gets into a conversation with a couple having breakfast. Beyond the window a weak sun tries to penetrate the overcast. I reflect on the word "refuge", such comfort conjured by it, such a need for it, and a dearth of it. Of course our ultimate refuge is the Dharma, the fundamental reality that nothing is as it seems, but rather a transcendent unity.
Good heavens! Grey has pulled up in the Bentley, slumming in his Borsalino. He must have work for me. I wave at him through the window.
************
The first of December in the courtyard is a clear cold day following one of much needed rain. The sun is warm, and the wall by the optician's gives shelter from a northwest breeze that has the flag across the street flapping eastward. Just one couple joins me here. He is a regular, an old man, and she might be a younger relative. She is telling him about hitting a deer broadside in her Chevy truck on an icy day. No damage to the truck, and the deer managed to run off. She then goes on about the wonders of a diesel engine.
Christmas wreaths have been up for awhile, and a mantelpiece, left from Thanksgiving decor, rests against the lamppost. No doubt Linda will soon come with mannequin Santa. St. Francis chimes the quarter past ten, and so on to several errands remaining in a busy week!
***********
Lots of coming and going in the deli this morning prior to the big feast of Thanksgiving. The gusty winds have abated, and a few of us enjoy the sunny side of the courtyard: a lone young man with his Starbucks, another speaking Russian into his Bluetooth, two men eyeing a vacant storefront, one with an Aussie accent. He is in khakis, a turtleneck and navy blazer, and apparently is looking for a place to locate a shop - or is he the agent? The vacancy used to house a frame store. I can't imagine what an Australian might bring here.
As for the influx of Russians, given current events, one feels paranoia creeping in, or at least suspicion. Are they refugees or infiltrators? Not to worry - the next head of Central Intelligence will be all over it! But he may be a double agent...
*************
No school on election day, so there are many children in the courtyard. Two little girls are here babbling to their granddad as youngsters do. He lets them taste his coffee. He is bored to tears. The day is mild, and the polls were not crowded. I dispense most of my croissant to the sparrows, who are numerous and appreciative. Christmas wreaths have already gone up in the village, their forest green with big red bows causing the inevitable dissonance with what remains of harvest colors. So much for Thanksgiving.
Fortunate as they are, Americans seem less and less able to give thanks.
*********
Occupancy of the courtyard is directly proportional to the temperature. As it gets colder the sparrows and I have it to ourselves, though when it goes below freezing it is too cold to hold a pen. This morning when I came there was no one, then obeying that meteorological formula, others arrived as the sun cleared Starbucks: gentlemen discussing business, women talking of families, young people chattering in their peculiar, exuberant patois.
I expect Grey today. He also likes the cold, and he tells me he had a Borsalino before I knew what kind of hat it was. I might have asked him instead of Google! The last chapter of the biography has him quite depressed, as readers may note from a recent posting. We have both come to feel a strong connection to the subject. Ah! St. Francis Episcopal is chiming the hour, and here comes the Bentley.
*******
Everyone is happy in the courtyard, the sparrows with their croissant crumbs, even the uncomely woman who could easily be one of Linda's witches: she has the nose, the hair, the teeth; and she hunches over, allowing her low-rider jeans to expose her low back. She is conversing with a friend in a foreign language, Russian perhaps.
It is a mild, calm morning, a slow accumulation of cloud moderating the still hot sun. A change is coming tomorrow, which begins to be felt in the breeze. The weekend brings the annual village festival and parade, put on by the local Chamber of Commerce. There will be aspiring politicians this year, and as always our impressive array of fire trucks will be brought out. They are uniquely white. The forecast is for cold and windy. Ah, the autumn!
*********
Sure enough, the courtyard has been adorned for Halloween: orange witch's hats hanging in a tree that is circled by white ghosts holding hands, cornstalks, hay bales, pumpkins. The optician is into it as well, and has in his window a haunted house behind a large spider web, black twisted trees hung with little jack-o-lanterns, and ghosts standing between the eyeglass frames.
Chiming in this morning in an unusual but timely fashion, a passel of crows, jealous of the sparrows sharing my croissant, descend upon the remaining crumbs. Strange that they are more timid than the smaller birds. They quickly clean up the pavement nonetheless, in the process inspiring a conversation at the next table about Hitchcock's The Birds.
*********
I have ended up at Panera every day this week for an unusual variety of reasons. The old man who looks like my retired accountant, but older, seems to come every day also. Now sits a young man in a faded navy cap with a tattered bill. He wears an Adidas jacket, and has the requisite stubble on his face. He is studying, with book, earphones, and iPad. From the parking lot comes a small person who is not a child; she is a dwarf, as they were once called, the more current term alluding my memory. The young man in the faded cap takes a call, then sits with phone to ear saying nothing - a taciturn young fellow.
Well, I hope to be back in the courtyard next week. I heard that Linda has come installing her pumpkins and cornstalks, witches and ghosts!
***************
The amiable rabbi has a large table this rainy morning at Panera. There are four men and two women, one of whom may not be with them as she is thoroughly absorbed in her laptop. The Jewish New Year approaches, and they wish "shana tova" to friends coming and going. Wi-fi corner was filled today, but Eka had soufflés for me, and the last pumpkin muffin had my name on it.
Grey does not come here often, though he also likes the hazelnut coffee. Yesterday in the courtyard he complained about keeping up with the blog and reported that he may soon complete a rough draft of the biography, which may possibly spill over into a third bound journal. Go, Grey!
*************
Not yet October, thus all seems the same in the courtyard, but the air has changed. I cannot say that it is cold, but it is moving ever faster, causing me to yearn even now for a muffler. A nattily dressed old gentleman comes and sits - gray pinstriped suit, white hair - and immediately consults his phone. A male sparrow perches on my table; he is also old and desperately hungry. Of course I share my scone. The scones from the bakery are deliciously flaky when they are fresh, but in no time at all, sadly, they turn into hockey pucks, so I do not have them often.
Ah, the Bentley! Grey is here, already in a muffler and the Borsalino.
**********
I had not seen the moon since it was full, due to a cloudy stretch, when there it was this morning at its half phase, beautiful and white in a blue sky as I approached the bakery. Then as I sat in the courtyard, the chimes of St. Francis sounding the quarter past ten, I reflected that the weatherman said the equinox would occur at 10:21. Well, as he put it, the sun would cross the equator into the southern hemisphere, which is easier than explaining that in its annual orbit the earth would reach the point where its electromagnetic axis, from the northerly perspective, is tilted away from the sun.
I went about my errands, and as I was returning home in the car, the classical radio station was playing Vivaldi's "Four Seasons", autumn of course!
*************
The uncommonly pleasant early fall weather brings all manner of characters to the courtyard: A young man plugged into his phone wanders around, leaving his tablet and laptop. Is he manic? An older woman, all in black except for multicolored high heels, is so disturbed by her wobbling table that she puts her paperback under a leg. A couple has brought two dogs, one of which is a basset hound.
The man on his phone comes back to his table, from which no device has been stolen. The woman in heels takes out a muffin from a Starbucks bag, their seasonal pumpkin cream cheese - goes great with a pumpkin spice latte. I suspect no one looks up to notice a red-shouldered hawk fly over, pursued vainly by a brazen crow.
************
Schools are back in session, and Panera is abuzz this morning. An old man bearing a close resemblance to my retired accountant sits in from of me in a sweatshirt reading, "Bethany Surf Shop". The amiable rabbi is here with his group, telling them of a friend in California whose dog Gracie is the only pet welcomed at the local cafe. If the friend goes there without Gracie the staff asks after her.
The courtyard will now have German or French School students at lunchtime, and Grey will soon put away his Panama in favor of the Borsalino. That's a term I learned researching the biography. It is a fedora made by a hat company of that name from felted Belgian rabbit fur. Jeremy Brett, it is claimed on the the internet, had one in his younger years, authentic of course. Writing is indeed educational!
Well, tomorrow the courtyard.
***********
It is the last day of August, and two local firemen are gathering donations in the courtyard. Next to me are two young women, one with an infant girl in a stroller, a darling bow tied around her bald head. The baby is as quiet as a lamb. She brings to mind by virtue of contrast a recent observation in a restaurant, parents with fractious toddler. Mother was bargaining with him. "If you don't eat your fish, you will get nothing else to eat; then you will be disappointed and sad." And here I thought when the phrase "age appropriate" became current, we had lain to rest the belief that humans under the age of twenty can be reasoned with! The father was typically passive, though adjudication is surely best handled by dads.
Before I leave the courtyard, the young mother has taken the baby and gone in search of a restroom to change her diaper. A good mother, really is such a rara avis. Well, September tomorrow, at last.
*********
Only in August can one emerge from ones subdivision with no cars coming in either direction, and make all the synchronous green lights without being stalled by a slow driver, in what I call a "pokey parade". Indeed the environs that surround the capital of the free world are deserted at this time of year, much like France as I understand.
Here at Panera it is quiet, and yet two men are talking business. One is balding, in an orange polo, the other younger, wearing loafers without socks. The latter makes some assertion beginning with, "No, no, no, no...", that rapid fire negation which used to grate on me until I noted it is not intentionally adversarial. It seems to be a European mannerism spreading through the english speaking world. Well, this young man talks fast anyway; he is in insurance. Ah, Grey is on the cell, no doubt in a stew over the biography...
********
With cloud cover and a light breeze, it is a cool morning in the courtyard despite the heat wave. A Muslim woman, covered head to toe all but her face, must be suffering anyway. She is here with a toddler in a stroller. A family comes with their poodle, who apparently was just released by the local vet from his Elizabethan collar. Life is difficult, and then we pile on, I observe.
But my reflective mood is soon taken up by the volunteer petunias fairly brimming over one of the long planters in soft purple profusion. For several years now I have rued the decision of management to use begonias, which are more drought tolerant, since the hard working caretaker Doyle was replaced with a young man who seems incapable of hauling the hose. The petunias were glorious, beside which begonias are places holders, and here they come back whenever the begonias give way, brave and beautiful petunias! Life may be difficult, but nature finds a way.
************
In contrast to the dull lot of villagers in the courtyard Panera is a lively place this morning; well it is inside of course and air-conditioned. An elegant old lady comes in, her hair as white as her shoes, purse, and slacks. More young women are in skirts. Have they finally noticed that all their mothers and grandmothers wear pants, usually jeans? I had to explain to my poor benighted nephew that "dungarees" are properly worn for shoveling out the barn!
Lots of patrons here are engrossed in their laptops, which will doubtless be obsolete before I break down and buy one. I will meet Grey later in the village. It I can get him off the subject of Brett even briefly, there is a thought I will run by him: Is the opposite of hope necessarily despair?
************
There is a break from the summer heat this morning, and lots of people are in the rain-cooled courtyard. I am attempting to feed the sparrows crumbs from my cranberry scone, but there are so few birds I resort to signaling them, actually catching the eye of one sitting atop a tree. She flies over and is rewarded. "His eye" may be on the sparrow, but the sparrow's eye is not necessarily on me, even with a delicious, flaky scone.
I see none of the regulars here, nor anyone especially eccentric or garishly costumed among the denizens today. These villagers are a dull lot. To our redemption, here comes Grey, stepping out of the Bentley in his Panama. The biography of Brett has arrived at the Sherlock years, the last chapter, but considerable editing still lies ahead. He claims it is a very rough draft. Alas!
**********
Beside me in Starbucks is a most entertaining couple: an older man in shorts and a not so young woman who does all the talking. She is telling fish stories: how proud she was on a fishing trip where she was the only woman and she reeled in a baby hammerhead shark; how she hit on a school of blue fish in the bay and caught so many she grew bored; how her hundred-year-old grandmother in Danville, "a dying town", drained her farm pond and restocked it when she was eighty; how her brother once cast his line on said pond and the hook caught her in the neck, whereupon her grandfather, "a real country man", ripped it out, no tetanus shot. To her inquiry, he replies that he has not been fishing in twenty years, causing me to wonder what has brought these two together. If he is a relation, he must not have spent much time on Grandma's farm.
Alas, my car is ready at the station. I am off...
*************
It is a singularly uninteresting rainy morning in wi-fi corner at Panera, unless one might observe two young men who just came in, one white with long shaggy hair, the other black, bald, with a beard, causing me to reflect once more on the attempt to hide male-pattern baldness by shaving the head. Well, better than Trump's combover.
Then in the parking lot a royal blue Mercedes sport coupe pulls in, piquing my curiosity as the driver gets out: a woman, plump, butch looking. She bears a close resemblance to a checker at the grocery store who mumbles to herself and is full of folk wisdom, but in this sweet ride, an odd juxtaposition. By the courtyard we see luxury cars often. There is a charging station that brings anyone with a Tesla, but of course my favorite is the Bentley.
*************
The courtyard is well-peopled this morning, a perfect June day with an unusually cool breeze. Someone has parked a Segway at the bicycle stand, and a dad with his young son is flying a remote control toy, a micro-drone. Two adolescent girls are in a deep discussion next to me, one a chubby brunette, the other thin with long, curly, flaxen hair. It is hard to discern whether this is an interview between prospective roommates or if they aspire to be a lesbian couple. The brunette asks, "What do you talk about with your dad?" The blonde replies, "Sex," at which point I am wishing they would speak louder.
Now comes the elderly woman who visits the salon once a week, led by her African helper. Her husband used to bring her, then the helper would bring them both. Today the man is missing, as we each will be in time. The Segway is still here as I leave.
*******
I am back in the courtyard enjoying a mild summer's morning in the shade of the courtyard trees and feeding the sparrows. There are a few people engaged with their laptops, including a young man whose faded tee shirt reads "Yarmouth Clam Fest". I am on the look out for the man in the Panama pulling up in his Bentley; that would be Grey, back from the old country and most disgruntled over the referendum. His email said something about stupid people rising up and shooting themselves in the foot. I reminded him of Confucius, and the Tao Te Ching for that matter. We have much to learn from the Chinese, who have seen more cycles of civilization than we have. Look for a headline in this space!
Ah, here he comes now across the parking lot, dapper as ever.
************
This morning there is but one other inhabitant of wi-fi corner. He answers a call from "Elizabeth" and tells her he is at Panera working. The early summer weather is lovely, so only the true hazelnut addicts still come around. The widow who is cozy with the staff holds court at her favorite table, and the amiable rabbi talks at length on his cell. One of those super-long tractor trailers is pulling out of the parking lot emblazoned with the Panera logo and the slogan, "Food as it should be", reminding me of the official slogan of Maine, "The way life should be." While agreeing with both sayings, I reflect on the discontent instigated by that word should.
Grey's new book is daunting. Now in the middle of a first draft, we both remark at what he has taken on. He is back soon, doubtless dismayed at the state of the old country.
***********
People have the most earnest conversations here in the courtyard on a summer morning. A grey haired man with his right arm in a soft cast is talking with a black haired, heavy woman. He is married but not to her. She could be his therapist, since she seems to be helping him analyze certain personal relationships.
It is the coffee, of course, Starbucks or Vie de France; it stimulates speech but not indiscretion, differing from alcohol in that respect. Among Linda's decorations for summer are signs posted on the courtyard trees: Free weeds! Pick your own; and Let Love Grow. This latter injunction causes me to wonder whether overgrowth might result in indiscretion.
A cumulus cloud crosses the sun causing a welcome breeze as I am off to the shops.
************
I chose the wrong morning to walk this week, overcast and hot without even the veil of fog to recommend it. But the trees were an elegant green lace against the sky, and the birdsong, most of which I could identify by species, is always a delight. At break of day there is not much traffic, so I could walk down the middle of the road under the bower I love whether it is leafy or snow-covered. As I emerged from this part of the walk, there on a low branch of a shrub, utterly still and beautiful, as if waiting to greet me, sat a hawk, the native red-shouldered variety. We eyed one another awhile before his inherent shyness moved him to fly off to a more distant shrub. I stood perfectly still until he was out of sight.
Alert to serendipity, one never lacks for wonders. But now I am in the courtyard, where I must meet with Grey, who is back to Yorkshire soon, to check on the home farm, and then there is that referendum. He is all for coalescence, of course.
************
Summer has set in, so the shady tables are popular here in the courtyard; and at last there are fledgling sparrows, their wings quivering and beaks open to be fed croissant from the bakery. In front of me are two women having a deeply psychological conversation concerning their dysfunctional families. The one especially describes personality disorder in both her parents, causing her as a child to think she was crazy. But she seems to be one of the lucky ones, insightful enough to benefit from therapy and meditation. Indeed she tells of a meditation class that wrought life changing epiphany. Well...
As she kept glancing at me, aware of being overheard, and as I had in my purse a supply of Grey's calling cards, newly minted by the publisher of our book, I could not resist. On my way out, I put two on their table - with apologies for eavesdropping.
*********
Suddenly it is summer, which is normal at this latitude, and the courtyard is teeming. Here in mid-week a dozen people are gathered around two tables. They might be an entire yoga class, though there are three older men, albeit exchanging tales of climbing Everest. The women are all in yoga gear, but isn't everyone now that skin tight is de rigeur? One man appears to be the ringleader, and wears a tee shirt that reads "10K run for music". His wife, the oldest of the women, runs to the bakery, returning with a large box of croissants for everyone. She sits with a very sweet small terrier in her lap.
One sparrow has come for a piece of croissant. Th dearth of birds is worrisome; there should be fledglings by now. Ah, here comes one, with parents, and lots of crumbs left. Life still prevails!
************
While the rain has stopped for awhile, it was a misty walk early this morning and still overcast here in the courtyard. In the miasma of a sinus headache, I mistakenly took a Tylenol PM, so now the benedryl component is at war with the sinus medication that followed it down. The coffee should help! Sparrows are here this time, sharing my croissant, but not many people. It is rather dismal, and after so much rain, who can trust that the sky will not open up any minute. Confounding is the need to mix ones winter and summer wardrobes, making for light pants with a woolen blazer; uncommonly it is still too cold to mothball the woolens.
To the deli briefly and then home while I am still fit to drive; always so glad to live just a mile from our fair village!
*********
And now April showers are waxing into May showers. The ferns are loving it, and the moss; the shrubs and trees are drinking it in, but mold I fear is growing on my bronchi. Never mind, when it stops, temperatures will soar and all things will fry in the summer heat. Frankly I am enjoying the opportunity to continue wearing my L.L.Bean boiled wool pea jacket with the doeskin pockets.
But of course the courtyard languishes whilst I am ever tending toward the Bakery for morning coffee. Lots of people here with laptops today, causing me to consider that such a thing might be my next Moleskine. No, no, no... the pen, the paper, the ribbon marker, the clastic closer, so reassuring! Never to depend on microscopic bits and bytes of information embedded on a flash drive so small that the cat could swallow it!
Well, I must talk to Grey later. He has an idea regarding perceptions that he wants to run by me.
********
More April showers send me to the Bakery for refuge. My Tunisian friend was on the phone, so today I had to pay for coffee and a muffin. I am glad to do so, as I always worry he will get in trouble for his generosity.
A young mother is diapering her baby on one of the bench seats. The child is quiet enough, but really - hygiene? She then puts a blanket over her shoulder and begins breast feeding, after glancing furtively to see if anyone is watching. Well, her secret is safe with me; I only hope the next person to sit there is not immune suppressed!
*********
A perfectly clear April day in the courtyard, with warm sun and cool breeze. Sun or shade is a toss-up. A table full of half a dozen young women send up a loud chatter, yet I am able to eavesdrop on two men who have chosen the sunny table next to me. One is young, in a blazer and jeans, his youth broadcast in repetitions of the word "awesome". His companion is older, with a salt-and-pepper beard, an Iranian accent, and a decided smell of tobacco, though he is not smoking. His Mideast origin is emphasized by his suede, tasseled loafers, worn without socks They are talking business, the young man peddling some type of real estate investment, and the older fellow from a financial firm that might be interested.
But I have "miles to go before I sleep", and the sun is getting hotter, so onward!
**********
Do not try to save a table with a newspaper; the next person just assumes it has been left. I usurped such a table at Starbucks this morning; but the hirsute older man who claimed it was gracious enough to share, and as it was a larger table, I agreed. He spoke first, commenting on how busy it was, and I added that we need more cafes, upon which he started in about the Paris scene in the early twentieth century and the hangouts of the great artists.
Well of course I then pulled out the Moleskine - precursor to the laptop - attesting to my kinship with that school, whether they were artists, writers, or composers; and he volunteered that he is an artist, which was not surprising given his unkempt appearance. I said that Starbucks would be a good place to sketch people, and he recalled having startled the locals in Paris once with the sight of an American sketching in the cafe.
Shortly he took his coffee and left, leaving the newspaper.
**************
It is raining pitchforks. Little creeks and rills run like rivers, closing any road that dips past them. Naturally I am at my rainy day refuge, the Bakery, feeling like a drowned rat. The Tunisian manager is working today, and insists upon a hug before bestowing coffee and cake. He loves his work, and anyone who becomes a regular patron becomes his friend. A most unusual person.
The place is abuzz with other refugees, young ones with laptops, old ones with the Post, or engaging in face to face conversation, which has become luxury of old age. Ironically, the young don't have time. Even their Facebook has given way to tiny tweets, worthy of the lowly house sparrow.
The rain lets up and a fog rolls in. Time to go.
**************
Just the first of April and shade is at a premium in the courtyard. I am here at noon and people have brought their children, getting lunch from the deli or the bakery. Easter decor remains: plastic eggs hanging from the trees and bunny dolls surrounding the lampposts. The early holiday has already past, but spring weather is also early; the air is soft, the breeze southerly. Showers come on and off alternately with clear sunny sky. We are April's fools though if we imagine the winds will not soon shift, allowing March its due for the premature April weather.
Two hairdressers from the salon, both men, sit down with sushi and converse in a foreign tongue. They are black haired and dressed in black. I decide to move on, leaving them my shady table. As I go, Linda's Passion arrives. Farewell, Easter Bunny, till next year!
**********
At Starbucks by the chiropractor, an old man suffers the indignity of having a young woman hold the door for him. Well, he is limping. I compliment the clerk on her smile, enjoining her to keep smiling because it helps everybody. I like to compliment a nice smile, finding it necessary as an old person to say things that others don't. Civility needs to be taught, if only by example.
The place gets busy around mid-morning coffee break. Two people sit reading a newspaper, a real paper one! And one girl struggles with something on her laptop - homework? A March wind still howls without, but "the cruelest month" approaches with April Fool's Day.
***********
It is good Friday, and schools are on spring break, so at the Bakery the employees lounge and talk with each other, Spanish of course. (Please, President Trump, please don't take our Mexicans away, we love them!) At Panera yesterday, however, someone had bought up the soufflés - a Church lady? I left sorely disappointed.
There are spring showers this morning off and on, in keeping with the occasion. Grey and I never fail to remark the strangeness of celebrating a crucifixion after millennia. Surely it is the residual power of papal Rome. Of course we also believe the victim was a closet Buddhist. Grey showed me the gay love scene from the biography, and I must say it is the most romantic thing I have ever read. But then it is in Montreux!
********
March came in like a lamb, so it is going out like a lion. The biting March winds, unmitigated by a warming sun, have driven me to the Bakery this morning. I like to tell them here that I would starve to death without them, which is only a slight exaggeration. The place is uncommonly quiet. One man chatters on his cell phone in a foreign tongue, completely indistinguishable as anything I might be familiar with. Well, we are outside the nation's capital, which draws people from all over.
I will stop in the courtyard on the way home to see if Grey has braved the wind. I fear his imagination is getting ahead of my research; he tells me he has Jeremy Brett involved in his first gay romance in Montreux, on Lake Geneva, at the foot of the Alps, in 1961. Wow, do I have work to do!
*********
Fickle March has returned to the typical damp chill of early spring, and thus I have the courtyard to myself but for the few sparrows who are not preoccupied with mating. Saint Patrick's Day is coming, and sure enough right on schedule, the Bentley pulls into the parking lot. Grey is back this morning in his gray felt fedora and long forest green muffler, walking into the bakery for his coffee and croissant. He knows I will be where I always am. Though he is himself the quintessential Brit, "Champion" is an Irish name.
He has warned me he is posting about the asymptote, but alas none of my math textbooks ever was that advanced. Well, I'll wing it!
*********
In front of my table at Panera are two young women conversing in Hebrew, which is not unusual across the street from the Jewish Community Center as it employs many Israeli natives. There is a stroller next to them, but no occupant. The infant is at his mother's breast, and I must say most discreetly concealed under a large scarf strategically positioned. When she takes him out, I see he is quite young indeed, not yet able to hold his head up. He is a fortunate child, or so it seems, to have such an attentive and loving mother, though of course I do not understand a word of what they are saying.
Eka is here in a lovely hijab this morning, and she has my soufflés ready to go. I take them home for dinner. Really, I should be getting some money from the chain for advertising. What do you think, readers?
**********
March is in like a lamb, and right on schedule, Linda's Passion florist is here in the courtyard decorating for spring, including a new Easter rabbit in a spiffy sky blue jacket. Behind me are two women in a tete-a-tete, and I hear one of them ask, "Did you ever worry that your daughter would never get pregnant?" To which the other replies, in the patois of the times, "I would never go there."
The wind is also here with March, blowing everything around. If the wind chills get any colder, I will need to take refuge tomorrow at the Bakery, hoping for a free coffee and a hug from my Tunisian friend. I welcome Linda back as I leave, and of course compliment the new rabbit. She greets me in return, forgetting my name.
*************
Undermining my boasts of braving the courtyard in all weather, a very wet winter has sent me to Starbucks far too often. Here in the tiny shop that edges the courtyard, I am wedged in beside a young man in a rather private conversation with his aunt. He is probably a college freshman, who aspires to be an actor; and she is an older woman wearing pearl earrings with an artificial white flower - in her hair. She underlines each of his statements with a firm "Absolutely!" They discuss his anxiety, his meds for it, his therapy; and he observes that his drama classes are very technical, unlike his high school experience of performance. He probably went to the local school renowned for its productions, which in my opinion indulges the thwarted dreams of its faculty at the cost of inflicting them on impressionable students.
Ah well, with a real hazelnut coffee, as opposed to this rotgut flavored with syrup, I might have recommended to him before leaving some of the theatrical memoirs I have been reading, in my research for Grey's book.
**********
Snow mountains remain in the parking lots, trickling down in slow streams like glaciers, threatening to ice whenever the temperatures drop. But on a sunny day, sheltered from any wind by the optician's wall, the courtyard is pleasant, and I am guaranteed that sheltered table. Soaking up the solar radiance, I ponder the crowd shoe-horned into the Starbucks opposite, and wonder anew why people consider winter a dark season. Not unless you are at the North Pole! It is the brightest season at the bottom of a forest, which happens to be the natural history of the east coast of North America.
Meanwhile, Grey is finding his biography of Jeremy Brett to be his favorite distraction. I try to help with research, and we communicate by email as he is still in Yorkshire. He is skeptical of that prediction by the Pennsylvania rodent; but oh, to see the Bentley in the parking lot once more!
************
At Panera I am overhearing a conversation between a white-haired woman and an unshaven man with a mousy gray ponytail. They each have a laptop, and he is advising her about promoting "A Vegan Life", a charitable, animal welfare organization. Beside them on the windowsill is a jar of instant coffee, Folger's decaf, and they appear to have brought their own mugs. Not much money in animal welfare, obviously. It turns out he is ignorant about such organizations and winds up offering his own money.
Across from me is the Chinese couple, perennial moochers, though they don't seem to be here as often as formerly. They are thoroughly absorbed in their handheld devices, and do not speak, though of course they could be eavesdropping. No, no, the siren song of the web is irresistible! At least they bought their coffee.
***********
Back at Starbucks after the chiropractor. An old woman comes in who is worse off than I am; and she must be a regular, because after she orders she sits down, and the clerk brings her a coffee and pastry. The place is not busy; when it is there is no place to sit. Most of these shops, I find, are unaccountably small. The parking lots are still a mess anyway after the big snow.
This place draws people from the gym across the street, in their tight outfits talking about their classes. But today there is a nicely dressed young man in a suit, with a red tie sporting foxes. He is accompanied by a young woman, also well dressed, who may be a relative or colleague from the casual hug they exchange in parting.
Grey is sitting out the winter in Yorkshire, waiting for me to report the forecast of our local groundhog.
*********
On the fourth day following the blizzard that left two or more feet of snow on the entire mid-Atlantic region of North America, I am once again sitting in the courtyard with my hazelnut coffee and an apple croissant. I attempt to call Carmen at the management company to sing her praises for the amazing job their crew has done not only in the courtyard but the parking lot as well; her office is closed however. It surely seemed a daunting task to move enough of that snow to let people park, but it has been accomplished. Kudos to Zuckerman, Graveley!
Next stop the post office, then the grocery, pulling on ice cleats over my boots in case their lots are not as well tended.
*************
It took until the middle of January, but winter has begun at last, the arctic cold howling in on sustained high winds bending the trees and rattling the windows. One may sit in the courtyard briefly, but to hold a pen risks frostbite; and so of course I resort to the Bakery.
Two young women sit in front of me discussing their children's athletics. One is wearing an Under Armor hoodie plus a cap over her ponytail; the other has a buzz cut, softened to a degree by her dangling earrings. She does most of the talking, too softly for me to follow it, but the two seem unduly animated about something. The Tunisian manager is here, in deep conversation with the old guy who wears a USS Forrester cap. Alas, he does not see me. And so I slip away, back into the cold clutching my coffee.
***********
The last day of the year, and it is mild and sunny in the courtyard, still blazer weather. People are trooping into the deli, no doubt provisioning the evening's festivities. Here is a woman of some age laboring with obesity, causing her to shuffle along breathlessly; another older woman appears to have a permanently bemused expression plastered onto her face through years of habit. Now a young man goes by balancing on a hover-board, and I am relieved that it does not explode before he leaves.
The sparrows are not hungry; they must think it is spring. And strangely there is no line at the liquor store, as there was on Christmas Eve. So, onward!
*********
The morning of Christmas Eve and warm rain is forecast for the foreseeable future. It is unnatural and puts me on edge. Of course I am taking refuge at the Bakery, where a bear hug from the Tunisian manager, along with free cake and coffee, sets all aright. He and his staff are truly spreading the Christmas spirit this morning; I am not the only one for whom this place is a refuge. The goodness of people is very moving, and this season of the year is emotional anyway - the nostalgic songs, the beautiful sacred music. Loyal readers will understand, for example, that I choke up whenever they sing "... hear the angel voices". Grey has the good sense to spend Christmas in England, where he meets with an old friend on the day, in Matlock. He returns in the new year, and all will be back to normal, surely.
************
The thing about coffee is that it simulates the brain and the tongue, hopefully in sequence. People become more talkative and friendly. This effect is not to be confused with that of wine, about which it is said, "in vino veritas". Wine pulls the truth out of one, risking the breech of discretion. Coffee just causes strangers to smile at each other and to chat over the coffee urn.
Last week here at Panera an Indian man on his day off from AT&T, started a conversation about the hazelnut as I was warming my cup. Before I left, I had given him Grey's card. This morning a Chinese woman comes in, wrapped in a very soft woolen shawl of pale gray, and smiles several times in my direction. She has joined a friend who proceeds to inure her, jabbering in Chinese on her phone. The surrounding neighborhood is very ethnic: many Chinese, Israelis, a Jewish Center that has a school and senior residence. And here, Eka, in her hijab, cheerful and sweet. But don't worry, Donald, there are still a few old white men as well.
**********
It is still blazer weather, though Christmas nears. In the courtyard, the old mannequin Santa has been replaced by a new standing one; the old slouch I suppose was a poor example for the children, always looking like he had just stumbled out of the tavern after a few too many. There are two young women here this morning, one with a black Labrador and smoking an actual cigarette, a rare sight anymore. She and her companion are talking about Marjorie Merriweather Post and the sad loss of style in modern times, as the smoker puffs stylishly, evoking that bygone era. Another woman comes with a grubby looking Labra-doodle, and the dogs greet one another in the canine, olfactory ritual. The grubby girl seems inordinately attracted to the black one, but oddly he does not reciprocate. Maybe he's too young, or too old - or she really needs a bath, poor thing. And so, on to village errands.
************
Again taking refuge at the Bakery. I can brush snow off the courtyard tables, but rain is another matter. This morning there are two men who appear most unlikely to be seriously engaged in the conversation they are indeed having, concerning emotions and psychology. One is in a suit and tie, thinning hair, the other is Asian American and has not removed his rain slicker. At first I wonder if they are mental health professionals, but it becomes clear that they are educators discussing a problem student, who is in therapy. The eavesdropping is hindered by the employee making coffee beverages, who shouts them out like a Starbucks barrister. The Asian man is doing most of the talking, and at one point the man in the suit begins to seem that he might be the parent, but he wears no wedding ring.
Meanwhile, the nation's capital reels from protests over yet another ghastly police killing, as though a pandemic were not trouble enough. But the poor babes appear to be ignorant of the lessons of Gandhi, among others. Throw rocks at the police? You only recruit still more racist thugs to join the force. No, no, no! Throw flowers!
**********
Dispatch from the village outpost: On one of the first summery mornings, yes, I am here again, where the trash can, following yesterday's holiday, is overflowing. Indeed, strewn on the pavement are four cardboard take-out boxes, various small cups and soiled napkins. I suspect a family, dissuaded from crowded beaches, came only as far as the village; but as there is no wind today, I further surmise that it was crows who raided the trash for their breakfast. Going into the bakery, I passed the village jesters but did not salute, as they appeared to be in a heated argument with a younger man, perhaps of a less liberal persuasion than those Brooklyn comedians, who harbor no affection for our dear leader.
The maple tree behind this bench, which I wrote about a few years ago when it was quite young, is now blessing me with grateful shade. But I move on to the nursery in search of petunias and basil, so on with the mask and the gloves. Grey and I commiserate, especially about the inaptly blithesome of our acquaintances.
*************
Dispatch from the village outpost: The chimes of St. Francis Episcopal strike one o'clock as I cross the road with coffee and croissants to the lone bench that has been the only seat in the village since the courtyard was closed off on March 22, and that only because it is bolted to the sidewalk. My morning foray was delayed by the maids, who still manage to come once a month, for which my lumbar spine is eternally grateful. The hispanic team of two comes with masks and gloves and carefully disinfected equipment.
This pandemic exercise has been a peculiar discipline. We are permitted to go about for essentials, like food and medicine, but advised to keep such outings to a minimum. Thus as we sally forth of a morning we are forced to weigh our reasons in terms of what is indisputably necessary. In my case I learn my accustomed trips to shops and cafes were certainly never out of dire necessity, though in my defense I most often would combine them with some more practical mission - the printer, the post office. The engine of an economy, however, is consumer confidence. Workers and long supply chains depended on those shops and cafes. Now the shade of Herbert Hoover stalks the capital.
Well, on to the bank, at least the drive-thru window.
**********
Dispatch from the village outpost: The month of March must have been terribly put out at having to behave like April, since we continue to pay interest on that debt in the middle of May! The winds are barreling out of the north this morning as I take up my post on the lone bench with the gusts at my back, serving fortuitously to keep my hood on. Even the poor violas are shrinking. The village jesters still come, standing by their cars with their coffee, talking and laughing. I salute them in passing, reflecting to myself on those times not long past when the courtyard regulars, myself included, would crowd into Starbucks in harsh weather. Today there is a police car standing in front of Starbucks. Did the officer come for coffee or to disburse the patrons waiting curbside?
Grey and I constitute a book club of two - I simply must read what he is reading! Thus I am also well into Defoe's work concerning the Great Plague of London, which is thought to be based on the personal experience of the author's uncle. It is indeed riveting, and dare I say prophetic.
Leaving crumbs of my apple muffin for the crows, I am on to the pharmacy.
**********
Dispatch from the village outpost: First I should report that there is still no activity in the new hawk nest, but I did witness on a recent walk the rare sight of four fox kits gamboling on a neighbor's lawn. I knew that fox pair was up to something! It is spring after all, and here I am again on village errands, stationed on the lone bench with my hazelnut coffee. A family of crows is annoyed at my interrupting their pillage of the trash can, which stands unemptied. I am moved to share my coffee cake in recompense.
There is a steady, cool breeze this morning under cloudy skies. Indeed, you would not know that May has arrived but for the occasional fair day when the sun makes an appearance, showing it is still in its proper place for the time of year. As though climate change were not enough, nature has a veritable arsenal of tools to hold us in check; but the mills of God grind too slowly for our incorrigible rashness. According to Grey, who is reading up on the Great Plague of London, we are fighting this pandemic with the same measures used 350 years ago!
Too cool to sit, I am on my way.
********
Dispatch from the village outpost: No it is not fake news, though I should be nominated for a Noble Prize, for here I am again occupying the only available bench in the village, with my hazelnut coffee and a box of croissants to last the week. April nears an end, yet the cool wet weather is forecast to continue into May. Across from me, the dainty white and lavender violas tremble in a gentle breeze. Sun would help, but it is overcast.
In "The Speckled Band," Helen Stoner, a prospective client, says, "It is not cold that makes me tremble. It is fear, Mr. Holmes; it is terror." Perhaps the violas tremble in fear. The coronavirus is as stealthy as the deadly swamp adder that threatens Miss Stoner. Those of us not yet stricken apparently go about unwittingly spreading it. As it incubates, it spreads still further. Its unlucky victims fall ill in the dead of night at home, thence dropping from sight mysteriously.
The courtyard always became crowded in summer - dogs, children, cycling clubs - perfect for people watching. Under the circumstances, this lone bench may be my new station in life - unless or until I drop from sight.
**********
For many days, there has been a tug-of-war aloft between sun and cloud, keeping the temperatures just in the range of chilly. Added to damp, the weather is discomfiting, especially with the fever stalking us. Nevertheless, I bundle myself for my morning walk. The hawk nest I reported on recently is still not in use as far as I can observe, causing me to wonder if the transaction is in doubt. Perhaps Mrs. Hawk has objected that the tree is too close to the road. My path takes me by one of the old houses, among the few that did not fall prey to remodel, a property still bearing signs of the glory days of horses, dogs, and children. A white board fence, badly in need of paint, its gate collapsing, encloses a paddock, while cross fencing in the back marks a corral where an old horse trailer still stands.
The glory days have indeed passed. Grey was nonplussed upon hearing someone on television use the phrase "when the all-clear is sounded." Shades of the blitzkrieg! And so on to my village outpost in hopes it has not been found out either by fellow villagers or the constabulary.
*********
The erratic weather, with its violent storms, wild fluctuations in temperature, torrential rains, would of itself be sufficient to make one feel ill without the incessant suggestions that one is at any moment about to fall to a deadly virus. And I tend to be suggestible. Nevertheless, your indomitable scribe sits in a chilly wind, borrowed from March, at my post opposite the Vie de France bakery. My errand this morning was to find a bank branch with a drive-thru, which having accomplished I stopped at the bakery - of course - and next, to the post office, shielded as we are instructed with mask and gloves.
The world has gone mad, when Grey and I must learn to use FaceTime. Thank heaven he was persuaded to get a smart phone! We decry the lamentations going up about warnings ignored, budgets slashed, and as well the sudden new interest in statistics, a widely misunderstood subject which ought to be studied in high school. Meanwhile, I keep him posted regarding the new hawks' nest, and he tells me of the two foxes he suspects are raising a litter under his neighbor's enormous brush pile. But now, "once more into the breach!" as Grey has taken to quoting.
************
Gratefully, there is a cool breeze this morning as the sun is getting quite high above my village outpost. An overhanging maple is just beginning to leaf, but will provide shade come summer. It is now a full month since the courtyard was closed down, and I sit reflecting on the irony that I once sought out this bench whenever the courtyard was too crowded. Mitigation of the pandemic is well-warranted, of course, and for that matter, plague itself sows the seed of dread wherever it arises. The seeds are perennial, and will spring up for generations to come. Survivors awake to a world of agoraphobics. Still, somehow I have village errands - bank, pharmacy, post office, and groceries, though deliveries of the latter have resumed, albeit with scant supplies and tardy.
We are allowed to walk out-of-doors so long as we avoid all human contact. I find to my delight that hawks are again nesting in a neighbor's sycamore, near to the one they chose some years ago, which still holds the remnants of the old nest. I hope to be able to report on nestlings. Now to the hunt for egg dye - Easter that is!
**********
Another week of limbo in the village, but I am here on a pharmacy errand, so not likely to be arrested. The bakery is still open though, and I stock up on pastries, taking also a hazelnut coffee and going to that sturdy bench across the street, which shall be my outpost for the duration, or for as long as I remain standing. Those shops still open are very careful about keeping people six feet apart, and I still have hand sanitizer. I am careful even under normal conditions.
As I strode to the bakery, the two village jesters stood talking in the parking lot, no doubt bewailing the fate of their native Brooklyn. I saluted them and exchanged greetings, at a distance of course. Near me here on this corner of the crossroads, a bed of tulips is in bloom, orange and white with lavender violas interspersed. The joys of spring are dampened this year, but as Grey declared when last we spoke, nature's beauty always masks its treachery, especially in spring. Indeed, tomorrow begins the cruelest month!
*********
As a chronicler of sorts of our village life, I feel some duty to be here this morning, though I am not in the courtyard, where tables and chairs have been stacked and cordoned off to discourage anyone from gathering there and spreading a lethal virus, albeit innocently. Instead I have crossed the street where there are two benches that are bolted to the concrete. Fortunately I have my hazelnut coffee since the Vie de Franc has not yet been closed as "nonessential." So here I sit scribbling in hopes that the chill air has not become an inescapable miasma of pathogens. The damp cold of March is bad enough.
Grey is not one to gloat over his prescience, but is bothered above all that he is still alive to see it confirmed. With his wry wit he does see a silver lining. A large portion of the human population has been conscripted to test three ideas that may make it possible for large numbers of us to inhabit the planet sustainably: telecommuting, home schooling, and a government guaranteed income. Right on, bro'!
************
It is St. Patrick's Day and I sit in the courtyard bundled up against a typical damp chill of March.With this new virus and every cafe closing, I may soon fall back on my own coffee, bringing a thermos here for Grey and me. It seems this microbe is latching on to every nose it can access, making us all potential vectors, sick or not. But "social distancing" is social paralysis and economic rigor mortis. Alas, even once indomitable Irish wit is nowhere in evidence. The window dressing at the optician bespeaks rather the Ides of March, with Ionian pillars on a background of black and white stripes. Caesar beware!
The sun emerges as the chimes of St. Francis Episcopal stike ten. The two old gents I refer to as our village jesters are here, but not jesting. In their distinctly Brooklyn accents they are talking politics - what else? Before I leave, they get Jack on the phone, the oldest of the old-timers, kidding him about being in solitary confinement - and assuring him he is missed.
**********
With public health experts and news media telling us to keep a good distance from our fellow man, the several cafes that I frequent in the mornings are noticeably less frequented. Very little is yet known about this new virus, yet it certainly appears to be riding in on the White Horse, as Grey would note, referencing Revelations chapter 6, which he has been doing for years. He is clever about reminding me without actually saying I told you so.
In any case, at our age sudden death rouses far less dread than heretofore. I am at Corner Bakery on a shopping expedition, and a white haired woman ordering ahead of me has asked for the senior discount. Curiously her roots are dark; she has dyed her hair white! Upon leaving, I hold the door for two women each with a dog, one of which is a yellow lab puppy in an official looking vest. They are service dogs, and the puppy is in training. Nonetheless, cute as a button, he attracts considerable attention!
************
Did March come in like a lion or a lamb? The answer is always ambiguous, and confusing the matter further this year was leap day. If 29 February should be considered the actual first of March, the entrance was leonine, while the real March first was in contrast a lamb. Of course the importance of this determination comes at the end of the month, which folklore tells us will be just the opposite. In other words, it is anyone's guess!
Suffice it to say, it is windy in the courtyard this morning, and I am huddled by the optician's wall, where the windows still display valentines. Since learning that this decor is the work of two retired gentlemen, I find myself worrying when they are laggard in changing it up. Surely St. Patrick's should be next. There's a young woman here working on her laptop, and she gets up to leave as a wind comes turning the pages of my Moleskine. She has left some papers which are now blowing about the courtyard. Before I can get up to chase them, another old woman beats me to it. Ancient denizens are apparently more conscientious!
************
I am at Corner Bakery taking refuge from a rainy morning. Hereabouts, I learn from weather news, rain is the new snow, as of the latter there will likely be none. In front of me here, are two old men speaking a language I do not recognize. I suspect it is Greek, though it might be Russian. One man is thin, with a proper Greek cap and a good head of hair, graying at the margins. The other is short and chubby, with just a fringe of hair circling a bald dome. Though I can see him only from the back, I easily imagine this bald man resembling Mr. Quilp, the evil dwarf from Dickens's Old Curiosity Shop. Sure enough, as they leave I hear that low, gravelly voice of none other than the villainous Daniel Quilp!
I must tell Grey, who is meeting me here, about the characters he just missed. He needs cheering up, having just turned 75. One old friend died suddenly a few weeks ago, and another now appears to have one foot in the grave. Thus with some urgency does Grey himself labor on his essay collection, repeatedly comparing it to the Great Grimpen Mire!
*********
True to the groundhog's prognostication spring has come, and it is still February. Winter will interrupt for two days at most, then mild temperatures resume. Indeed, it has been a year without a winter at all - no snow nor the prospect of snow. Like Alice, I have passed through the looking glass: prevailing winds now come from the south, heavy with tropical moisture; temperatures rise at night and fall during the day. Adding to the eery impression, our Red Queen goes about imposing punishment before a verdict is given.
In any case, I am coatless in the courtyard, just a blazer and the indispensable muffler. A small woman passes through with four children, one an infant in her arms, the older ones stair steps. People are variously dressed, some in their puffy coats, some only a hoody, and many with no wrap at all. When the sun peaks through, it makes all the difference, as it rises higher on the horizon approaching the equinox. The weather being a boon to microbes, I wrap my muffler around my neck, lest Grey warn me of the White Horse - that would be Pestilence. Here he comes now - the old man not the horse!
*********
Another cold, drizzly morning finds the Starbucks crowded, so I secure one of the tall tables with my hat and gloves while I go for coffee and a slice of pumpkin loaf. When I come back, a young man has infringed, but I sit down beside him and ask, "Is that your breakfast young man?" He replies with a grunt, and I start to wonder if he might be a she. Nearby a man in yellow-mirrored sunglasses and a cap, sits with a much younger boy. The man is long-winded, giving a sermon as it were, though I can't follow it in the hubbub.
Across the courtyard, I see the optician's windows are dressed for Valentine's Day with hanging heart mobiles and heart shaped topiary of miniature red roses. The hanging hearts are of course covered in glitter and dangle from red satin ribbon. Before I leave, the dubious young person has moved to a free table and is greeted by an old woman. The another old gent recognizes him as someone familiar to the establishment. A former employee? A mystery boy - or is it girl?
*********
Except for a blue plaid scarf, the woman sitting in the corner here at Panera - straight dishwater blonde hair, dark glasses, earbuds - is dressed all in black. She is working with colored pens, so I surmise an artist. The conclave of the rabbis is here, talking energetically in Hebrew. Every Panera, I find, is fertile ground for interesting characters, as I assume my fellow patrons regard me also. The weather is mild and damp, and in fact the illustrious Phil of Punxutawney gave his unusual verdict two days ago that spring is fast on its way. Good news to most people, who simply want to shed their puffy coats, hats and scarves. Irregular seasons, however, are not salubrious in nature, where the cold of winter is needed as a check on insect pests and plant diseases.
These days looking at the untoward weather around the world gives pause. If it's warm in February what will it be in July? As I rise to leave, the woman in black with earbuds is laughing to herself. On to errands - neither the chiropractor, the masseuse nor the hair dresser today it is the printer.
**********
On my morning walks, I am more likely to see raptors in the winter, out hunting for breakfast. This year, in fact, there are two pair of red shouldered hawks in the neighborhood - most unusual - and I am hoping they will nest here come spring, as they did some years back in my neighbor's sycamore. On a rare occasion, living near the river, I sight a bald eagle flying over, immediately identified by his white head. Recently I saw two of them, probably a couple made famous by an "EagleCam" that spies on their family life. Indeed last year there was a love triangle, and the elder male went missing and was presumed dead, as I recall, from battle injuries.
These are my musings as I later sit at Starbucks. Tim, a courtyard regular, is here, a short old man with bushy hair and mustache, who was apparently spurned by his regular chums for his rightwing views. He is regaling an unsuspecting stranger about having poisoned something - was it deer or rats? Meanwhile, shallowness is on vivid display by two not-so-young women, stuffed into yoga pants, exchanging tales, in tacit competition, of cushy vacations. Well! on to the supermarket.
************
Back in the courtyard at last on a sunny cold day, I am sheltered by the optician's wall and awaiting Grey to pull up in the Bentley, doubtless in his Borsalino fedora, though with this fickle weather he fears he might leave it somewhere and lose it. When I joked that he should get a deer-stalker, he asserted that the rustic hat did not even befit Sherlock Holmes but was the dubious contribution of illustrator Sydney Paget, presumably because it was worn for hunting, albeit game not criminals!
The window dressing at the optician's is up to speed, with hanging white snowflakes above shelves covered in blue. Recently I had occasion to learn who is responsible for these windows, when I decided to get an eye exam in anticipation of renewing my driver's license. The clerk, who does not do the windows, was nonetheless talkative. They are done by two elderly gents, twin brothers, who had illustrious careers, dressing the windows of posh department stores, and were even involved in staging shows in Las Vegas. I gave her Grey's card with our blog address, telling her that I never fail to describe their seasonal changes. When she began to gossip about Linda's Passion, whose kitschy courtyard decor had drawn complaints, I was gratefully summoned by the optometrist!
***********
As it is a Rockville day, I am here at Panera with a hang-backer in front of me. She stands so far back that her intentions are unclear, but erring on the side of politeness, I assume she is a line of one and stand close behind. Her wild hair is a caricature of someone holding a finger in a socket. She orders oatmeal and sits down by the eastern window in the wi-fi corner, joining a tall young man whose hair and beard are similarly nappy. Mother and son? He wears a basketball jacket and shoes.
I take a table nearby among a few of the wi-fi regulars with their devices. One is a thin, balding man with glasses, whom I often see at the same places I frequent. I have been tempted to ask him if, like me, he comes for the hazelnut, but I hesitate to intrude. Today as I don my coat, hat and gloves, he speaks! Being a cold day, we exchange remarks about the weather and the possibility of snow, upon which we are in accord, appreciating it in moderation. Next time I must ask him about the hazelnut.
*********
It is a mild day in January here in the courtyard. To put this in context, in a normal winter there would likely be a short January thaw, a portent of spring. But this year January temperatures came in November, so it seems we are now treated to the month we missed. As further proof, the winter cherry tree in my yard, which should have bloomed in November, is now belatedly trying to do so. Pity the poor confused trees!
People are in good spirits though, considering how awkward the midweek holidays were - two solid weeks of weekends! At one table, six black men, a rare gathering in our village, are laughing heartily. Two young girls by the Starbucks window discuss their futures. One declares her wish to join the military, explaining that she is patriotic and also that she might take advantage of higher education, perhaps to be a surgeon. Her friend calls her crazy. Indeed, the prospects for military service, I daresay, are increasingly fraught. And so, shedding my hat and scarf, I move on.
*********
The weather being unusually volatile this December, I am again indoors at Corner Bakery, listening to the chatter induced by their excellent coffee, self serve and evidently self serving. Of the two women behind me, one is complaining copiously about her younger sister, who gets drunk and looks to her for rescue at all hours. Then opposite me sits a boy and girl just getting to know each other, perhaps, I surmise, having met on a dating app. He is the one on a caffeine high, talking endlessly. He lives with his parents, bragging of all the comforts he enjoys at no expense. She listens patiently to the spoiled rich brat, so he is really into her, of course. Beware, young woman!
It is for just such youngsters that Grey is writing his essays, though he realizes they are the very ones unlikely to be interested until it is too late. He also knows that essays have a way of becoming passé in a hurry, in his case before he has a change to publish. He is soon back from the old country, and we will meet in the courtyard, weather be damned!
**********
I am at Corner Bakery, where one may people watch - and listen - and in winter take up a pen without frozen fingers. This morning a Chinese woman is here with another, whom I surmise is her grandmother. They are having coffee and pastry, and the young woman is most solicitous of the older, going back and forth to the coffee station until all is quite perfect. At another table a tiresome woman is regaling her companion with an exhaustive account of a recent journey.
Such conversations have become so common I begin to suspect I am the lone remaining person who is not a globe trotter. I have traveled, but not lately; roads are clogged with traffic, and many routes are under heavy construction. But airports are the worst: one approaches with little confidence of actually being able to fly in a timely fashion. To the contrary, be prepared to camp out. I fully expect to see sleeping bags for rent, sanitized of course. I must suggest to Grey that he write an essay on travel. The old chap happens to be away even now, not globetrotting, just the old country for Christmas.
**********
I am writing this on the back of my grocery list, as the Moleskine - quelle horreur - has gone missing! Distracted by holiday crazies, I left it in a shopping cart at the drug store yesterday, and await its retrieval from the manager when he comes to work. Alas, if prisoners can smuggle their writings out of jail cells, I will not be deterred by this mishap.
It is freezing cold in the courtyard, and I sit at the only table getting morning sun. As we approach the solstice, that wondrous star is at its lowest trajectory. It is the week before Christmas, and the window dressing at the optician's is at last in step: white wreaths with peppermint striped bows, skinny pines in pairs on cotton snow, white poinsettias, and two tall wooden soldiers, one in a white coat, the other red.
With stiffening fingers, I am off to the drug store, hopefully to reclaim the Moleskine!
*********
The weather is increasingly inclement after Thanksgiving, and the courtyard is empty. Large lighted wreaths are installed on the opposing chimneys, and a tall menorah awaits the occasion to be lit. The optician, however, is somewhat laggard in removing the harvest decor from his windows. Since the Vie deFrance bakery has only outdoor seating, and Starbucks is full to capacity on a rainy morning, the village is sorely in need of another cafe. Starbucks is the workplace for many, so there appears to be no turnover. People sit with their laptops all morning long.
Nevertheless, I manage to grab the last available seat, which is by the door, where icy air blows in every ten seconds. An old woman is next to me with a very tall coffee, known here as a Grande. She wears a black NorthFace coat, red vest with coordinated chain-patterned scarf. With paper and pen in front of her, she is nonetheless staring at her phone. She gets up to leave and smiles at me. In fact, the morning rush is thinning out, and glory be, empty tables appear before me! It is just past ten.
********
I am at Panera this morning on my way to shopping errands, and behind me sits a stout black man with an African accent wearing a yarmulke. His companion is an Israeli, also identified by his accent. From the discussion, it appears that the African may be trying to join the local synagogue, since the Israeli seems to be instructing him in religious matters, though he also touches on other topics, from buying a used car to dealing with marital infidelity. The Israeli man is patronizing to the point of unctuousness, so that I am at pains to restrain an impulse to turn around and smack him.
Meanwhile outside, the red and white violas that were planted in early October are still small two months later and still being buffeted by a north wind. That bed obviously has bad feng shui for flowers. Thus alerted by the poor violas, I bundle up against the wind chill and am off to the shops. Back to the courtyard tomorrow.
*******
Frosty weather continues, and on my early morning walks the lawns are sugared with rime. Often the temperature climbs thirty degrees before I get to the courtyard. Today though, I am off to the shops, this being the season for it, with a first stop for hazelnut coffee at Corner Bakery. It is strange to me that this place has become a favorite. Surely the coffee is fresh and one may come inside from the cold, but the view is a sprawling suburban parking lot, interrupted only by a line of those small trees suitable to such sites. For all that bleakness, the place feels like home; but of course unless I am meeting Grey here, I am otherwise immersed in my blog post.
I am distracted this morning when a man and a young girl sit down at the next table. Despite his booming voice, he proceeds to talk to her about a serious medical matter: DNA testing, handling emotions, and so on. At the bakery? Well, as I implied, it's that kind of place - they come to talk!
**********
On my walk this morning the leafy bower I pass through was devoid of leaves. Elsewhere after a nocturnal rain, the leaves are raining down, making a patter on the bed of those already fallen. Some poor young trees have been taken by surprise by hard freezes coming before they had time to adjust: sap was falling with chlorophyll still in the leaves. Now a winter cherry in my yard, which should be having its second season bloom, is hung with wet brown leaves ready to let go in the merest breeze.
Now I am alone in the courtyard, as it is cloudy with windchill. On such a day I would tolerate the coffee at Starbucks but every seat in the place is taken, most patrons with laptops taking advantage of free wi-fi. I frequently remind managers at Vie de France of their error in not providing indoor seating, so when they go out of business it will not be on me. Hopeful forecasts of sun are not yet fulfilled, but sheltered by the optician's wall I am reasonably comfortable, though my fingers are stiffening holding the pen. Perhaps I will have resort to voice memos... alas! I drop a fiver in the red kettle as I pass - the season is upon us and I love the bell!
*********
On Halloween I was at Panera, where two young women were sitting by the window in wi-fi corner, one in a hoodie glorified by the image of a scowling skull. The other's legs were very short, not touching the floor. The first woman was in a dither preparing her house to take in aging and impoverished in-laws. When the conversation turned to children, she commented that her son was learning Russian from his daycare provider. Aside from her macabre shirt and my pumpkin lapel pin, no other nod to Halloween was evident.
Now it is past Veterans Day - Remembrance Day as Grey has it - and the weather has turned extremely cold. Even in the sun, I cannot sit long in the courtyard, but long enough to note - glory be! - that the optician is in step with the seasons, switching his window dressing from jack-o-lanterns to symbols of harvest: autumn wreaths, cornucopias brimming with seasonal abundance. Let the winds howl!
**********
The day before Halloween and I am in the courtyard remembering the times not long past when Linda's Passion would decorate with pumpkins, witches, bats, bales of hay and sheaves of corn. It was a fun tradition, but apparently too lowbrow for the urbane vibe of our new mise-en-scene, part of which now are new planters. The old red clay ones have been replaced with gray rectangles and white hemispheres. These are planted with greenery, which, though it has a leaf like a geranium, has no flowers.
Seven women are sitting together with their Starbucks, and one exclaims, "Sitting out and almost Halloween! How awesome is this!" Well, it's only October. Awesome are two crows who sneak up cautiously for crumbs of my apple muffin. In spite of their size, crows are shy, not even as brave as the sparrows. As I leave, a group of elementary students on a field trip from a nearby prep school passes through. Very nice uniforms - but of course!
********
The trees are finally in their autumn colors after a dry start to the season. On my morning constitutional through the leafy bower and around the block, dogwoods were reliably red, while the maples seem a bit confused: Riotously colorful on the spectrum from yellow to red, but on many trees each leaf is multi-colored, and some are appearing;ring in that subtle coral that is my favorite blend. The trees are never more noticeable than when they show their true colors, and their size may be startling when they break out of the jungle green. I walk early, and when the rising sun shines its light on the autumn leaves, I am reminded how much I love their diaphanous quality just before they fall.
In the courtyard later, the four small trees there have lost nearly all their tiny yellow leaves. But where are the yellow jackets?
********
Unaccountably, I take the last cheese Brittany at Panera this morning, and it is just 10:00! Someone must have treated the office. Outside, ground crews are replacing the summer's lantana with cold-hearty violas: blue and white around trees and entrances; red and white by Panera, where they are bowing their little heads in a stiff north wind. Nevertheless, it is a good day to plant as rain is coming. With the Jewish holidays finally over, the conclave of the rabbis, as I call them, again assembles on the banquette, lounging and chatting convivially in the unique manner that Panera coffee seems to foster.
Grey is on his way to the old country to check on the home farm. Yorkshire has had a spell of beneficial rain, helping his project to turn some pastureland into haymaking. By the time he returns, it will be cold enough to break our the Borsalino!
*********
Gradually, cold weather is coming on, and indeed this morning in the courtyard I am huddled, for the first time, by the optician's window for the sun. There is a windchill, and the sunny tables are in demand. Four schoolgirls are trying to study despite the weather, but they finally concede and retreat into Starbucks. A balding man in jeans and cowboy boots is eating a wrap from Starbucks; odd that he has no coffee.
Bearing upon my recent comments about the return of the skirt, a woman passes by in a short, black, flared version. Her hot pink top is matched in her shoes. Chilly though it is, her legs are bare, in keeping with a trend now so old as to be the new custom. While men are rarely seen without socks, women no longer cover their legs or feet. When not wearing athleisure, they have forgotten how to dress - quelle horreur!
Sure enough, the optician has succumbed and dressed his courtyard windows for Halloween: long placards showing stacks of grinning jack-o-lanterns, tombstones with skulls, and "Happy Halloween" in glitter. Two Asian men in dark suits and ties are discussing business in their native tongue. They are joined by a compatriot and then two Americans, casually dressed - of course! Discussion continues in English, and I learn the Asians are Korean rather than Chinese as I had thought. Their business has something to do with home security. A father comes through with four sons, the relationship unmistakable given a strong family resemblance. The boys are stair steps in age.
It is a mild morning but winds are forecast to turn northward, and indeed the northern sky is dark, hopefully promising much needed rain. The new weather extremes bring boom or bust!
*********
It is the Jewish New Year; and at Panera all the well-dressed people emerging from their cars outside in the parking lot are heading on foot to the nearby synagogue, the men donning yarmulkes, women stepping smartly on high heels. There is a considerable local policer presence for the occasion, since the Jewish community has a number of "soft targets" on this corner. In America the tribal warfare already dawns, the craziest of the white Christians ready with assault rifles to attack helpless innocents. The conclave of the rabbis, as I call them, is not here today of course, but three women near me in wi-fi corner are cackling in Spanish.
The background music at Panera is distinctive, as any regular patron knows. While I do not follow the myriad of ever shifting popular styles, I find this sound akin to bluegrass; it has the strummed instrument accompanying the wailing hillbilly, though it lacks the banjos. But on to the errands, which I carry on in the relentless heat while impatient for the autumn weather!
**********
It is the first day of autumn, and the sun is welcome in the courtyard due to a cool breeze. The sparrows are eager for my apple croissant, and while the optician has apparently forsaken seasonal decor - see the last post - the supermarket has pumpkins and mums on display. A man with a buzz cut is studying a music score, and when a friend enquires, I learn it is Haydn and he is a singer. The friend comments, "There's no hidin' from Haydn!" That's our village jester! A young woman walking her dog is stopped by two doggy fans, who elicit the information that the little Bichon is thirteen and his name is Porter. She has come for Starbucks prior to taking Porter to the park for a walk.
Before I leave the first yellow jacket accosts me - a sure sign of fall's official arrival!
***********
Since I became a chronic "backer," as the docs call us, I have a team of maids come once a month, who clean the house better than I ever did. They come the third Tuesday of the month, precluding my morning in the courtyard. Nevertheless, I come after they leave and have a coffee at Starbucks, decaf as it is afternoon; and, yes, of course I am a pumpkin spice fan.
In the courtyard are three unusual cyclists; they are old women, with all the gear, helmets included. You go, girls! Meanwhile, the optician's window dressing causes equal consternation. He has tall placards adorned with colorful rectangles, and on the shelves are miniature carry-out boxes in the same colors. It is a departure from the seasonal that opens a yawning abyss of speculation: Is he struggling to coordinate with the cobalt blue outer woodwork? (He was not consulted on the new color.) Might he foresee a climate without seasons, as the seas boil in perpetual summer? Maybe he retired and his heir cannot abide pumpkin spice. I've lived too long perhaps!
**********
As I go about with my Moleskine eavesdropping and people watching in the cafes, I am kept abreast of fashion trends, at least among the hoi polloi. I find, for example, that what I call spandex nudity is a popular style referred to as "athleisure." In other words, leaving the gym, one need not bother changing clothes. For that matter, whatever one has slept in, once known as pajamas, may stay on all day, irrespective of venue.
Here at Panera, where the lantana outside the window is billowing in late summer color, a chubby woman is likewise spilling out of her short black dress. Skirts and dresses - flared - are making a comeback. Expect a revival of square dancing to come! Grey is back from Maine, refreshed, though I daresay a bit more flummoxed by the trip than heretofore. He will report next week, and is working on a poem, "Flying to Portland."
*******
We often have a preview of autumn weather in the month of August, and this morning's chilly air mass fills the bill. Unaccustomed as I've become, I sense a pesky cough coming on. Nevertheless, lots of people are enjoying the courtyard. Two young girls are sitting on the pavement with a puppy, drawing the usual adulation afforded baby dogs. The animal appears to be a Husky with peculiar white fur tipped black. Oblivious to this little beauty, two older women pass through engrossed in conversation. One says to the other, "Send me a Bible verse now and then." A young woman comes with a baby, the woman in an unusual grey dress printed all over with blackbirds.
Grey is preparing for his annual sojourn on the shores of Frenchman Bay in Maine, so no blog post next week, but he is sure to have tales to tell on his return and doubtless a new poem.
*********
The courtyard has a polyglot group this morning, not at all unusual in our village, with a French school and a German school in the community. Sitting at one table with their Starbucks are three young blonde girls who are quite obviously sisters. Their broad, high cheekbones suggest a strong Nordic heritage, and sure enough they are speaking German. A curious little sparrow alights on their table, though there is nary a crumb to be had, and they react as though it were a bee.
At another table there is a large Iranian family, with five children - three boys and two girls - and a frisky Bichon. Then there is a Russian couple sitting with a young woman, who may be related, and has assumed a half lotus position in her chair. The man eyes me suspiciously. Is it in the Russian genes? Weather continues blazing hot, broken only by the monsoon, with alerts of flash flooding. Grey and I endeavor to carry on, albeit not always calmly!
***********
The courtyard is abuzz on a cool Saturday morning. The old-timers have their table; these are all old men, and there are two Chinese tables, one with six young men and one loquacious woman, the other with the old folks. A blonde woman in a print dress and black platform shoes passes through, pulled behind a balky labradoodle. It is mid-August and the optician has changed up this display windows. Gone is the marine theme, replaced with large yellow "School Zone" signs, red apples for the teacher, stacks of books and lead pencils in holders - along with eyeglass frames of course!
The high heat has brought monsoons every afternoon this week. Humidity in the air bubbles up until it explodes in thunder and lightning; then the rain comes in a cataract, pummeling the earth. Thankfully the seasons change in their cycle, and the surest signs of autumn here in the courtyard are the yellow jackets and the rain of little yellow leaves from the courtyard trees. Then Grey can switch his Panama for the Borsalino. I will be glad to see it!
********
Readers know that when errands or appointments take me in that direction, I indulge my taste for hazelnut coffee at Panera, where they now offer a pastry called a cheese Brittany. Fifteen seconds in the microwave and molto buono! Like the courtyard, this is also a good place to study one's fellow man. This morning there sits a white-haired woman, thin and straight as a pole, her companion quite otherwise: overweight and slouched with very dry, dyed hair. At the next table are two men speaking Hebrew; one with his back facing me is bald, the other does most of the talking. As I know not a word of Hebrew I have no clue about their conversation, other than it is one-sided.
The neighborhood, which has a large Chinese community, also draws many Israelis to the Hebrew school, nursing home and large senior residence, all supported by the Jewish community. The Jews and the Chinese I find to be equivalently communal. I should bring that up with Grey, as he polishes his essay on breeding. Meanwhile, we are having a monsoonal summer. More on that next week.
*********
The heat index is 93 degrees and the air quality is unhealthy "for sensitive groups," so I am taking refuge in Starbucks, where my summer favorite is a tall, soy, mocha frappuccino lite. It is not very busy, but the tables are taken by patrons with laptops - I get the last one, with my Moleskins, a primitive version of the laptop, as I like to say. Those sitting in the courtyard outside inhabit the deepest shade, which is along the wall of Starbucks. There is a young woman in yoga pants and sandals having a cold coffee and taking notes in a very small pocket book. I say! Do I now have imitators? While she does have a phone, she is scratching away most diligently, in which process I note a considerable tattoo on her exposed arm.
A black Porsche pulls up in the lane, and I witness something which could only happen in our fair village. The driver gets out, and leaving the car open and the motor running, comes in for his coffee. He returns shortly to his car, which no one apparently has even entertained the notion of stealing. Well a Porsche is not a Maserati!
*********
Once I had persuaded Grey that a smart phone would soon be a necessity, and he had procured an iPhone whom he calls Mycroft, he has - like the rest of us - become dependent on it. We often discuss the dangerous vulnerability of these dependencies. Indeed I am naked in the courtyard without mine this morning, having forgotten it at home. I have the Moleskine, but I often consult the dictionary and the Wikipedia apps, and I collect notes on fellow courtyard denizens.
Today there sits a mixed race couple, the father Caucasian and the mother Asian, with their son and daughter. Mom is in tight white pants and stilettos. Dad stares at his phone (see above), while the children, following my example, feed the sparrows, more discreetly, I daresay, than most youngsters. Presently, a girl comes through with a labradoodle puppy, who grabs all the attention - the dog of course, not the girl - a frisky pup with curly brown coat. Briefly an old white man in camo stands before us all, scowling. While he does not appear to be armed, I decide it may be time to move on. Words to live by!
***********
Just a week ago the village and surrounding areas received a pummeling Deluge, sufficiently biblical to warrant capitalization. I note from the trucks in the parking lot today that a number of companies have sprung up offering post-disaster services: fire, flood, hail, wind, mold. The apocalyptic horsemen multiply! Nevertheless, here in the courtyard two stylish women in designer shades, torn shorts and bejeweled flip-flops sit languidly discussing the sorry tales of flooded basements and washed out roads. At another table a young girl sipping a green smoothie sits with an older man, who looks unusually desolate - PTSD already? I did note "trauma" listed on the truck of one recovery service, though that may have referred to crime scenes.
The optician's two display windows, bunting gone, now show nautical decor, each with a large ship's wheel flanked by model sail boats, while the eyeglass frames float on sea blue platforms. Uncommonly I am hearing the loud rasp of locusts in the courtyard trees. Ah, summer... now endless, and relentless!
**********
On a summer weekend, the courtyard fills up. The one past had six of the regular denizens at their table, including Jack with his walker parked nearby. He started years ago with a cane - next step a wheelchair. There were also two little girls blowing bubbles to everyone's delight, and a representative number of the small, fluffy white, energetic dogs. This morning, a weekday, comes something rarely seen in the warm months: a brave little sparrow upon my table for her portion of my apple muffin. She must have lots of fledglings to feed! At the table next sits and African couple with their Starbucks. Despite their readily distinguishable accents, they speak English; but the accent prevents my catching the drift of their conversation, except that it is of a personal though not intimate nature. Relatives?
Grey arrives at his usual time in the Bentley, sporting his Panama of course. He keeps a stiff upper lip notwithstanding the irksome weather - persistent drought at the family farm in Yorkshire, and apocalyptic drenching here in the States!
***********
In summer, morning shade in the courtyard is on the eastern wall, the Starbucks side - no more huddling by the optician's. We are in a monsoonal phase, and even before the afternoon storms begin, winds come up, at least breaking the awful heat. But the air is wet, to the point that extracting sufficient oxygen may require gills. Three men are talking politics, including one of the village wags, who despite his age is a liberal New Yorker, Brooklyn to be precise. A younger man is conservative, and the third, a doctor, is moderate - the whole political spectrum at one table. The New Yorker is also an expert on food, by nature apparently, and given to hyperbole. So when the discussion veers off onto what to eat for the upcoming Independence Day holiday, he knows exactly where to go for the most spectacular burger - sin par!
I leave a good half of my croissant for the sparrows. Fledglings are showing up, distinguished by the quivering wing as they beg to be fed.
Blustery again in the courtyard, and this morning I take extra care not to upset my coffee. I share my croissant with a tiny female sparrow, who flies off with her beak full. She must have hatchlings. A white-haired man comes in with a teenage girl, who holds the leash of a brown and white husky. The dog attracts the attention of passersby, one of whom stops to discuss related breeds such as the Malamute and Samoyed, and to commiserate about shedding. An old couple sits with their Starbucks frappes, discussing politics. Despite the breeze, the sun is quite hot, so I am surprised to see a woman in a black dress - to her ankles. Well, it is a sundress!
And here comes Grey, holding on to his Panama. He contends that the economy of Ecuador would boom if everyone went back to wearing the genuine Panama hat of Carludovica palmata, made only in that country.
*******
Again it is blustery in the courtyard, and for just the second time in my history here, I upset my coffee cup. As luck would have it, this misfortune coincides with another rare occurrence, that being I did not take napkins! Well, some coffee remains, and I make do with tissues.
Two women are here with a crying baby in a stroller. One sporting a Gucci bag remarks, "Life without a nanny!" Dog man is also here with his faithful companion Coco, the English bulldog. He leaves, however, when a man and woman arrive with two dogs. One of these latter is a Shepherd wearing a vest that reads, "Do not pet service dog." Despite the chilly breeze, the Fourth of July holiday is coming soon, in keeping with which the optician has dressed his windows in bunting: flags sparkling stars, cardboard fire crackers. I fold my bespattered Moleskine as two more women arrive with frisky toddlers.
***********
The overcast this morning is keeping the temperature down, yet the courtyard is well populated. Two women are doing mutual research on their phones for beach accommodations, a sure sign that summer is around the corner. They are looking within a radius of a four hour drive, perhaps New Jersey or the Outer Banks. A thin girl passes through, all in brown with black heels, speaking on her phone in Hebrew. At another table a girl with a typically feisty Bichon pup appears to be advising an older man in a red cap and a basketball fan-shirt. Might he be a divorced uncle?
Grey sends a message that he is on his way. He has been upset about the sorry business going on in the old country, and particularly the recent state visit, though he was proud as ever of the royal family. As for Americans, he says if they wanted a monarch, they may as well have stuck with King George!
**********
Though it is still spring, in recent years it is a rare June day when a dry north wind causes me to seek a sunny table in the courtyard, as is the case this morning. Four old-timers - regulars here - sit talking at the table next. Aside from a nod or occasional greeting, in recognition of our mutual occupancy, I do not get involved with other habitual denizens. What I know of them has been picked up over time by eavesdropping.
Two in today's kaffeeklatsch have some reputation as the village jesters. One who is especially garrulous is talking about some venture capital investment involving biodegradable plastic. I gather this when the other says, "Show me the money!" which appears to be a running joke between them. They go on to gossip about a woman friend who is terribly sweet and sadly a slave to her doctor husband.
I spy Grey getting out of the Bentley and wave him over. He is just back from his spring visit to the home farm, looking dapper albeit weary.
*********
Weekends in summer the courtyard fills up: families with babies and dogs; several of the regulars, who have aged and are now only seen in the warm weather. Jack, a villager who has lived here longer than I, uses a walker, having graduated from a cane. Decorating the optician's window, the large colorful butterflies remain, but the kites are gone and the flower baskets replaced with mini boxwood topiary.
I love the seasons of the temperate zones and enjoy the signs of change. I even miss the kitsch that Linda's Passion brought to the courtyard before the renovation: the trugs with artificial flowers and vegetables, bird nests, the pumpkins and corn shocks in autumn, the life sized Santa and Easter bunny. It was over the top in an ingenuous way. As I sit, a young girl outside Starbucks is ranting on the phone with her mother, and a Bichon-Shih Tzu mixed breed begins barking at his counterpart at the next table. Clouds roll in, and I retreat.
**********
The vagaries of spring weather continue, though the hot spells are now longer than the cold. Today the temperature is perfect, but the breeze coolish. As I approach the courtyard, I am singing a theme from "The Barber of Seville," which was playing on the radio. Another old woman eyes me suspiciously. From a distance I also notice how tall the courtyard trees have become, especially the one nearest the western wall.
A man is here who has become a regular. I call him the dog man, because he is known for patrolling the village with half a dozen rescues, hectoring passersby to adopt one. He sits with a couple with whom he is having a confidential conversation, from which I learn that he once was a school teacher. His bulldog Coco sits in his lap with her head resting on the table in perfect contentment. He must have a close friendship with the couple, since before I leave he has started to tell them that his wife, from whom apparently he is long separated, has, for no reason he can understand, filed for divorce. Ah, Mycroft! "This is the spot to study humankind." Yet errands await.
*********
The spring mornings are still cool; and when the schedule allows, I venture out for a walk. Though I have suffered the heavy pollen and the viruses for weeks, today I was brave. The old hawk nest in my neighbor's sycamore that I mentioned here several posts back does have new material added, but I did not see hawks. Another animal may have moved in, but I keep hoping the pair of raptors I do spot on occasion is responsible. Part of my path is overhung with trees; I call it the "leafy bower," and it is leafier than ever given the excessive rain. I feel cosseted there as in a refuge; but the trees are thin, and the way they lean, I worry that sooner or later they will fall into the road.
Now in the courtyard, I encounter a large black man with two large dogs, a black and a white. They have the Shepherd physique with Samoyed fur. Fortunately they are well behaved!
*********
A perfect spring day with blue sky and cottony clouds, temperatures warming but humidity low, and the courtyard is well populated. A young woman in fiery orange stares into her phone. Another woman in a short skinny dress passes through walking a frisky, frizzy Bichon. There is an old Indian woman behind me who has a heavy Hindu accent. Two cyclists arrive feeling the heat of their exertions. But our blessed courtyard trees are fully leafed out. I wonder at - and simultaneously pray for - their survival.
As I spent the morning having tea with a neighbor, exchanging views on exactly how the world will end - bang or whimper - it is afternoon. Many denizens are eating lunch still, and I have come for Starbucks chai tea soy latte. Bang or whimper, every frame of timeless, quantum reality holds a new Starbucks latte!
***********
For the last several years, since developing the low back problem, I have been persuaded by Grey to hire his house cleaning service. As I am a fairly tidy person, they only need to come once a month, and an efficient team of two Latino women has the whole house sparkling in short order. They come at an awkward time, however, so that if I must go to the village, it is afternoon. I now use these occasions to go to Starbucks for a chai tea soy latte.
Last month I got there, fortuitously, just before the after school crowd of noisy youngsters. The place was gaily decorated, with paper flowers and cotton clouds hanging from the ceiling and a garland of more paper flowers draped over the counter in front of the cash registers. I suspect this was the idea of an employee who is Indian, to celebrate the Hindu festival of Holi, a fete of spring color. We love our immigrants!
As I was about to leave, a young man was handing out samples of coconut milk with strawberry, which I politely declined. The latte is sweet enough.
*********
Summer style weather and the courtyard has come alive. As Mycroft proclaims to Holmes looking out the window from the Diogenes Club in the Affair of the Greek Interpreter, "To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot!" There is a circle of nine young girls from the nearby elite girls' school, counterpart to the elite boys' school. They are proudly recognizable in the short, plaid uniform skirts. At another table, two Iranian women sit talking, identified by their accent. One is well dressed, all in spring navy, setting off her pale grey hair. A man and woman sit eating, not talking, apparently long married. An old woman is led from the salon by her nursemaid to a chauffeured Mercedes. This is not the same woman who used to come every week, first with her husband, then a helper, now no more.
As the happy laughter of the schoolgirls fades into the parking lot, a woman comes with a Labrador puppy and ties his leash to the charging station. She goes into Starbucks, and the poor pup whines pitiably. Fortunately she is quick to return - to sweet puppy kisses!
***********
It appears that the florist Linda's Passion has been deemed unsuitable to the new cosmopolitan vibe here in the courtyard. Her mannequin Santa and the giant Easter bunny that roused memories of the tall rabbit haunting Jimmy Stewart in "Harvey," lost their appeal. Who even remembers that film or the play about that eponymous pooka? Well, I for one will miss the pumpkins and witches at Halloween; but Starbucks has stepped up and is holding an all-day Easter egg hunt this Sunday in the courtyard, and the optician's window has baskets of varicolored flowers with flying kites in a rainbow spectrum.
Aside from the fact that it is "hump day," the courtyard is unaccountably vacant. The sun is warm with a light, cool breeze. The courtyard trees are slowly leafing out, and the planters are filled with yellow and purple violas. Of course I must get on with errands, but before I leave others have come, including workmen with ladders and orange cones, after the chimney again.
*********
I am in Rockville this morning for a haircut, and of course Rockville means Panera for coffee first with my latest favorite, the cheese Brittany. When wi-fi corner is crowded my next choice of perch is by the door, where I can observe the sartorial predilections of the patrons as they enter. In the neighborhood, besides the Jewish community, there is a large representation of Chinese; and today a China doll comes in wearing a pink blouse over skinny black pants on even skinnier legs. Between the pants and her black stilettos a gap of very pale skin is shown. Everyone else being in the usual denim uniforms, China doll wins the prize for style.
Denim, though, I daresay, may be giving place to the famous "leggings," which I call spandex nudity. We have only for men to adopt this style and we will all look Shakespearean! And so, to the salon.
*********
It requires at least half an hour of a morning to determine how one should dress in order to be comfortable. The expected high temperature might be sixty-seven, but I will be home before that, and there will be winds. It is now below forty degrees, but sunny. Can I wear only a blazer with a cape over it, without catching my death of cold? How many layers must I be able to shed in order not to be too warm? Here in the temperate zones, it is called "spring." April to be more precise, a heyday for the flu vises to colonize the respiratory tract!
Yet once ensconced in the courtyard I am indeed comfortable, and doubtless will shed the cape, hat and gloves before I leave. The tables and chairs are dusted with yellow pollen, another seasonal pleasure, and the planters have been filled with violas in all colors. The growing season begins!
***********
Between torrential rain storms that continue to transform lawns into bog, we enjoy some pleasant spring weather. All manner of birds proclaim their territorial imperative in song while searching for nest sites. Some years back local hawks built a nest high in my neighbor's sycamore tree and raised two nestlings - probably it is recorded here, way down below the page break. I have since kept an eye on that tree, hoping they might return, and today on my morning walk it appeared that new nest material has been added on that old site. I will be even more vigilant, of course!
But on to the village and the courtyard, where workers put finishing touches to the remodel project. Some shops are getting their new doors, and at the Vie de France bakery retractable awnings, black and white striped, have been installed. The pharmacy, however, still has no sign, and according to Carmen, our property doyenne, they have perversely nixed the offer of a new portico. Well, break out the umbrellas - no refuge from the elements!
************
With March windchills feeling like ten degrees Fahrenheit, the village Starbucks is mobbed; the only seats left are two stools by the fancy brew station, that being the place where the coffee equipment appears to have been taken from a chemistry lab. It is noisy, of course, but one young woman sitting with three friends has a cackle that pierces the din - perfect for Halloween - and she makes two syllables of the word "coo-wool!"
There is barely room to take notes on my iPhone, let alone open the Moleskine, so I do not tarry. Outside I come upon an old white man of military bearing walking a German shepherd on a leash. The man stops and gives the command "heel," but the dog does not perform to his satisfaction. Thus with each command he yanks the chain until the poor animal is whining. In fear of the man more than the dog, I hasten away.
*********
Regular readers will know what I mean by a perfect day for the courtyard: early spring, cool air, warm sun, light winds. Yet it is very quiet, and so far I am the only one here, though shoppers pass through to the deli.
Adding to the mystery is the window of the optician's, which puzzles me as never before in all these years. It is hung with black and white Chinese lanterns, and the eyeglasses are displayed on black and white checkerboards. The only inference one night make of anything seasonal are black fans, unfurled and sparkling. Carnival, perhaps? But Fat Tuesday is past. We always called it Shrove Tuesday, the emphasis being on penitence rather than bawdiness, further evidence where none is needed that the gap between British and French is much wider than the Channel. And speaking of Brits, here comes the Bentley - I will have company!
*********
Despite the wind, the sun makes a rare appearance, and in the lee of the optician's, it is safe to sit in the courtyard. Not many others are here, however. Two hispanic women converse over coffee, keeping an eye on a very cute little girl - a toddler - wearing a fleecy coat with pink and blue hearts all over it. The women, obviously, are mother and grandmother. The mother is in a sweatshirt, the front of which reads, "You, Me, Oui." Multilingual! A scruffy looking man passes through the courtyard, walking a furry white and tan Pomeranian as cute as the toddler. The dog is wearing a coat, he is not.
At this time of year, with spring coming but not quite here, people do dress variously. The modern weather forecasts, with their "feels like" temperatures, are not reliable. They need to factor in the angle of the sun, which on a sunny day can make 45 degrees quite comfortable. As it is, I never leave my muffler behind, and of course Grey looks for any opportunity to wear his Borsalino - here he comes now!
*************
Errands having backed up during snow storms, I am in Rockville at Panera for mid-morning coffee and my new favorite pastry, their cheese Brittany. A peculiarity of this Panera, being near the Jewish Community Center, is a conclave of the rabbis, as I call them. Not understanding Hebrew, I am unable to eavesdrop, through a young woman who joins them, doubtless the daughter of one, deftly combines Hebrew with English.
Closer to my table, two talkative women are discussing summer camps for special needs children. One of them has an autistic son. As they leave, she tells her friend that she is
"doing scooter." She describes this primitive vehicle in detail as a novelty that she has just lately discovered! I've lived too long, to quote my late cousin Lucille, who died just short of age 80. And so, on to the shops!
********
Unusually, I am in the village in the afternoon in anticipation of a snow storm that is to begin tonight and continue all day tomorrow. I hastened through errands and have planted myself in Starbucks to rest and enjoy a classic chai tea latte. It is a sunny day with a chill wind, and people passing through the courtyard are variously dressed, some in puffy coats, others none. Amazed at the coatless ones in winter, I wonder if it is vanity or penury.
Carmen, the property manager, is outside talking with John, foreman of the renewal project. Workmen have in fact returned to work on the facade of the pharmacy, which formerly had a long portico where one might stand out of the rain. We wait to see what will replace it. The latte is overly sweet but reviving, and thus fortified, groceries in the car, prepared to weather the storm, I head home.
************
It feels like an early spring rain, the air itself shocking one to attention as it smacks the face, yet spring is still six weeks away. Adding to the thirty plus inches above average last year, this continued wet pattern is conjuring fears of "water world." All is mud and then frozen mud, then mud over frozen mud, like the tundra, or what I call "winter lasagna." The courtyard will be a wasteland until summer, I fear, with Starbucks having the only indoor seating. But then the bakery should have added seating long ago when they took extra space.
Meanwhile, another refuge is the Bakery, the Corner that is. This morning I am treated to an intense conversation at the table in front of me between an Asian woman and a large man in baggy old clothes, who is unusually testy. They are discussing improvements to a "mansion" that apparently factors into a divorce settlement. She is advising him how best to make these improvements before his children move in, and she stay on point, ignoring his personal, even political, side remarks. When he snaps at her, she threatens to quit. I feel fortunate when they leave before violence breaks out!
***********
With Candlemas approaching last week - we call it Groundhog Day - and wind chills below zero, I took refuge in the village Starbucks, adjacent the courtyard. Their coffee is reasonably palatable, modified with hazelnut syrup and soy milk. The optician's window opposite had large and small paper snowflakes hanging, and I was relieved that they were not rushing Valentine's Day.
Candlemas is the day when at this latitude we regain ten hours of daylight, and the plants begin to respond. I leave my window candles up from Christmas until this day, adding their bit of light to the darkest season, though in fact I like the long, peaceful nights, unlike most. As for the local groundhog, he doubtless saw his shadow on the sunny morning of 2 February and scurried back into his nest under the shed. Thus despite a brief warm spell this week, the month is likely to bring more cold and snow, typically.
Meanwhile in the optician's window, snowflakes have been replaced with old-fashioned heart-shaped boxes and shiny red plastic hearts hanging from red ribbons. Can spring be far behind? And just pulling in, the Bentley is spotted!
*********
Over the years, winter in the courtyard is increasingly uncomfortable. The weather is more extreme, I tell myself, due to global climate change; but of course, I could be more sensitive due to age. In any case, I find myself taking refuge more often in those cafes where I can sit inside with my Moleskine and good hazelnut coffee.
Panera is an especially fruitful place for observing a diverse humanity. This morning in the sunny window sits a blonde Russian woman in a white sweater, red nail polish, and a long white neck scarf, discussing a legal matter with an old man, who is bald except for a narrow white fringe. Behind me is a man with wild hair whom I have seen several times recently. He has a Brooklyn accent and talks on his phone about his business. Apparently he also eavesdrops, because today as he leaves, he hurls some caustic comments - in Hebrew - at the table of rabbis, much to their bewilderment. Come to think of it, he might easily be cast as an Old Testament prophet!
Our beautiful new brick paving here in the courtyard is standing the test of winter. Quite a deep snow fell days ago, but it has been removed, and Jacinto has taken the precaution of spreading ice melt. Nevertheless, I am solo this morning, and while there is no wind, there also is no sun. The summer's weather pattern of constant rain continues under winter conditions, so none of the bright, dry January days, at least not yet.
People passing through glance at me warily as if they are thinking I am either crazy or risking frostbite. But I will not stay long, having several village errands. Sparrows in this cold must be huddled in their roosts, but the crow family stands watch. They are shy, yet one swoops down bravely for a piece of apple muffin. Grey approaches from the bakery with his coffee, and yes, in his Borsalino. He will be in a tizzy over the state of his homeland.
**********
On a super cold January morning I am taking refuge at the Bakery, where tables are full and a hubbub of chatter goes up from other refugees. In front of me a young woman sits talking with her grandfather. They are Indian, and she has a typical Indian accent, replete with Britishisms. She tells him about a dietary allergy and its gastric symptoms. Given the numbers of Indian doctors now filling medical practices, I often bless the British Empire for teaching them English! Behind me two business men are consulting, and one with a piercing voice expresses amazement about a colleague being ninety years old.
Service here at the Bakery depends on your order number, which you are given on a cardboard at the cash register. Your food then finds you at your chosen table. As I go to leave, a passing server asks, "Are you number one?" I regret not having a snappy rejoinder.
*************
On Rockville errands, I always stop at Panera first. There is the hazelnut coffee, which seems to run out as soon as I walk in, though there is sure to be a fresh pot waiting. Now there is a new pastry they are calling a "cheese Brittany." It is small and especially luscious warmed briefly in the microwave.
Here in wi-fi corner by the sunny southern window sits a woman assembling jewelry. Her sweater has a South American pattern in russet colors with figures of llamas, causing me to surmise that it may be alpaca wool. Next to her are two young women, one in tight jeans and high boots, a red sweater and a large diamond on her left hand. She is the major contributor to a lively conversation - schools, day care, a trip to Israel. They are still gabbing as I leave - it's the caffeine!
*********
Sun would have been welcome in the courtyard this winter morning, but no, there is heavy overcast. At least the winds are calm. I am the only one here though, sitting as always by the window of the optician, still decorated for Christmas. Well, the twelve days are not up for another four. Jacinto stands talking with two Anglos. They are standing so long, in fact that I must infer they are waiting for someone - Carmen perhaps, or foreman John? I did not think Jacinto's English was that good. Finally they shake hands and walk off.
The absence of sparrows is an indication of how cold it is, but I leave some crumb of my apple walnut muffin nevertheless. The temperature hovers at 43 degrees Fahrenheit - it has for so long as to seem ominous, some augury about the number, 4-3... then? Grey returns from the old country soon, and I will rejoice to see the Bentley pull into the parking lot. If the weather holds, he will be in his Borsalino.
*********
The hoar frost was so heavy this morning it appeared on the lawns like a light snow. Here in the courtyard it even coats those tables that have yet to be graced by the rising sun. My table by the optician's wall is among the exceptions. Of course I have scarce company here, save for two young girls who are giggling profusely over their respective experiences of drunken oblivion. Such fearless children!
Winds are calm, so I am able to sit awhile in the quiet of Boxing Day. I learn from Grey that this occasion brings a variety of activities in Britain, from shopping marathons to rugby matches. It is also the feast of St. Stephen, so he and I regard it as the day good King Wenceslas looked out. Exactly as it did last night, the moon shone brightly and "the frost was cruel," when a poor man came in sight "gathering winter fuel." Then ancient legend has it that the good king set out through the bitter weather to help the poor fellow - a pleasant reflection as I set out with extra gratuities for my several village helpers.
*********
The biblical rains continue, every weekend, but between times I can repair to the courtyard in the shelter of the optician's wall. His seasonal window dressing has mammoth Christmas ornaments hanging from beaded ropes with wire Santas and snowmen interspersed. Somehow there remains room to exhibit eyeglasses. While the sun is warm, a brisk northwest wind is producing a 38 degree windchill. I am always amazed to note how many people, irrespective of temperature, are coatless. Do they not own one? Are they of Nordic ancestry? Others are bundled up like myself. Grey has persuaded me that since cold symptoms often begin in the throat, it behooves to protect the neck; and so like him, I now have a good number of woolen mufflers.
Few people are here today, but one young woman passes through wearing tight jeans, a black purse swinging on her arm, and blazoned on the back of her camo jacket the word "Whatever." Nevertheless, she drives off in a black SUV, a Lexus.
**********
There was quite a hoary frost on the lawns as I set out this morning, so I am huddled here with my hazelnut coffee at the Bakery. It is not busy, though I suspect the shops are. Flummoxed by the holidays, I too have shipping to do. I enjoy the Christmas and Hanukah lights, alleviating the darkest season, but the custom of exchanging gifts surely is de trop, alas, yet mandatory it seems.
Grey reports from the old country with his new smart phone, pictures and all. It is sunny and cold there. The hay is all in for the livestock, so without those banal worries, he frets over the future of the British economy, blaming those arrogant Belgians for making trouble just as they did in 1914. Sensible leaders could work things out and avoid all this drama! As I head for the shops, I leave the jowly, white-haired man to his Apple macBook and his phone call, something about marketing a product that he fails to name in quite a long conversation.
**********
The wind whips the banner over the courtyard, and without sun there is a decided windchill. I will not stay long as my fingers are getting too cold to write. The banner serves to announce "we are open during construction," since work has indeed resumed. A spiffy new sign has gone up over the tavern, and this morning two workmen are busy hanging a new sign, larger than the old one, over the Italian restaurant. The paving work, which I thought would wait until spring, is proceeding at the farther end of the center, with Mr. John as overseer as before, wrapped in a puffy coat but no hat.
There are two menorahs here, tall displays, and I am caused to reflect on the dissonance of the colors blue and white with the red and green of Christmas. Together with the newly painted shops in various wild shades, the courtyard is a visual cacophony! I must remember to snap a photo for Grey.
*******
Another cold, blustery morning in the courtyard, but I am chased from the sunny wall by a crew with a ladder hanging the large Christmas wreaths. A menorah awaits placement on the side. At the next table, a diverse group of four men engage in a lively conversation. Two are Middle Eastern and bearded, one is Asian holding a dog wrapped in a coat, and the fourth is Anglo. With a voice that projects, the latter appears to be the leader, and is giving advice on a variety of topics, from sports to travel. A woman with two young energetic boys passes through, or rather runs through calling after her sons to stop. They are not listening; they will have to learn everything the hard way.
With the holidays closing on our heels, Grey will be off to the old country soon, to see his nephew, check on the home farm, and have Christmas at a historic inn in Matlock with an old friend, as has become their custom. I must caution him to avoid politics; all the talk there is about the silliness of Brexit and the plight of Theresa May.
**********
With Thanksgiving Day this week, the bistros and delis are bustling, customers already picking up pastries and side dishes and ordering the main course. I have resort, meanwhile, to the old saw, "I don't make dinner, I make reservations." If pressed I suppose I could still take the catered route.
The day is blustery but sunny, and I am the only person sheltering in the courtyard until seven tourists arrive and take a table in the sun with their coffee from the French bakery. I surmise they are tourists as they speak a Nordic language I do not recognize, and eye me hesitantly. One man wears a cap with "Johns Hopkins" on it - visiting scientists perhaps? Come to think of it, given the shy glances they might be Finnish, the Finns being famously shy.
I am missing Linda's harvest decor and the mannequin Santa that followed. She was getting old; things change. I must ask Grey about timelessness again. He rounds the corner from the bakery, clutching his fedora.
********
Denizens in the courtyard this morning enjoy the Indian summer sun even as a chill wind flaps the large banner overhead - the one that reads "Open during construction." It appears, however, that the paving work at least may have stopped until spring. New black lampposts with down lights have a retro look, and a solar charging station has been added for our indispensable devices. This is called a "Street Charger," and of course it assures ones connection to the social nervous system.
A woman working on her laptop has an old golden lab dozing peacefully at her feet, when a young boy passing through with his mother asks to pet the dog. This youngster was raised right! Of course he receives permission and the old pooch is delighted with the attention. Dog stories are exchanged, and I learn that this one, now rolling on her back to have her tummy scratched, is "Haley" age eleven.
Here comes Grey crossing the parking lot. His faith has been renewed in the electorate after voters were compelled to restore the balance Congress was intent on eradicating.
*********
It is Election Day here, and the copious rains that have plagued us for six months continue. I voted early this year, but not everyone did, so weather will have an impact on this unduly consequential vote, with the world watching. The governorships are particularly significant since states will redraw congressional districts after the 2020 census. This is exactly how a rightwing minority of Americans has taken hold of all power, and this election will signal whether or not it is too late for the rest of us.
Meanwhile, I have of course taken refuge at the Bakery. A young man was eyeing my favorite table as I approached it, but he graciously acceded, giving me hope for the future. Among the young, there may be a quieter, less strident cohort than their pugnacious elders. Beyond the window, the trees in their abbreviated season of color create a scene of autumnal solemnity. I wonder if Grey will repost that Frost poem?
***********
I have reached the courtyard on a windy fall morning a bit later than usual and unexpectedly after something of a misadventure. There was supposed to have been a meeting of a neighborhood ladies' group, which I once belonged to and whose meetings I still attend occasionally. I received an email that a new member was hosting, so I wanted to be supportive. She is scarcely a neighbor, living much closer to the city in a quite old established section. In preparation, I consulted Maps and Google and Waze, concerned that I would need to leave in morning rush hour and might be caught in a traffic jam.
Thanks to my research this did not happen, but when I pulled up in front of the house the street was oddly quiet, no other cars arriving or parked. I climbed the stairs to the elegant Tudor style residence, quite certain of the address, and rang the bell. After some while, the young owner responded - in her bathrobe. Had I not heard the meeting was cancelled due to lack of attendees? Well, no. I apologized and she apologized, and thus I found myself in the courtyard as usual - with doubtless a much better cup of coffee and a tale to tell!
***********
The construction project is occluding the courtyard, while it appears some buried lines or pipes are being laid. Yet a banner has been hung above us - from Starbucks to the optician's roof - proclaiming, "Yes, we are open during construction!" It is flapping loudly in a stiff north wind this morning, though I am reassured to note perforations that keep it from falling. Mr. John, the foreman, is meticulous as to safety, and this job is a big challenge.
I am the only one sitting, sheltered in the sun by the wall of the optician's shop; some others are coming and going to the market. It must be too windy for the sparrows, but two yellow jackets are especially determined to taste my apple croissant. I am at pains to wave them off with a napkin long enough to finish it. Catching me by surprise, here is Grey coming around the plywood barrier with his coffee and pastry. He has begun a new essay on aging, a topic upon which we are both experts!
*************
Autumn is finally asserting itself with a cold wind this morning. On my walk it blew a flock of migrating birds out of a treetop to pepper the sky in their flight. Above the courtyard the sky is a melange of dark gray clouds breaking up next to clear blue and the sun coming out beneath. A white haired man in Nike shorts limps in with two old yellow labs. Very sad eyes - the dogs' not the man's. Our tradition of Halloween decor is missing this year, presumably due to the construction, but the optician's window has flying witches and grinning jack-o-lanterns, framed by the new blue exterior paint. Next to the brown Starbucks, Chipotle has chosen an appropriately hot red. Begonias in the planters have already been switched out for the hardier violas.
The yellow jackets are bad this season, vying with the sparrows to share my croissant. Ah, Grey's Bentley enters the parking lot! He struggles with the essays, but has posted several on the blog. He approaches clutching his Borsalino.
**********
Construction continues at an urgent pace in the village, replacing the sidewalks before the snow flies. There is the fall festival in just two weeks, so perhaps that is the deadline. Some interesting paint colors have appeared on the courtyard shops: a swath of magenta on the gray of the restaurant, the door of which is now chartreuse. Starbucks is looking very Old World in its brown.
I detect some discussion of the SCOTUS debacle; one well-dressed woman seems especially agitated as she reads the newspaper to her husband. However at another table two ladies of the Christ Child Society are having a planning session. They are interrupted by an older woman in a buttery yellow hoodie, who stops to tell them a joke; they laugh politely. While it is a sunny morning, a strange man spooning vanilla ice cream from a gallon carton, is wearing a slicker and rain ht. Mercifully, we don't lock them up anymore. And so, onward!
***********
The autumnal equinox just past, the rising sun blazes at the end of Hunters Lane once again, bedazzling the dewy lawns on either side, as I take my morning walk. High above I catch sight of the waning gibbous moon, appearing a mere fingernail on the pale blue backdrop. Then to the courtyard where heavy construction goes on remaking the sidewalks. Shops opening onto the courtyard are getting new paint, each a different color: grey for the restaurant, cobalt for the optician, forest green the salon, and Starbucks will be brown. The optician will be challenged in coordinating his window dressing!
There is a family here this morning with babies, a dog, and Grandpa in a cowboy hat. It
is Mom's birthday, they announce as they ask an obliging hair dresser passing by to snap their group pictures. But I'm off to errands, if I can safely skirt the dump truck and the cement mixer.
***********
I am at Panera this morning while apocalyptic rains continue. The begonias outside that were fodder for a rabbit in the spring are surviving, accompanied by a yellow blooming weed. With the red begonias, the colors are lovely and appear intentional. Two British women in conversation share a head twitch - no more refills on their coffee! Another pair of young women are speaking German, but the only word I recognize is a place - Weisbaden. They might be discussing the baths or local politics, though their mellow tone weighs against the latter.
No one is talking about the weather; it is simply dismal, with a twenty inch surplus of rain for the year. Ponds are full, rivers overflowing; but good for the plants? They also need sun. My fall lettuce, planted early in the month, is struggling. Even people who live on high ground have begun to wonder when the flood plain maps were last revised. Ah, well, off I go for a haircut, with the ubiquitous umbrella.
**********
In spite of construction noise this morning, a goodly group is here in the courtyard enjoying sunny pre-autumn weather - at last a respite from the unusual summer of perpetual rain! Yellow jackets are here too in seasonal fashion, alarming three young girls, who quickly leave. Few people realize that foraging bees rarely sting and may be safely waved off with a handy napkin.
The repaving of the sidewalks is underway, replacing the concrete with spiffy pavers. "Mr. John" the foreman is doing a bang-up job of keeping things moving. Indeed as I go to leave I witness an encounter which could only occur in our humble village. A man in a BMW stops a man in the street to ask, "Is that your old Mercedes?" And to the affirmative response, "Is it for sale by any chance?" Well, no, but "it's beautiful."
Grey is back from Bar Harbor, his favorite place in the States, and surely there will be a new poem - the loons on Jordan Pond, orb weavers on the rugosa?
**********
The sky is blue over the courtyard this morning, yet few people are here. There is a heat advisory and air quality alarums. Two men behind me are talking finance. Without turning to look, I surmise they are well dressed when I hear the term "private equity." As the sparrows enjoy crumbs of my apple walnut muffin, a swarm of cyclists wheel in. One of these - something of a stud - has a skull tattoo on his arm and wears a shirt with the word "coconut" on it - a peculiar inscription to be sure. Then as I reflect upon the many vagaries of my fellow man, a very old white woman passes through on the arm of a very large black man. She has chosen the perfect escort.
Grey is off to his annual sojourn in coastal Maine, doubtless returning with tales of those crusty Colonials, as he likes to say, and perhaps a new poem.
************
This morning it is massage therapy that finds me in the vicinity of Panera, where of course I must stop for hazelnut coffee and a pastry. The fellow patrons also never fail to be delicious fodder for eavesdropping. A woman with long black hair, dressed in white, is trying to impress an old balding man in a suit. She seems to be a business consultant of some sort, heavy on the psychology - recruiter, head hunter? His reaction is restrained, so no doubt her fee will be determinative. He begs off, citing a luncheon engagement, and they adjourn. Further from earshot sit two women, one of whom is highly animated and talks very fast, as though she has had too much coffee already. She has recently moved to a rural area across the river, where her husband uncharacteristically now tinkers with a tractor. Yet another woman is truly a rara avis; she is black, with dreadlocks and dangling earrings, speaking on her phone - in Hebrew!
Back to a hot courtyard tomorrow.
*************
There is a cool breeze in the courtyard this morning, rare for August. A young girl has her white jersey jacket zipped up. She is in a lively conversation with a grey-haired old man, doubtless her grandfather, and seems an intelligent child. A small boy with his father is in a karate outfit; the back of the shirt reads, "Never give up." Presently I see Carmen again, better dressed than the last time I saw her (two posts back). She is joined by a contingent of men carrying rolled up blueprints, brief cases, laptops, and they take over a large table outside of the Tavern. Among them is the white bearded foreman, whom Carmen calls Mr. John. The agenda of this meeting is obvious to me, though I must say the prospect of major construction taking over this peaceful spot for an indefinite period is not agreeable.
Grey is coming shortly to report on his recent contact with Berkswell, England. He received a digital copy of the parish magazine yesterday which included his article on the Brett biography. He is relieved, having begun to feel ghosted.
**************
This morning as I join the other courtyard denizens who fill the shady eastern side, I reflect how comfortable the sunny western wall is in the cold months. A young man dressed in black, with black hair and stubble of beard, sits eyeing a blonde woman working on her laptop. She turns out to be the person he is meeting, apparently for the first time. They discuss some service she is involved with, perhaps real estate. His accent suggests Iranian. The sparrows are enjoying my croissant crumbs, some juveniles still flapping their wing to be fed. A toddler, testing his very young legs under his mother's patient eye, chases after them. How rare the child who can watch without doing so! But he isn't the only one after the sparrows. A crow, wary of taking a crumb from the pavement, pursues a sparrow all the way to the parking lot in attempted thievery, succeeding when the poor sparrow drops his prize.
As I leave, a woman in stiletto heels hobbles through. She is redheaded and wears a pale purple dress, causing me to wish that people with "red" hair would realize that their hair is not truly red but orange.
**********
The courtyard is well populated for a cloudy day, but then sunshine has been rare this summer. Being a weekday I am surprised when a horde of cyclists descends on the place. I soon notice they are all gray-headed gents, defiant of age and resisting their status as "over the hill." Carmen is here, our property manager, who now recognizes me. She is casually dressed, unlike in former times when she was always in heels and stylish. I surmise over work, when she reveals that she now manages thirteen properties for the firm Zuckerman Gravely. Naturally, I quiz her for information regarding the ongoing improvements. The courtyard itself, she says, will be repaved; but she assures me the trees will be preserved.
Carmen moves on as do I, and as I leave the parking lot the old cyclists come streaming out, at least two on recumbent bikes - a slow parade.
**********
At Panera on a cool day the air conditioning works too well, but with rain clouds threatening no one is sitting outside. Everyone works on a laptop, old gents in suits, young men in shorts or jeans and flip-flops. An Asian boy is tutoring a younger girl, who I discern is trying to write something concerning race relations, though she seems a bit young for the subject matter. They turn out to be siblings and children of the woman at the next table, wrangling a toddler. As she leaves, she collects her brood and folds up their laptop.
The summer has been very strange - cool and rainy to the point of saturation and flooding. Grey's Panama has scarcely been out of the closet apart from the first half of July. He has concluded that before long the western half of the continental U.S. will become desert, due to perpetual wildfires, and the eastern half rain forest. Well, at least we will be able to grow bananas - and our own palmata.
**************
In spite of recent rains, I am in the courtyard, armed with napkins to mop off a chair and part of a table. This rainy pattern is phenomenal in its persistence. I call it "spigot weather," as though someone in heaven has a hold of the rain tap randomly turning it on and off - very unusual for late July, positively apocalyptic! As we morph into a rain forest, the optician has fittingly dressed his window with green parrots perched on gold stanchions amid fern fronds, and hung between parrot pairs, a tapestry of jungle animals.
With some strategic eavesdropping I glean that the remodel of this corner of the village, which began with work on the brick chimneys, is to include replacement of the concrete sidewalks with pavers. This bodes considerable disruption for a long time, but as I wrote before, so long as they spare the courtyard trees, it is still my "third place." Too soon that hand on the spigot turns "lefty loosey" and my over-used umbrella is unfurled again. Off to the errands!
*************
In summer, I try to pick the coolest morning of the week for my walk and then to go early. While my route does not pass Stewart's meadow, the noise of backhoes and bulldozers is to be heard later throughout the neighborhood. For a history of the parcel you may go to the Past Post Archive and scroll to the very bottom. The land is now divided into three lots and one has been sold along with a custom home to be built. So the scrub trees which, after many years were on their way to becoming a forest, must go. None have been spared, alas.
Later I am off to Panera where I sit inside out of the heat. Two older women are talking about elder residences. The one who does most of the talking is in white pants with a bag that matches her shirt. She remarks that living in such a senior residence would be like being on a cruise ship - always seeing the same people and isolated from the world at large. Meanwhile, outside the window I note the begonias are growing nicely. Did they catch the rabbit?
************
It is a rare June day in July when in the courtyard both sun and shade are comfortable, and with a cool breeze it is positively halcyon. A heron passes high above on its way to the riverbanks and identified by the long legs trailing behind. Unfortunately, despoiling this peace, the Jug Lift is back with a crew working with a buzzsaw on the optician's wall. The project seems to be focused on the facades of the shops and the roofs. The foreman is a gray bearded gent in a white North Face cap, who seems always too preoccupied to interrogate. Nevertheless, people sit gabbing.
A tan young woman wearing a heavy pendant necklace talks very fast to her companion, an old, heavy woman with wild, dry, white hair. The younger one says she has "tons of money," yet she and her husband are turning their house into a B&B. Alas, further details are drowned out by the buzzsaw.
********
On errands, I have stopped at Panera for their hazelnut coffee, and I sit inside out of the hideous heat. In fact not many people are braving the outside tables. While it is rather late in the season, the flower beds, which I can see from where I sit, have been newly planted with begonia seedlings. Weeks ago when I was here I was amazed to see a rabbit hopping fearlessly aid the original planting munching away. Passing in the parking lot is a truck as long as one and a half railway boxcar; splashed across the side is "Skinny Cow." That must be a lot of skim milk!
The heat index is much in the news lately. As I leave I notice a car with two kayaks on top - one way to beat it, though torrential storms have made the river dangerous. I try to top off my coffee, but the hazelnut is out - it is always the first to go.
*************
It is beneficent here in the courtyard this morning, where an old golden lab sprawls under one of the trees at her mistress's feet. A young girl asks permission to pet her, and of course dog and mistress oblige. Workers are atop the other chimney - the one opposite where they worked last week - and the area beneath them is roped off. There is one bicycle in the rack, which turns out to be the chosen mode of transportation of an old woman sporting a flowery quilted backpack. She is duly equipped with helmet as she pedals off.
It is election day here, and as we are a solidly blue tribe in this jurisdiction the primary is decisive in nearly every race. Grey and I often discuss the acceleration of tribalism, which is much more than politics. The available tables are filling up as the workmen are lowered down in the "jug lift." I am inclined to linger, knowing that soon the heat will become oppressive.
***********
A few regulars sit in the courtyard this morning, old gents who enjoy meeting here and gabbing. They are joined by an unknown black man in a suit - and kid him about being better dressed. Next to them is a couple, the white haired man in a red cap staring at a crossword puzzle and his wife staring into space. They speak not a word, causing me to wonder why some men seem fatally yoked to their spouses as though conjoined. School is out, so there is a table of young people, four scantily clad girls and one lucky boy, who doubtless, given the culture, fails to appreciate his circumstance.
With that thought, I begin to suspect I am spending too much time with Grey, who recently completed an essay on the ubiquity of misogyny. Meanwhile, workers are up on the chimney as the mystery project goes on, and I hope for the best.
***********
It is a morning when one may choose the amount of sun to have in the courtyard - full sun, full shade or dappled - in other words, delightful. Any change to the courtyard, being my preferred third place, is a threat. I am not partial to Starbucks. So I worry about construction going on nearby. It started weeks ago with a crew pointing up the mortar on the opposing brick chimneys. Now they have demolished the facades of two shops. Well and good, but worrisome is that the Zuckerman-Gravely management sign is gone, and Linda's summer decor has been removed. I must enquire of Jacinto; he still has the job at least. As long as they leave the courtyard trees, I remain loyal.
The sparrows are also loving the day and the croissant I share with them. If Grey shows up, I expect he will be in his Panama. Aha, sure enough!
***********
The leafy bower I traverse on my morning walk is leafier than ever after a rainy spring, and the grass is tall on some lawns where neighbors have been unable to mow. With serendipity, I am in the right spot when the waning gibbous moon peeks through the clouds and through the trees. I then pass a hawk hunting his breakfast from a fence post.
Later in the courtyard, the sun is welcome, as a westerly breeze becomes a stiff wind. An Asian man appears to be selling something to two young women dressed in sleek black and stiletto heels - is it a modeling job? A black woman has food from Chipotle; her hair is in dyed dreadlocks, giving her a Medusa look. Next to her is a bald man with a full beard. Sparrows are enjoying croissant crumbs, but no fledglings yet.
When I see the Bentley pull into the lot, Grey is here. We are very pleased with the positive reception the Brett biography has received. Ah, here he is - no Panama yet.
***********
It continues cloudy, so one may sit anywhere in the courtyard assured that the sun will not break through. We go days without seeing it. Two women are here with dogs: a yellow lab and a black one. When the younger woman goes into Starbucks, the yellow lab starts whining in a frenzy of separation anxiety - he must be hers. She returns quickly. A third woman passing through recognizes them and stops to talk - neighbors no doubt. I learn that the young owner of the yellow lab is an aide at Our Lady of Mercy Catholic school, and indeed all three are parishioners, causing me to reflect on how the village has changed. It was once, decades ago, an Episcopalian stronghold, and Republican, moderate Republican before the species became extinct.
After the women leave, a work crew comes, led by an architect with blueprints under his arm. They survey the opposing brick chimneys, upon which some weeks ago the mortar was pointed up. From their discussion I gather a project is afoot - a mystery!
***********
Rains on a biblical scale have been falling day after day, but I am here in the courtyard between downpours. The monotonous weather occasions some peculiar sights. One woman opens a fanciful umbrella with the sun at the top and clouds around the edge. An old woman has no umbrella but a very large, floppy straw hat, big enough to catch the rain. As she meanders, pushing her walker, she is a colorful creature - an aqua shawl, white pants, and red shoes.
No sooner had the frozen violas in the village planters been replaced than it was time to switch them out in favor of begonias, red and white. I notice these are very popular for public spaces, though they are surely the least showy of summer options. They are low maintenance. When this rain stops, after all, we will revert to drought, but for now Grey must think he is still in London!
*********
Spring comes to the courtyard and dappled shade is welcome. The sparrows, doubtless with nestlings to feed, are eager to share my cranberry muffin. The optician's window is bedecked with those large, iridescent moths and bird houses. There is much babbling from several tables. Two women, dripping bling, break into ribald laughter. I am hearing Chinese, German, Russian - the polyglot nature of the village is in evidence. One Chinese woman talks so loudly her voice drowns out the Westminster chime from St. Francis Episcopal just across the road.
Linda's Passion arrives with decor for the summer, but Linda's husband is by himself, which is worrisome. He garlands the trees with ribbon and puts up garden signs: "Let Love Grow" and "Free Weeds." Ah, here comes Grey - no Panama yet, too much rain.
**********
A lovely spring day for a change, yet I am at Panera consequent to a nearby appointment. The Israelis are sitting outside, and as I don't understand Hebrew, I have come in for better eavesdropping. Bingo! Three young women are in a deep discussion of health insurance: They are talking prices, policies, legislation - obviously professionals but not with the industry. Despite their apparent intelligence, I find myself wishing they knew how to show it. A dress trumps jeans, but a mini and no leg coverings on an overweight girl is just indecorous. Presumably they demand to be taken seriously anyway, but I struggle to understand the aversion to leg coverings.
The women adjourn and I am able to hear two men in conversation. One is bald, wearing a dark gray suit - in contrast to the women - and giving career advice to the other. He keeps repeating "worst case scenario" and asks whether a small office can be supported. Medical perhaps? As it becomes too noisy to hear, I prepare to leave. Back to the courtyard tomorrow.
*********
Today is really a transition day in the courtyard, fittingly since it is 1 May and trending warm at last. A woman is pulling off a navy blue top, which she wears shamelessly with black yoga pants. One does not wear navy and black, except perhaps when moved by the unseemly congruence of winter with spring. But then neither do yoga pants seem appropriate outerwear. Men are here at two tables talking business, and another on a laptop. An old couple passes through, stopping at the curb to recall where they parked the car. The ensuing discussion reveals a less than satisfactory emulsion of forbearance and irritation, leading me to surmise that they have been married a very long time.
Evidence of the dogged cold for the past two months were the frozen violas, a flower that favors cold, in the planters. As I leave I notice gratefully that management has replaced them.
***********
I call it "moon weather." In the sun, out of the wind, one delights in the cool air of spring; round the corner of a building, in its shade and smacked by the north wind, one may as well be on the moon without a space suit. But this morning I have my favorite courtyard table, sheltered by the optician's wall and warmed by the sun. It is a quiet weekday, and some workmen have ladders up pruning the courtyard trees. A man in a navy blue suit comes through, white earbuds hanging from a jacket pocket. Another man, employed at the salon, approaches struggling to carry an appliance, which may be a small fridge. As he rests it on a knee, two women rush out from the salon to help. Once they have a hold of the thing, the man leaves, to the chagrin of his coworkers.
Jacinto is supervising the tree work, and as I leave I tell him to take good care of our courtyard trees - the place would not be the same without them. He nods in agreement and wishes me a good day.
**************
The Bakery is buzzing this morning, perhaps due to our first taste of spring weather since February. The young manager, whose name is Elvis, is nearly as good as my Tunisian friend who transferred to a downtown cafe. Behind me are two gentlemen talking business. One is Indian, the other is a fast talker selling the proposition that quality and talent have little to do with fame and fortune. He uses the example of a deceased graffiti artist in New York whose paintings now command millions. Why? Because someone can pay that. In another corner sits a young woman, with an older one who could be her mother. Th young one is also a talker and cannot finish a sentence without using a swear word. Her companion gives her parenting advice - in a soft voice.
Back to the courtyard tomorrow to meet Grey. I must encourage him to put more essays up on the blog.
************
We had our winter in March and now April, with spring weather in January and February, causing us to entertain the possibility that our groundhog is no longer afraid of his shadow. It is cold again in the courtyard, but the sun is the saving grace. Easter decor is gone, and a few villagers come and go. When I greet one woman passing with her young daughter, she enquires if I have heard the rumor that the First Lady hangs out here, to which I assure her it must be an urban legend - then amending that to a "suburban legend." Well, some of the young yoga enthusiasts we see here could be mistaken for Melania, and we do have the accents! A horse-faced woman strides through - tall, long hair. She soon returns with her son - same face, same stride. I surmise he is her second child, having observed that the first tends always to resemble the father.
Alas, it is clouding up, and forty-five degrees can feel very different without the sun. Onward then -
**************
The weather report in the paper always includes almanac information: tides, sunrise and set, likewise for the moon, plus its phases. Still I am reminded that the timing of these celestial occurrences are more local; the Earth, after all, does not jerk along from one time zone to the next. Indeed, before people could travel so far so fast, one needed to set his watch from on town to the other. But I have my own somewhat fanciful parameters. The vernal equinox fell officially on March 20, with sunrise and sunset being exactly twelve hours apart. Hereabouts that correspondence takes place before the twentieth, while for me I acknowledge the equinox when, on my morning walk, the sun is rising just at the end of Hunter's Lane.
Easter is Sunday next, and here in the courtyard many a passerby stops to take a picture of her child seated next to the big bunny. Well, Sunday is also April Fool's Day!
***********
Back in the courtyard at last following a four inch snowfall yesterday. The hazelnut coffee is especially welcome. I don't know if Jacinto gets credit for it, but there is no snow here. The tables and chairs are only wet, and even in the parking lot there are no snow piles such as plows or blowers would have left. The weathermen yesterday were making much of the higher angle of the March sun, but it is just three hours since the sun rose. All that snow melted? Amazing! It is still sliding off the gabled roofs, but fortunately I am not under one.
The trees were glistening this morning on my walk and the landscape clean and white under snow - an increasingly rare pleasure . Grey harrumphed at my suggestion that he would fret over the foxes. An Englishman? Not bloody likely! But he was glad I got the article off the Berkswell parish about the biography of native son, Jeremy Brett.
***********
The first and likely only significant snowfall of the year awaited the arrival of spring, and I am in the unique position of being housebound. With the beautiful snow falling steadily outside, slowly accumulating on trees and shrubs and burying lawn furniture, I must close my eyes to imagine the courtyard, hoping Jacinto - the maintenance man - has tilted the chairs. I could have brewed my own hazelnut coffee, but I still have pumpkin spice tea left in my stash, which is delicious. And tomorrow I might be able to venture out, having left open the gate. Spring snow is not at all unusual here, since winters tend to be too dry. The cold of March combined with its dampness is a perfect recipe.
Grey no doubt is hunkered down by his fireplace, watching the birds at his neighbor's feeders and fretting about the well-being of the foxes. Squirrels, after all, store acorns in their nests for just such days as these. What do foxes do? Ah, now he can consult his smart phone!
************
Before the Ides of March, Linda's Passion has adorned the courtyard for the early Easter, which falls on April Fool's Day. There are bunnies galore around the courtyard trees, and a basket on each table with bird eggs and ribbons and flowers. The big Peter Rabbit lounges against the lamppost; he is not as large this year. The human size ones that used to scare the children must have been ruined by the rain. Typical of March, gusty winds prevail tempered only by the higher angle of the sun, and then only when one has shelter around a corner from the northwest exposure. I have the place to myself; even sparrows are scarce this year, but a few crows talk among themselves. They are strong enough to fly in the wind.
As Grey has announced, his biography of Jeremy Brett is published. In fact Amazon is already out of stock, and third party sellers have scooped up a few to sell at a discount. The ebook is coming soon, we are assured by Page Publishing; and he has given me the assignment of writing an article about the book for the Parish Magazine in Berkswell, Warwickshire, pursuant to the kind offer of the Parish Administrator. Well, well, this one might sell a few, unlike our last collaboration. No matter, it was great fun!
***********
Spring brings weather whiplash to the courtyard. This morning is cool, but the sun is warm, and those few of us here are huddled against the eastern wall. Two women sitting at the next table are impossible to ignore. One is a fast talker, in an old gray blazer and jeans, a purple knit skull cap and large loop earrings in one of three piercings. Her son is in Catholic school and she is amused to tell her companion that he announces his atheism to the religion teacher at the start of the term. Apparently the religion teacher is cool with that. The other woman, a low talker, counters by relating that her son in Jewish school refuses to participate in compulsory prayer. Mon dieu! I have come upon a cell of rebellious heretics!
Ah, here comes Grey in the Bentley - I'm saved. The book has been released, and as soon as the image comes up on Amazon we will be popping a cork.
***********
The Jewish day school across from Panera takes over the place mid-morning. The amiable rabbi has attracted several regulars, and the lingua franca is Hebrew. They do not monopolize wi-fi corner, being supernumerary. Eka, the ebullient Muslim employee, is hugely pregnant, her second child - at least. I have come from a medical appointment, and made it in time for the soufflés. They are good take-out for a quick dinner, though I have gotten out of that habit.
My table by the door is the perfect perch to appraise the sartorial aptitude of the patrons coming in. One young woman is in a long skirt upon which is a random pattern of boxes filled with black and white stripes. Well, it beats the uniform of skin-tight yoga pants, which ought to be called spandex nudity. I will meet up with Grey in the courtyard tomorrow. He now tells me there are two foxes at his place, a red and another with gray patches, bearing up his forecast of a litter this spring.
***************
At last a clear day, a morning above freezing if only just, and I was able to take my mile walk around the block to greet the sun. The lawns were studded with glistening frost, and while I spotted no hawks, there was the sweet warble of bluebirds and the stentorian proclamation of the cardinal - already! It is just the day before Valentine's; and when I arrive in the courtyard later, a grounds crew is taking advantage of this break in the early spring rains. Several members with roaring leaf blowers are cleaning up around the shrubs and trees. Presently I see Carmen, our caretaker from the management company, which explains the eager maintenance. I hope they are taking good care of the trees; without them, a parking lot is so barren.
Everyone is dressed in red today, and I did locate my Cupid's arrow pin. Off to buy cards!
***********
The ice fishing polar bears have given way to Valentine hearts in the window of the optician; nevertheless, the courtyard is recovering from the morning freeze, a syndrome plaguing us persistently. Rain is expected later, and welcome as we are close to drought conditions. Needless to say I am alone here, but there are village errands to do before the umbrella is needed.
If anyone is as brave - or foolish - as I am to sit out, it would be Grey, and sure enough I soon see the Bentley pull in. He waves as he heads to the bakery first for coffee, and I note he is in the Borsalino, his warmest hat. I must chide him that he risks having it rained on, though I know what he will say: "At my age what should I save it for?" With the cover of the Jeremy Brett biography being finalized, there will be much to talk about.
*************
In wi-fi corner at Panera, an old Russian man sits with a coffee as he confers with a young American about the purchase of a luxury car. The young man, who is not drinking, seems to be the salesman, as he speaks of the car price as "about 65k." But the conversation apparently digresses when I overhear him say, "His name is not John anymore - it is Olivia." Soon after, they adjourn to a white sports car in the parking lot, perhaps the very car under consideration. I can't make out the model.
Well, Russians no doubt are innately sensitive to the potential for surveillance, as we all will need to be with the global incline toward autocracy. Eavesdropping will lose its attraction. Grey is back from Yorkshire, and we will meet in the courtyard, barring inclemency.
**************
I am pleased to see that the courtyard has been washed clean by a recent rain. For the tiny amount of snow we have had upon two occasions so far this winter, heaps of salt were applied to roads and sidewalks, coating cars and everything in sight it seemed; the salt became ambient. There are wind chills this morning, so I am the only one sitting out. Not even a sparrow comes, but a crow perches on the chimney opposite, eyeing my croissant and calling to his fellows in anticipation. Of course I leave them a good portion of it, and I don't linger long.
A gentleman scurrying out of the market comments that I must be cold, to which I reply in the affirmative, tightening my fur-trimmed hood about my face. It is my warmest jacket, and there are errands to run.
*************
One can sit in the courtyard on a sunny, cold morning, albeit briefly, sheltered from a northwest wind by the optician's wall. Fittingly, his window dressing once again has those wonderful ice fishing polar bears - in eyeglasses of course. If one does dare to brave the cold of this winter, however, it is a solitary court one holds. Indeed the only other soul I see this morning is Jacinto, the young hispanic who took the place of Doyle as maintenance man, carrying a space heater into the tavern. Not even a sparrow comes to beg, and I worry that extreme cold will deplete their numbers. Wryly, I then reflect on the know-nothings in this world who cite every cold snap as refuting climate change. No extreme of weather or storm is so unusual that they cannot dismiss it.
The days are lengthening, and Candle Mass is soon to come, known in these parts as Groundhog Day, when at a certain latitude in the northern hemisphere we have ten hours of daylight, at which threshold the plants begin to stir. Hooray!
****************
Following ten days down with the flu, I am loathe to sit in the courtyard even though the weather has moderated. I believe it was not only the extreme cold but the incredible dryness that desiccated respiratory membranes, leaving one open to the rampant virus. A dew point of negative eight remains a mystery, equivalent to "dark matter." So I come to the Bakery to sit inside, enjoy their hazelnut coffee and write without danger of frostbite. Sounds of respiratory distress among my fellow patrons, however, are another danger. Can a person get this flu twice? I understand medical science is working on a universal flu vaccine, effective against any strain of the bug. If medical research were adequately funded, I do not doubt it would already exist.
Well, Grey is back from the old country soon, as the next book moves on to "cover design." Stay tuned!
**********
The courtyard has been virtually uninhabitable with our wind chills plunging to subzero for an unprecedented stretch of some weeks. The only indoor spot for coffee is Starbucks, and not being a fan, I am driven further afield for refuge. The Bakery being one is close to our old-style mall, which I visit on occasion for the purpose of reconnaissance shopping.
But the mall can be a vexatious experience, having become what I call the "gauntlet of the Dead Sea minerals." Hawkers, mostly Israeli I believe, spring out of various shops and kiosks offering samples of miraculous skin care products made from these minerals to unaccompanied old ladies. Their most annoying hook is, "May I ask you a question?" Well, after awhile even polite old ladies must resort to rudeness. I have become practiced at waving my cane in the air as I pass. This gesture was once an acceptable greeting between Victorian gents, but the hawkers probably don't know that.
*********
This morning driving to Panera, I passed a bagpiper standing on the lawn of the Catholic church. I hope he is a real Scot, because it is frigid outside and he was in a kilt. Immediately, I was jarred from revery by the radio - nothing dispels revery like the sound of a brass choir playing "Joy to the World."
Herewith, Grey sends an addendum to his last post. He did get somewhat carried away last week with his dateline Yorkshire: "The last hymn in the service was the carol 'Joy to the World,' which I recognized of course and sang out with gusto even while not believing that Earth received her king!" This came in an email with instructions to pass it along. There seem to be brave strains ofd joy breaking out worldwide. Well, the cattle, he writes, have ample hay and winter so ar is not severe in the Dales.
***********
The weather has been so erratic this fall that the poor violas in our village planters, hardy though they be, are frosted. I expect they will soon be replaced with cabbages, the solstice being upon us after all. Living in a forest as I do, the winter, despite a mere nine or so hours of daylight, is the bright season, when I can watch the sun rise and set through the lacework of tree limbs. In spring the green curtain descends.
The only other party in the courtyard this morning is an Islamic woman with her two small boys. She is identifiable by her headscarf, though neither she nor her sons are of the typical ethnicity. I wonder at the dominant place hair occupies among us, and muse upon the old musical "Hair." Remember? "The Age of Aquarius"? No?
Grey is off to Yorkshire for Christmas. Since collaborating on the biography of Jeremy Brett, we acquired friends in Berkswell, with whom he will doubtless be in touch. The book is coming soon...
************
I am glad to see that Linda's Passion has visited the courtyard with the traditional Christmas decor. The Santa mannequin is much reduced, but there are square pots of evergreens on each table and outsized ornaments in the trees. The optician has kept up, with snow persons in the window, wearing designer frames of course. I had worried about Linda, because her husband and an assistant had taken over the fall decorations, and I heard him say she was in ill health. The Christmas wreaths went up early - compliments of management no doubt - but Linda was late.
A creature of habit, I am reassured when things stay the same, a trait that is increasingly unfortunate in today's world. Tomorrow I am meeting Grey at Panera before he is off for holidays at the home farm.
***********
If anyone out there in cyberspace has followed this blog for any length of time, he or she will recall how I used to pride myself on braving the elements to sit in the courtyard scribbling - how I might be known, caught on surveillance cameras, to brush off the snow and dry a chair with napkins. He or she will then be dismayed at the speedy passage of time when I note that age is catching up, leaving me less brave. Nevertheless, I am here on a cold, cloudy and windy morning, jotting enough of this entry, until my fingers must be gloved.
The only others here are two young men collecting for a charity that supports rehabilitation of drug abuse victims. As I sit, a man in a motorcycle jacket approaches and donates money, volunteering that his son died six months ago of an overdose. I am caused to wonder if he ever reflects that his generation - the beatniks followed by the hippies - modeled destructive rebellion, against which there has yet to be a counterinsurgency. But soon I am securing my hat, scarf and gloves, to set out into the wind.
**********
At the Bakery, there is a bar facing the window - the modern trend where single people can sit side by side. Then there are three small tables near this window and parallel to the coffee urns. One of these tables is my favorite, and as I come here often, I joke that it should have my name on it. This morning all three tables are occupied: a woman on her laptop, a man on his phone, and another woman settled in with her book and coffee. Ah, well.
I am nevertheless looking out the window, where a line of small trees is always a delight as seasons change. Behind me a group is discussing the schedule for some activity they plan for Lent in the coming year. Apparently they are church people, and the activity involves four weekly sessions. But Christmas is still a month hence; in fact I am off to shop this morning - in a hurry!
************
A cold rainy morning, I have taken refuge here at Panera, securing the last table in wi-fi corner, next to one of the regulars. She is a woman of color, who is a poacher like me - no computer. Often she works in an adult coloring book, but today she takes pen to a slim journal. Have I started something, or was it J.K. Rowling? Another table has a blonde woman with horn-rimmed glasses interviewing a young bearded man for a position which I surmise to be blue collar based on their casual dress. Her arms are tattooed, and she has an intriguing scarf around her neck with an owl pattern.
Before I leave I recognize an employee from the Bakery and greet her with the observation that she is out of place. She explains that she comes here to study for the Graduate Record Exam and plans to begin a masters degree in teaching. Life goes on...
************
The fall weather has been unusually mercurial, it seems to me. The trees stayed green in a prolonged summer, then the late but hard freeze killed leaves before they had a chance to turn. This morning in the courtyard the temperature may be moderate but the stiff wind has a chill. As it whips around the corner of the optician's, I keep my beret pulled over my ears.
The few people here all huddle in the sun. Two women next to me sit conversing, sipping Starbucks. One is older, white-haired, the other talks about a quarterly podcast, which she helps to produce at the private school where she works. She goes on to tell of an Irish wedding she attended where the drinking began before the formalities.
I am pleased to observe that Linda's Passion is holding out against encroaching Christmas until after Thanksgiving. The cornstalks still whistle in the wind, and the pumpkins are defiantly orange. Having shared a very fresh croissant with the sparrows, I move on.
************
It is a cold and windy morning in the courtyard, the sun peeking through passing clouds. People scurry by clutching their coat collars; no one stops. The shelter of the optician's wall is nonetheless reliable. The shops have their Christmas wreaths up, though Thanksgiving is still a week away. Somehow we do seem to need more time for the holiday madness in our determination to maintain traditions despite the complexities of modern life, not to mention the persistent branching of the family tree. But a day to count our blessings, please! Gratitude is the oft-forgotten secret of happiness.
Early wreaths aside, the courtyard is still festooned with harvest decor. As I retreat from the growing chill, the wind rustles the cornstalks lashed to every tree and lamppost.
***********
A dark, chilly morning in the courtyard, the chairs wet from rain - Jacinto neglected to tilt them. He is the maintenance person who took over from Doyle some time back. Nevertheless, with ample napkins, I am able to sit and swipe the puddles off the table. Crows are flocking in larger numbers, preparing for migration no doubt, but they prefer the dumpsters in the alley to courtyard fare. Sparrows of course are glad to share an apple croissant.
I have the place to myself until a group of German men assembles. They are old and young and apparently celebrating some occasion. Upon a smart phone, through the miracle of technology, they summon another comrade, who is duly greeted by each. Might he be the celebrant? In any case, they soon break into song - German of course - and at least one, perhaps two of them are actually in tune!
***********
At last with Halloween upon us we have a cool morning in the courtyard and enough sun coming through the leafless trees to be comfortable sitting in the shelter of the optician's wall. Carmen is here, apparently getting estimates on roof work as our representative from the management company. She is striking as ever in a coral scarf and sweater atop tight black pants and high black heels. She does a bang-up job and has for some years; perhaps in consequence, she drives a Mercedes. She greets me as she goes off with two contractors to look at the roofs, which are of various materials for each shop in the complex.
Soon it is warming up, and I lay aside my scarf and gloves. Still it is cool enough, I gladly observe, to please the violas.
*********
The weather forecasters keep insisting that fall weather is on the way - next week - yet despite their insistence they have not been prescient. Summer seems endless, and even the trees withhold their colors. While temperatures may warm, however, climate change cannot alter the sun's trajectory, nor, I note, the seasonal switching of violas for begonias in the village planters.
It was warm weather for the village festival on the weekend, with local politicians parading behind a color guard of four mounted Park Police officers. The only music, in the sorry absence of a high school band, was provided by a fife and drum corps consisting of sixteen aging yet stalwart members led by an exuberant gray-haired woman. Of course there were loudspeakers booming the noise that passes for "music" for succeeding generations of increasingly deaf youngsters.
But today all is quiet again here in the courtyard as I feed the sparrows and muse upon the pumpkins, mums, ghosts and witches!
************
The courtyard is decked out for Halloween - Linda's Passion strikes again - and thus a ring of ghosts dances around one of the courtyard trees, in which are hung several orange witches' hats. The mannequin of the season is an adult-size scarecrow, and on each table sits a small pot with a live red pepper plant. We must hope there will be enough rain to keep them watered.
Two young women are here discussing their children's college applications. The one doing most of the talking speaks extremely fast, her words assaulting one's ear like automatic weapons fire. She haTemperatures s a girl who excels in math and science and a son who, likewise counter to stereotype, is artistic. Of the boy, the school's college advisor has told her, and she quotes, "It will be about packaging him." Well, no wonder she prattles in such a harried fashion! Or is it the Starbucks?
Temperatures have been above average for October, not boding well for my small lettuce crop, but lovely for the annual village festival soon to come. My favorite season!
*********
Noisy at Panera this morning. The coffee is flowing, large coffees, and people are chattering. An interesting couple sits by the sunny, eastern window, discussing a business related to health care. He is mixed race, in a navy blue suit and tie, a carefully folded handkerchief tucked into the jacket pocket. He does all the talking, while his companion - perhaps a colleague - takes notes on paper with pencil. She is a young, blond white woman, rushing the fall season in her high black boots. Before long the sun is too warm for them, and they move, with their coffee.
Beyond the courtyard today, I am nonetheless pleased to crack a new Moleskine - the one with 240 pages, which I feared they had discontinued. Not so, thankfully. Grey is meeting me here soon, and I must congratulate him on the birth of a great-nephew. I hope he has pictures!
It is breezy in the courtyard under a perfectly clear sky. I expect Linda's Passion will bring fall decor soon with the arrival of October. The old man is here who drives to the village on a tractor; odd as this conveyance is, even stranger is the bush-hog attached. A young woman arrives with a fluffy white puppy. As the old man leaves, he comments to her how frisky and curious the dog is, going on to add that after his last dog died he swore off, unwilling to suffer that "last chapter."
Then I am distracted by two glamorous young women in front of me. Apparently they work at the hair salon. Both have low, gravelly voices, as though in a poor imitation of men, but I am caused to wonder if it could be occupational - chemical exposure, hair spray? As I leave, the sparrows having cleaned up crumbs of my croissant, the local constable is issuing a ticket for a truck in the no standing zone. Law! Order!
*********
Our village has its own Hugh Boone, though without the twisted lip. (Sherlockian alert! Let me know if you caught that reference.) He is a wiry, grey-bearded man, who stands on the median strip at the stoplight holding a sign which says he is diabetic and needs money for medication. He has been manning that post most days, in every season, for many years, apparently making a good living, but at the least extorting guilt in the minds of trapped motorists. We villagers are a hardened lot.
This morning the courtyard is well populated, under an overcast sky. From the lately roiling tropics, we are getting only clouds so far. A lone woman works on her laptop; two young mothers arrive pushing strollers; the old woman who comes to the hair salon every Wednesday sits in a wheelchair, while her attendant parks the Lincoln. Poor soul outlived her husband, and now even her legs. Thus I move on, with the fervent wish not to live too long!
At Panera this morning, no tables are free in wi-fi corner, but of course I am so blissfully unconnected that all I really require is pen and paper. Even a napkin will do if I forget the Moleskine. A gathering of Israeli ladies sits in front of me with a baby in a stroller. Their loud chatter is distinctive, but as I know no Hebrew, it is not distracting, except for the occasional slip into English. Grey and I share the conviction that the English language is popular the world over because it is the most efficient as far as syllables required to get a point across. An elderly woman comes in, wearing what looks like a pajama top. She is very thin, her face haggard, hair stringy. She is joined by a companion, who seems to be in better shape, and they sit having bagels and coffee. They probably stepped across from the senior residence conveniently opposite.
As I ready myself to move on, wi-fi corner is emptying out. Coffee break over! And the child in the stroller begins to fuss - reassuring that humans are as yet not endangered.
**************
A delightful, cool, sunny day in the courtyard, autumn seeming to have arrived straightaway with September. The yellow jacket buzzing my apple muffin is further evidence. A man is here with his son; dad is all business, no talking, while the curious toddler wanders about followed closely by his father's surveilling eye.
A woman arrives with her little girl, and when the curious boy approaches his female peer, dad picks him up and carts him away. The woman then gets on her phone; she has time to kill between dropping one child at preschool and this little girl at elementary. The woman seems to be talking with a mentor in the real estate business, as her end of the conversation is respectful to the point of obsequious. Her child eventually grows bored and starts to whine. Pity the young child of today who fails in this competition for mother's attention, though perhaps fathers are again stepping up. The dad had more patience!
************
With September around the corner, a cool breeze is gracing the courtyard this morning, and the optician's window is reliably current. Large yellow signs emblazoned with "School Zone" are flanked with outsized number two wooden pencils, and next to the actual eyeglasses are red apples for the teacher. As the sparrows flock to crumbs of my croissant, an Asian girl watches in fascination. She starts to imitate their hopping and fluttering, trying to get close to them. She is at a table with three other children, the mama and grandmama, yet she appears to be the only Asian. I reflect that these racial divisions - claims of racial purity - are now easily confounded with DNA testing.
Well, I shall take this up with Grey, who is back from Yorkshire. Here he comes now, banging on to his Panama.
**********
As civilization slips slowly back to barbarism, it nonetheless persists here in the courtyard, where I sit admiring the pink and red begonias spilling out of our long planters. Though I am not partial to begonias, they have flourished this rainy summer to the point where even I must call them grand. The sparrows are liking my scone this morning, but six of them hang back, perched in a row on the gutter. One woman has brought her little boy and dog, a very affectionate, long-haired lab. The child is entertained chasing after sparrows. I note that boys, ever the hunters, are more prone to this behavior, while girls will watch the birds with awe. La difference?
As I leave this small outpost of civility, a woman in black comes through in platform sandals, rhinestone-studded, with red toenails. La difference!
************
Alas, according to a large wooden sign recently erected on the Stewart meadow, that six acre tract of native underbrush, which was on its way to becoming forest, is soon to be divided up for housing. So I sit in the courtyard on a lovely summer morning, musing over what was always the eventual fate of Mr. Stewart's folly. He was the scientist who owned the parcel and imagined that by never mowing it he would have a meadow. We may excuse his ignorance perhaps, since few people know that the natural history of eastern North America is forest.
Well, he had a meadow for very few seasons before it gave way to brush, through which saplings emerged. It is not yet a tall forest, but our growing deer herd enjoys its shelter. At least it was not down-zoned for townhouses!
************
Summer heat is back in the courtyard, which is well-peopled for a Wednesday morning. There are two old dogs here also, a yellow and a black, gray-bearded mutts. I hesitate to feed the sparrows, since the yellow dog is eyeing my croissant covetously, and when I do toss some crumbs, the pooch puts her head in my lap. A sweet old dog, and well-groomed. Her owner apologizes of course.
A couple of gentlemen with earbuds appear to be talking to themselves, but we must now presume are conducting urgent business. The man with the black dog is working on a MacBook, though I daresay laptops seem less common lately - yet another trend I missed out on entirely. But most of the cacophony goes up from twosomes - their tongues and brains loosened by caffeine.
*****************
As the chimes of St. Francis Episcopal strike ten, lovely puffy clouds drift eastward in a clear blue sky. A rare September day in August, compliments of the seasonal fall preview. Here in the courtyard are many singletons, reading or stroking their hand-held computers. Aha, an acronym - HHC - suggests itself! I hope it catches on, since we surely may stop calling them phones.
But one pair are talking business, a young man and a woman, who seems to be coaching him. She mentions a campus, so perhaps the matter is instructional. I notice as they leave that she is in a mini-skirt and spike heels, carrying a bright blue bag. I have noticed more young women in skirts lately, and I must say I never thought I would live to see it - and a mini no less! Well, not much food for thought here; Grey can't get back fast enough for me.
***********
Not August quite yet, but there are signs. We seem to be having our fall preview today, which we always anticipate briefly in that month. It is cool, breezy, and the sky is blue instead of dish water. Also the courtyard is uncommonly empty, as one looks forward to in August, when the city empties, with congress adjourned. Well there are still sparrows, even some babies, flapping their little wings begging to be fed by the adults.
Grey is off to Yorkshire on business at the home farm, but really in retreat from summer here in the nation's capital. He is eager to get on with the Brett biography, but we await word from the publisher. Meanwhile, without a single eccentric to report on, I must tell him how I miss seeing the Bentley in the parking lot and Himself - glorious in his Panama - striding toward the courtyard!
*************
Blessed in summer by the shade of four courtyard trees, I am doubly grateful for a light breeze relieving the oppressive heat this morning. Most of my fellow villagers are deep into one-on-one conversation, except for a cleric who is reading a book. He is probably from St. Francis Episcopal across the street, to which we owe the grace of the Westminster chimes. A young black girl passes through - a tween - in a tee shirt and grimace to match that say "Fight Back." Most interesting however is a couple behind me who converse sotto voce. From the little I can overhear, she seems to be interviewing him for some role in her personal life - psychotherapist, perhaps, or mediator of a marital dispute. At some point he asserts, "You trust me seventy to eighty percent," adding "my role is to support you." Ah, melodrama in the morning!
************
A much needed summer shower has set in this morning, so I have taken to my indoor refuge, the Bakery, along with throngs coming for breakfast. A table of five women, having a great good time together, sends up gales of laughter. An extremely thin woman in skin tight denims and L.L. Bean moccasins has her three sons with her - a wonder she is so thin! The old man sitting in front of me wears a tee shirt reading "Punta Gorda Florida," which is to the point as he is somewhat gorda himself. He sits alone eating a sticky bun, a cup of water, and stroking his phone.
Grey is about to join me. I must tell him that when one tires of the news, a resort is the old sitcoms, which have been able to come back since the advent of "reality" television, the latter continuing to save the industry big money. I call it cheap TV. Here he is now, furling his bumper-shoot.
***********
When villagers in the courtyard begin to favor the shade of the eastern wall of a morning, the summer has officially commenced. Even on a cool day like today the sun is too hot. Jack is here again with some new old faces. The regulars change alliances over time. One old gent, who carries a shoulder bag, started sitting with a woman. Tim used to be Jack's buddy, but he was disputatious. Such people will sooner or later sit alone. Life is too shirt.
Today a white-haired grandma is here with a toddler who keeps her running. She is very patient with the girl, trying to coax her away from her wanderings; but eventually grandma tires and they leave. As much as I would like to remain enjoying another of June's last days, I too have errands.
**********
I have come to the courtyard this morning - one of the last rare days of June - without my Moleskine. A bad sign! What if I am sitting with my coffee and scone, enjoying the dappled shade, and I am struck with an epiphany? Or if a remarkable person walks by, or I overhear a curious conversation - in English? Fortunately there are napkins - as much as I regret having to spell it without the "k" - and a pen always at the ready in my purse, along with a refill.
And Grey is coming to discuss the edit of the Jeremy Brett biography, which I am helping him review. He will enlighten me, I hope, concerning hyphens and "em dashes," of which there are five in my first paragraph here. Then, needless to say, all this will await transcription at home, unless I accidentally lose the napkin.
************
In wi-fi corner at Panera this morning, a young man across from me sits with his smart phone, attached to it with earbuds. He has a full beard and mustache, and a crew cut; I surmise it is easier to shave the skull than the face. An Asian woman with long black hair, quite straight in the Asian way, has a hot pink MacBook, in front of which she stares, deeply in thought. She is wearing black boots and a forest green dress that gathers - at the hem. But the standout for style in my view is the businessman in his grey suit and tie, talking on his phone; on his feet, cordovan brown slip-on shoes with wild red socks.
We all have our ways of standing out - don't we? - always missing the irony that these days we feel compelled to conform to nonconformity.
***********
Sure enough, this morning in the courtyard a crew is pulling up the violas and planting begonias for summer, red and pink. I still recall the summer of the glorious petunias, but that was when Doyle was here to haul out the hose and keep them watered. Begonias are low-maintenance, and I suspect that Doyle was underpaid.
I feel quite certain that one might demonstrate a direct proportionality between the temperature and the number of people here in the courtyard. As it is rather cool and breezy, delightful though it may be, we are but few. Crowds will come when it is blazing hot, with their infants, their dogs and bicycles. I suppose it holds down the electric bill. Aha, the Bentley! Grey is back from the old country. I see he has taken out the Panama, but today he has to hold it on!
*************
June has come, and "what is so rare..."! Sun and blue sky at last. With a checkup at the eye doctor this afternoon, I am in the courtyard, savoring the ability to see. Five young women are here in gauzy sundresses; private schools must have adjourned already. One of the girls is African American, and I reflect how American blacks are coming into their own, though I was reminded how early the backlash began upon watching a rerun of "All in the Family." And now? Archie Bunker ascendent.
Last night's rain, the last of an excessively wet May, was brief but heavy.The poor violas in our planters here were pummeled. Doubtless they will soon be replaced, and at home the basil I foolishly planted is likewise bedraggled. Torrential rain seems increasingly common, to me at least.
**********
After a dry winter, the spring has been quite rainy, which will surely revive those trees and shrubs that were on the brink. This week it has rained every night, clearing again midday. A little sun, a little rain - the flowers are happy!
Naturally I have taken refuge at the Bakery this wet morning. As I came in, a young, skinny black girl, shrouded in a hoodie, was in line. She asked the clerk for a complimentary breakfast, but having no card entitling her, the clerk said she would have to speak to a manager. My Tunisian friend would have given permission in an instant, but was not present. There ensued a discussion between the two clerks taking orders, one saying to give her breakfast, the other that someone would have to pay. Precipitately, the next man in line spoke up, "I'll take it. It's on me." This man appeared to be a working stiff, not wealthy by any means. Sadly, I found myself wondering if this is how we will feed the poor, just so we do not pay taxes?
**********
With summer-like weather the courtyard become irresistible, thanks largely to our four trees, and despite their tendency at this time of year to shed their tiny blossoms into one's coffee. Linda's Passion has come with summer decor: red geraniums, bird cages on the tables, butterflies on the faux boxwood. The long planters overflow with violas of lavender blue, white, and yellow. But it is still spring, too soon to put the woolens in mothballs. A cloudy, damp day can bring a penetrating chill that may have me grabbing for a muffler on my way out the door - and glad for it, sitting here with my Moleskine.
Grey has yet to take out his Panama. He is back at the home farm in Yorkshire, as we await the editors at work on the Brett biography. These days I worry about him traveling.
**********
The optician's window has given way to giant butterflies with wide, glittering wings of pink and green and black, veined in gold. Today the sparrows have to make do with samples of my scone. The scones from the bakery have a crisp crust but are crumbly inside. The poor birds have trouble holding it in their tiny beaks as they attempt, I assume, to carry some to nestlings.
We have made up for our rain deficit; and it is a fine spring day, of the sort when one wants the sun, yet appreciates a little shade from the courtyard trees. Two young women are deep in conversation about schools and children, while two old men sit together saying little. The way of the world - right here in our village!
**********
A refreshing spring morning with not a cloud in the bright blue sky, yet the courtyard is not busy, except for the sparrows, who seem grateful that I went for the croissant rather than a scone. It is that perfect weather when the air is cool and the sun is warm. Jackie, one of the regulars I have not seen in a long while, arrives with two other women. She talks of her house being on the market, but she does not want to move closer to town. Things change, always, even when we do not notice.
Ah, the Bentley! Grey is still in his fedora, in mid-May; the mornings have been quite cold. I must tell him about the rose-breasted grosbeaks that have been frequenting my feeders, migrating perhaps; and we will doubtless speak of the biography, which has been launched. He will be pleased that I secured permission for the covers from that British photographer, albeit not without cost.
***********
While I am taking up a table in wi-fi corner at Panera this morning, I do not feel so guilty since only one other person is at work on his Dell. Another old man is reading the Post, and a woman of color is coloring, using a bundle of colored pencils. Adult coloring books are enjoying a vogue, maybe from the modern necessity to hangout at airports for days on end. Coloring occupies the fingers as one thinks, like knitting once did.
The widow is here today, who used to come with her late husband. She is in conversation with a Muslim woman, but we greet each other. The Israeli contingent is large - five men and two women speaking Hebrew. The old man with the newspaper is met by a young African American, who grows increasingly agitated about some disagreement, possibly over a car. As his cursing escalates, I start to look for concealed firearms. Time to go!
**********
Already the Easter bunny is gone from the courtyard, along with all his eggs, his bench, his carrots. The holiday fell late this year, but still it is not yet May! The weather underscores that, as we continue to reel to and fro between cold rain and hot sun; but of course the flowers delight in it, so we must not complain.
Though the chairs were tilted, napkins were still required to dry them this morning. The optician's window is nicely decorated with little bird cages and colorful paper butterflies. No one was here when I came, but before I leave a few others arrive. Most peculiar is a Chinese man in a business suit and very dark glasses. As he stands prattling on in Chinese, another man is filming him. They are still at it when I pass again after my errands. Chinese investment in our humble village?
*********
A spring morning shower has sent me for refuge to the Bakery, recalling as I look out at the gentle drops, a wallpaper I once had called "Spring Rain and Wild Iris". To this day I have never seen a wild iris, but it sounds lovely, exotic!
Behind me here sit a young woman and man who seem to be discussing admittance to art school. She is an admittance counselor, and might be interviewing him for a position as one. Otherwise the place is fairly quiet. Though schools are on spring break, most people appear to have left town. I hope to be back in the courtyard between showers of much needed rain. Linda did indeed grace the spot with a new white mannequin rabbit, sprawled on a bench munching a carrot.
***********
Still March, and I am huddled by the sheltered wall of the courtyard. Sharing the shelter are the only other denizens: three German youngsters, a boy and two girls, doing homework. The boy smokes a cigarette, without so much as a guilty glance at the "No Smoking" sign. Ah, well! I grew up with secondhand smoke. Presently there ensues a "public display of affection", as one of the girls begins to hang upon the boy's shoulders. She does give a shy glance, noticing my presence. The boy meanwhile continues working and smoking impassively.
Before I leave, Linda of Linda's Passion shows up with a van full of Easter ornaments to decorate the courtyard - rabbits and ribbons, baskets of eggs. I wonder whether she has replaced the man-sized Easter bunny, but cannot stay long enough to see. Next time!
************
While I recognize that when it comes to weather averages are comprised of accumulated extremes, this year's winter and now spring have been record setting. One might expect, for example, to have an occasional warm day in January or February; the typical January thaw comes with regularity. But a long stretch of spring weather in February this year brought bulbs up, shrubs flowering and trees budding. Then it snowed, in March, also not unusual, but the following several days of deep freeze were. Buds on forsythia and blooms on Bradford pear trees are now a subtle but interesting beige!
All by way of explaining that I am again taking refuge at the Bakery, after another wild swing from balmy to blustery chill in but a few days, then back up soon in the course of just a week. Well, always a pleasure to be greeted by my Tunisian friend!
************
In the wee hours of the Ides of March, we had our only meaningful snowfall, followed by three days of a hard freeze; thus while typically a snow in March would be melted and gone the next day, this paltry layer of three plus inches turned to solid concrete. Readers know I am a hardy soul, given to brushing snow off the courtyard tables and chairs in order to enjoy my hazelnut coffee of a morning; but frozen fingers do not grip a pen very reliably, so of course I have taken to my refuge at the Bakery.
Luckily, the parking lot was cleared so I don't need to pull on ice cleats; and doubly fortunate the Tunisian manager is here, good for a big hug, a warm smile, and free coffee. Really, what is not to love about immigrants? With warm heart, and fingers, I ponder the strange rancor of my fellow man.
**********
Validating my recent observation, the courtyard is nearly empty despite a fine early spring day. My niche is protected from a north wind, typical of March, flapping the flags across the street; and the sun is warm, also typical as it approaches the equinox. Yet on the way here there was not a car coming in either direction; it might have been August in that respect, when schools are out and Congress adjourns.
I will swear that the capital city is evacuating, not with a bang but a whimper, perhaps preceding the bang. Return with us now to the pre-war days when robber barons were free to rob and the huddled masses were left to starve. Grey and I are thankful we are not young. Ah, here he is now, back from the old country, holding on to his Borsalino. Much to discuss!
*********
The Rockville Panera is quiet this morning. It sits across the street from the Jewish school that recently received bomb threats. But I have noted a chill in society at large lately, and less traffic. Those of us living in or near the capital city have the dubious advantage of early harbingers: Mexicans and others from around the world may be leaving; government employees are doubtless beginning the job search, or enlisting; and anyone fearing we will be the bull's eye of a nuclear attack might be looking to Florida. Mar a Lago? Well, well... I am after Grey to get his collected essays together.
Somehow life goes on, for what it's worth. Comes a young man in a gray flannel suit, being interviewed by a man with a Chinese accent. Not to be seen as stodgy perhaps, the youngster in the suit is also wearing tan shoes and red socks. Country twang on the sound system - what are we coming to?!
**************
Just as our resident woodchuck predicted, spring is early, very early. Cherry blossoms have popped, and daffodils, having had scant opportunity to grow tall, are abloom on short stems. But the weather is mercurial, literally and figuratively; so while it is mild this morning in the courtyard, the anticipated storm has already brought in clouds on a gusty wind. I have the place to myself, and indeed used all my napkins to dry the chair, which was wet from last night's rain. Our sparrows have become quite spoiled and will only show themselves for a croissant. My fresh scone will not do!
Grey is in Yorkshire, where he says it is also unseasonably mild. He returns soon, and will expect some advice from my research into the "right of privacy". Onward!
*********
I will grant that waiting in a doctor's office is the number one most tedious and anxiety generating experience. So as I sit in the waiting room of my ophthalmologist this morning, I can forgive my fellow patients glued to the small rectangular screens which they stoke delicately. They communicate with satellites, connected with the entire human population.
I for one am loathe to have a phone smarter than myself, though I begin to see it becoming an absolute necessity. I pull out my Moleskine and my Uniball Signo 207, medium tip, black, which requires no satellite. After this, the Bakery for their incomparable hazelnut coffee. My Tunisian friend will be there today, with hugs!
**********
Having just learned that my beloved massage therapist at the chiropractor's office is leaving for greener pastures, I am at Starbucks considerably discombobulated. Outside, the resident house sparrows are again huddling together in the shrubs, chirping merrily and puffed out against the cold. The typical crew is here, mostly from the gym across the street. But one young woman is dressed in winter white, tight jeans and a sweater with holes that bare the skin of her shoulders. Somehow she is able to walk on high platform heels. On the sound system a male singer keeps howling repetitively, "I think I want to marry you!" within the required limit of just three tones.
Alas and alack, the masseuse and I exchanged hugs as I left, though truthfully, I sometimes wondered whether her strong fingers might one day leave me paralyzed.
**********
Barely past Candlemas and the optician has replaced the ice fishing polar bears with red hearts, lots of red hearts. For the uninformed, i.e. those who do not read the Washington Post ("if you don't get it, you don't get it"), Candlemas is what we call Groundhog Day, the occasion when we hope for a prognostication from the local woodchuck concerning the arrival of spring. I must emphasize the local aspect of this tradition, since a single woodchuck in any location cannot be expected to make any sweeping predictions.
This year Groundhog Day began overcast and mild, and as our woodchuck, who lives under the shed, is an early riser, he likely did not see his shadow. The sun did not emerge until afternoon, by which time I believe he had decided spring had arrived or was soon coming. Affirming this view are the many denizens of the courtyard enjoying their lattes in today's record high temperatures!
**********
Starbucks is busy on the last day of January, a cold morning despite full sun. This one near the chiropractor is small, while the one in our village has expanded so as to offer a place to escape inclemency. Nonetheless, I still prefer the bakery's hazelnut coffee and can usually enjoy it huddled in the courtyard. Today walking across the parking lot, I was cheered by dozens of house sparrows clustered in the sunny bushes, happy confreres, their chattering causing me to reflect how much like us are the birds.
But birds seem happier. A song sparrow, for example, is already staking out territory in my backyard, his three-part song in numerous variations a great and cheery anthem to his kind, as I am sure it must be to any female song sparrow within earshot! Alas, on to my own bleak agenda.
*********
The optician, whose wall is shelter from a north wind here in the courtyard, has outdone himself this winter, dressing his window with polar bears and even larger snowflakes. One darling bear, in a black cap, red muffler, and green gloves, is ice fishing.
A black-bearded man is pacing back and forth, jabbering into his phone in Hebrew. The person on the other end is apparently saying very little. These international conversations always seem to be sprinkled with some English terms, like "Apple dot com". Are we great yet? As I leave on my errands, I notice more ice fishing bears in the window - how fanciful!
***************
Snow is one thing, sub-freezing wind chills quite another. As my old fingers cannot hold a pen at these temperatures, I am once again at my favorite refuge. There was very little snow, yet the parking lot is white - from salt! Readers will know from Grey's posting of the death of my despotic mother-in-law, so this morning I seek refuge also from the fallout - the web of legalities, the colossal mountain of debris. She was a seriously defective personality. Was she evil? Her influence was nearly persuading me that there must be a Devil.
I must take this up with Grey. I called him; he's on his way.
**********
Were it a sunny morning I would be in the courtyard. It is not very cold, just damp and dark; and here at the Bakery I get a hug from my friend the Tunisian manager. Were he Indian, his name would be Patel, that caste whose age-old tradition is hospitality. The place is not busy, but there is a very well dressed elderly couple seated by the window. She is in a quilted jacket, her white hair in a French twist set off by gold earrings; he wears a sweater vest and carries a walking stick with the carved rabbit's head. Their conversation, from what little I hear, centers on the words painted on the window - the Bakery name and one of its slogans - which they are reading backwards. As she helps him puzzle it out, I infer that he may be declining in some respect. She helps him into his coat as they get up, and hands him his cane.
Snow in a few days, the first of the new year. Boots in the courtyard!
********
I hit Starbucks just at coffee break time it seems. The place is buzzing, so I stake out the odd vacant chair. By the time I place my order though, the crowd has thinned. These patrons do not tend to linger. A Pike Place coffee with pumpkin spice is nice, but the pumpkin cream cheese muffin is gone. We are so quick to race through our calendar!
Of course it is the young people who are in a rush, yet another vindication of Grey's theory.They are in a hurry to mate and nest. Once their reproductive years are past, they can slow down, like Grey and me, and actually enjoy life. Well, with another influx of people, a young man has pulled over a barstool to sit with his companions, and I am taking up a large table. So onward, no place to linger!
************
Flocks of birds are being blown about like dry leaves in the gusty wind this morning, so I am glad to be inside at Panera. I cannot feed the sparrows, but I can see them in the shrubs outside the window. Of course lots of coffee is being sold, and everyone is chattering. One young man sits down with his laptop, attached to him with earbuds. He is mixed race, in a hoody, skull cap, and sneakers. As he hikes up this pants to be seated, I notice a pistol and handcuffs on his belt and beside these a badge. Undercover officer, or terrorist impostor? He looks harmless enough. Brave new world, alas.
Ah well, guess I won't linger today!
***********
The courtyard, even in December, always has the potential for curiosity and bemusement. Huddled in the bit of sun available as we near the solstice, I overhear, "There has to be a breakdown every time so I can have that teachable moment." This young woman, in a group of women close behind me, is a "facilitator", which seems to involve a degree in psycho-babble. They go on to talk about writers who can't stand to read their own reviews, in which context the facilitator pronounces, "If HarperCollins believes in you, you should too!" Heavy hitters here, just the kind Grey and I need right now. Alas, the dispiriting search for the right publisher!
Bemused, I leave a few crumbs for the sparrows and carry on.
************
Taking refuge at the Bakery on a cold December morning, a large noisome group is here. The woman in front of me knocks a whole cup of English Breakfast tea on the floor and becomes terribly embarrassed. A mop is summoned, and the woman wielding it gets into a conversation with a couple having breakfast. Beyond the window a weak sun tries to penetrate the overcast. I reflect on the word "refuge", such comfort conjured by it, such a need for it, and a dearth of it. Of course our ultimate refuge is the Dharma, the fundamental reality that nothing is as it seems, but rather a transcendent unity.
Good heavens! Grey has pulled up in the Bentley, slumming in his Borsalino. He must have work for me. I wave at him through the window.
************
The first of December in the courtyard is a clear cold day following one of much needed rain. The sun is warm, and the wall by the optician's gives shelter from a northwest breeze that has the flag across the street flapping eastward. Just one couple joins me here. He is a regular, an old man, and she might be a younger relative. She is telling him about hitting a deer broadside in her Chevy truck on an icy day. No damage to the truck, and the deer managed to run off. She then goes on about the wonders of a diesel engine.
Christmas wreaths have been up for awhile, and a mantelpiece, left from Thanksgiving decor, rests against the lamppost. No doubt Linda will soon come with mannequin Santa. St. Francis chimes the quarter past ten, and so on to several errands remaining in a busy week!
***********
Lots of coming and going in the deli this morning prior to the big feast of Thanksgiving. The gusty winds have abated, and a few of us enjoy the sunny side of the courtyard: a lone young man with his Starbucks, another speaking Russian into his Bluetooth, two men eyeing a vacant storefront, one with an Aussie accent. He is in khakis, a turtleneck and navy blazer, and apparently is looking for a place to locate a shop - or is he the agent? The vacancy used to house a frame store. I can't imagine what an Australian might bring here.
As for the influx of Russians, given current events, one feels paranoia creeping in, or at least suspicion. Are they refugees or infiltrators? Not to worry - the next head of Central Intelligence will be all over it! But he may be a double agent...
*************
No school on election day, so there are many children in the courtyard. Two little girls are here babbling to their granddad as youngsters do. He lets them taste his coffee. He is bored to tears. The day is mild, and the polls were not crowded. I dispense most of my croissant to the sparrows, who are numerous and appreciative. Christmas wreaths have already gone up in the village, their forest green with big red bows causing the inevitable dissonance with what remains of harvest colors. So much for Thanksgiving.
Fortunate as they are, Americans seem less and less able to give thanks.
*********
Occupancy of the courtyard is directly proportional to the temperature. As it gets colder the sparrows and I have it to ourselves, though when it goes below freezing it is too cold to hold a pen. This morning when I came there was no one, then obeying that meteorological formula, others arrived as the sun cleared Starbucks: gentlemen discussing business, women talking of families, young people chattering in their peculiar, exuberant patois.
I expect Grey today. He also likes the cold, and he tells me he had a Borsalino before I knew what kind of hat it was. I might have asked him instead of Google! The last chapter of the biography has him quite depressed, as readers may note from a recent posting. We have both come to feel a strong connection to the subject. Ah! St. Francis Episcopal is chiming the hour, and here comes the Bentley.
*******
Everyone is happy in the courtyard, the sparrows with their croissant crumbs, even the uncomely woman who could easily be one of Linda's witches: she has the nose, the hair, the teeth; and she hunches over, allowing her low-rider jeans to expose her low back. She is conversing with a friend in a foreign language, Russian perhaps.
It is a mild, calm morning, a slow accumulation of cloud moderating the still hot sun. A change is coming tomorrow, which begins to be felt in the breeze. The weekend brings the annual village festival and parade, put on by the local Chamber of Commerce. There will be aspiring politicians this year, and as always our impressive array of fire trucks will be brought out. They are uniquely white. The forecast is for cold and windy. Ah, the autumn!
*********
Sure enough, the courtyard has been adorned for Halloween: orange witch's hats hanging in a tree that is circled by white ghosts holding hands, cornstalks, hay bales, pumpkins. The optician is into it as well, and has in his window a haunted house behind a large spider web, black twisted trees hung with little jack-o-lanterns, and ghosts standing between the eyeglass frames.
Chiming in this morning in an unusual but timely fashion, a passel of crows, jealous of the sparrows sharing my croissant, descend upon the remaining crumbs. Strange that they are more timid than the smaller birds. They quickly clean up the pavement nonetheless, in the process inspiring a conversation at the next table about Hitchcock's The Birds.
*********
I have ended up at Panera every day this week for an unusual variety of reasons. The old man who looks like my retired accountant, but older, seems to come every day also. Now sits a young man in a faded navy cap with a tattered bill. He wears an Adidas jacket, and has the requisite stubble on his face. He is studying, with book, earphones, and iPad. From the parking lot comes a small person who is not a child; she is a dwarf, as they were once called, the more current term alluding my memory. The young man in the faded cap takes a call, then sits with phone to ear saying nothing - a taciturn young fellow.
Well, I hope to be back in the courtyard next week. I heard that Linda has come installing her pumpkins and cornstalks, witches and ghosts!
***************
The amiable rabbi has a large table this rainy morning at Panera. There are four men and two women, one of whom may not be with them as she is thoroughly absorbed in her laptop. The Jewish New Year approaches, and they wish "shana tova" to friends coming and going. Wi-fi corner was filled today, but Eka had soufflés for me, and the last pumpkin muffin had my name on it.
Grey does not come here often, though he also likes the hazelnut coffee. Yesterday in the courtyard he complained about keeping up with the blog and reported that he may soon complete a rough draft of the biography, which may possibly spill over into a third bound journal. Go, Grey!
*************
Not yet October, thus all seems the same in the courtyard, but the air has changed. I cannot say that it is cold, but it is moving ever faster, causing me to yearn even now for a muffler. A nattily dressed old gentleman comes and sits - gray pinstriped suit, white hair - and immediately consults his phone. A male sparrow perches on my table; he is also old and desperately hungry. Of course I share my scone. The scones from the bakery are deliciously flaky when they are fresh, but in no time at all, sadly, they turn into hockey pucks, so I do not have them often.
Ah, the Bentley! Grey is here, already in a muffler and the Borsalino.
**********
I had not seen the moon since it was full, due to a cloudy stretch, when there it was this morning at its half phase, beautiful and white in a blue sky as I approached the bakery. Then as I sat in the courtyard, the chimes of St. Francis sounding the quarter past ten, I reflected that the weatherman said the equinox would occur at 10:21. Well, as he put it, the sun would cross the equator into the southern hemisphere, which is easier than explaining that in its annual orbit the earth would reach the point where its electromagnetic axis, from the northerly perspective, is tilted away from the sun.
I went about my errands, and as I was returning home in the car, the classical radio station was playing Vivaldi's "Four Seasons", autumn of course!
*************
The uncommonly pleasant early fall weather brings all manner of characters to the courtyard: A young man plugged into his phone wanders around, leaving his tablet and laptop. Is he manic? An older woman, all in black except for multicolored high heels, is so disturbed by her wobbling table that she puts her paperback under a leg. A couple has brought two dogs, one of which is a basset hound.
The man on his phone comes back to his table, from which no device has been stolen. The woman in heels takes out a muffin from a Starbucks bag, their seasonal pumpkin cream cheese - goes great with a pumpkin spice latte. I suspect no one looks up to notice a red-shouldered hawk fly over, pursued vainly by a brazen crow.
************
Schools are back in session, and Panera is abuzz this morning. An old man bearing a close resemblance to my retired accountant sits in from of me in a sweatshirt reading, "Bethany Surf Shop". The amiable rabbi is here with his group, telling them of a friend in California whose dog Gracie is the only pet welcomed at the local cafe. If the friend goes there without Gracie the staff asks after her.
The courtyard will now have German or French School students at lunchtime, and Grey will soon put away his Panama in favor of the Borsalino. That's a term I learned researching the biography. It is a fedora made by a hat company of that name from felted Belgian rabbit fur. Jeremy Brett, it is claimed on the the internet, had one in his younger years, authentic of course. Writing is indeed educational!
Well, tomorrow the courtyard.
***********
It is the last day of August, and two local firemen are gathering donations in the courtyard. Next to me are two young women, one with an infant girl in a stroller, a darling bow tied around her bald head. The baby is as quiet as a lamb. She brings to mind by virtue of contrast a recent observation in a restaurant, parents with fractious toddler. Mother was bargaining with him. "If you don't eat your fish, you will get nothing else to eat; then you will be disappointed and sad." And here I thought when the phrase "age appropriate" became current, we had lain to rest the belief that humans under the age of twenty can be reasoned with! The father was typically passive, though adjudication is surely best handled by dads.
Before I leave the courtyard, the young mother has taken the baby and gone in search of a restroom to change her diaper. A good mother, really is such a rara avis. Well, September tomorrow, at last.
*********
Only in August can one emerge from ones subdivision with no cars coming in either direction, and make all the synchronous green lights without being stalled by a slow driver, in what I call a "pokey parade". Indeed the environs that surround the capital of the free world are deserted at this time of year, much like France as I understand.
Here at Panera it is quiet, and yet two men are talking business. One is balding, in an orange polo, the other younger, wearing loafers without socks. The latter makes some assertion beginning with, "No, no, no, no...", that rapid fire negation which used to grate on me until I noted it is not intentionally adversarial. It seems to be a European mannerism spreading through the english speaking world. Well, this young man talks fast anyway; he is in insurance. Ah, Grey is on the cell, no doubt in a stew over the biography...
********
With cloud cover and a light breeze, it is a cool morning in the courtyard despite the heat wave. A Muslim woman, covered head to toe all but her face, must be suffering anyway. She is here with a toddler in a stroller. A family comes with their poodle, who apparently was just released by the local vet from his Elizabethan collar. Life is difficult, and then we pile on, I observe.
But my reflective mood is soon taken up by the volunteer petunias fairly brimming over one of the long planters in soft purple profusion. For several years now I have rued the decision of management to use begonias, which are more drought tolerant, since the hard working caretaker Doyle was replaced with a young man who seems incapable of hauling the hose. The petunias were glorious, beside which begonias are places holders, and here they come back whenever the begonias give way, brave and beautiful petunias! Life may be difficult, but nature finds a way.
************
In contrast to the dull lot of villagers in the courtyard Panera is a lively place this morning; well it is inside of course and air-conditioned. An elegant old lady comes in, her hair as white as her shoes, purse, and slacks. More young women are in skirts. Have they finally noticed that all their mothers and grandmothers wear pants, usually jeans? I had to explain to my poor benighted nephew that "dungarees" are properly worn for shoveling out the barn!
Lots of patrons here are engrossed in their laptops, which will doubtless be obsolete before I break down and buy one. I will meet Grey later in the village. It I can get him off the subject of Brett even briefly, there is a thought I will run by him: Is the opposite of hope necessarily despair?
************
There is a break from the summer heat this morning, and lots of people are in the rain-cooled courtyard. I am attempting to feed the sparrows crumbs from my cranberry scone, but there are so few birds I resort to signaling them, actually catching the eye of one sitting atop a tree. She flies over and is rewarded. "His eye" may be on the sparrow, but the sparrow's eye is not necessarily on me, even with a delicious, flaky scone.
I see none of the regulars here, nor anyone especially eccentric or garishly costumed among the denizens today. These villagers are a dull lot. To our redemption, here comes Grey, stepping out of the Bentley in his Panama. The biography of Brett has arrived at the Sherlock years, the last chapter, but considerable editing still lies ahead. He claims it is a very rough draft. Alas!
**********
Beside me in Starbucks is a most entertaining couple: an older man in shorts and a not so young woman who does all the talking. She is telling fish stories: how proud she was on a fishing trip where she was the only woman and she reeled in a baby hammerhead shark; how she hit on a school of blue fish in the bay and caught so many she grew bored; how her hundred-year-old grandmother in Danville, "a dying town", drained her farm pond and restocked it when she was eighty; how her brother once cast his line on said pond and the hook caught her in the neck, whereupon her grandfather, "a real country man", ripped it out, no tetanus shot. To her inquiry, he replies that he has not been fishing in twenty years, causing me to wonder what has brought these two together. If he is a relation, he must not have spent much time on Grandma's farm.
Alas, my car is ready at the station. I am off...
*************
It is a singularly uninteresting rainy morning in wi-fi corner at Panera, unless one might observe two young men who just came in, one white with long shaggy hair, the other black, bald, with a beard, causing me to reflect once more on the attempt to hide male-pattern baldness by shaving the head. Well, better than Trump's combover.
Then in the parking lot a royal blue Mercedes sport coupe pulls in, piquing my curiosity as the driver gets out: a woman, plump, butch looking. She bears a close resemblance to a checker at the grocery store who mumbles to herself and is full of folk wisdom, but in this sweet ride, an odd juxtaposition. By the courtyard we see luxury cars often. There is a charging station that brings anyone with a Tesla, but of course my favorite is the Bentley.
*************
The courtyard is well-peopled this morning, a perfect June day with an unusually cool breeze. Someone has parked a Segway at the bicycle stand, and a dad with his young son is flying a remote control toy, a micro-drone. Two adolescent girls are in a deep discussion next to me, one a chubby brunette, the other thin with long, curly, flaxen hair. It is hard to discern whether this is an interview between prospective roommates or if they aspire to be a lesbian couple. The brunette asks, "What do you talk about with your dad?" The blonde replies, "Sex," at which point I am wishing they would speak louder.
Now comes the elderly woman who visits the salon once a week, led by her African helper. Her husband used to bring her, then the helper would bring them both. Today the man is missing, as we each will be in time. The Segway is still here as I leave.
*******
I am back in the courtyard enjoying a mild summer's morning in the shade of the courtyard trees and feeding the sparrows. There are a few people engaged with their laptops, including a young man whose faded tee shirt reads "Yarmouth Clam Fest". I am on the look out for the man in the Panama pulling up in his Bentley; that would be Grey, back from the old country and most disgruntled over the referendum. His email said something about stupid people rising up and shooting themselves in the foot. I reminded him of Confucius, and the Tao Te Ching for that matter. We have much to learn from the Chinese, who have seen more cycles of civilization than we have. Look for a headline in this space!
Ah, here he comes now across the parking lot, dapper as ever.
************
This morning there is but one other inhabitant of wi-fi corner. He answers a call from "Elizabeth" and tells her he is at Panera working. The early summer weather is lovely, so only the true hazelnut addicts still come around. The widow who is cozy with the staff holds court at her favorite table, and the amiable rabbi talks at length on his cell. One of those super-long tractor trailers is pulling out of the parking lot emblazoned with the Panera logo and the slogan, "Food as it should be", reminding me of the official slogan of Maine, "The way life should be." While agreeing with both sayings, I reflect on the discontent instigated by that word should.
Grey's new book is daunting. Now in the middle of a first draft, we both remark at what he has taken on. He is back soon, doubtless dismayed at the state of the old country.
***********
People have the most earnest conversations here in the courtyard on a summer morning. A grey haired man with his right arm in a soft cast is talking with a black haired, heavy woman. He is married but not to her. She could be his therapist, since she seems to be helping him analyze certain personal relationships.
It is the coffee, of course, Starbucks or Vie de France; it stimulates speech but not indiscretion, differing from alcohol in that respect. Among Linda's decorations for summer are signs posted on the courtyard trees: Free weeds! Pick your own; and Let Love Grow. This latter injunction causes me to wonder whether overgrowth might result in indiscretion.
A cumulus cloud crosses the sun causing a welcome breeze as I am off to the shops.
************
I chose the wrong morning to walk this week, overcast and hot without even the veil of fog to recommend it. But the trees were an elegant green lace against the sky, and the birdsong, most of which I could identify by species, is always a delight. At break of day there is not much traffic, so I could walk down the middle of the road under the bower I love whether it is leafy or snow-covered. As I emerged from this part of the walk, there on a low branch of a shrub, utterly still and beautiful, as if waiting to greet me, sat a hawk, the native red-shouldered variety. We eyed one another awhile before his inherent shyness moved him to fly off to a more distant shrub. I stood perfectly still until he was out of sight.
Alert to serendipity, one never lacks for wonders. But now I am in the courtyard, where I must meet with Grey, who is back to Yorkshire soon, to check on the home farm, and then there is that referendum. He is all for coalescence, of course.
************
Summer has set in, so the shady tables are popular here in the courtyard; and at last there are fledgling sparrows, their wings quivering and beaks open to be fed croissant from the bakery. In front of me are two women having a deeply psychological conversation concerning their dysfunctional families. The one especially describes personality disorder in both her parents, causing her as a child to think she was crazy. But she seems to be one of the lucky ones, insightful enough to benefit from therapy and meditation. Indeed she tells of a meditation class that wrought life changing epiphany. Well...
As she kept glancing at me, aware of being overheard, and as I had in my purse a supply of Grey's calling cards, newly minted by the publisher of our book, I could not resist. On my way out, I put two on their table - with apologies for eavesdropping.
*********
Suddenly it is summer, which is normal at this latitude, and the courtyard is teeming. Here in mid-week a dozen people are gathered around two tables. They might be an entire yoga class, though there are three older men, albeit exchanging tales of climbing Everest. The women are all in yoga gear, but isn't everyone now that skin tight is de rigeur? One man appears to be the ringleader, and wears a tee shirt that reads "10K run for music". His wife, the oldest of the women, runs to the bakery, returning with a large box of croissants for everyone. She sits with a very sweet small terrier in her lap.
One sparrow has come for a piece of croissant. Th dearth of birds is worrisome; there should be fledglings by now. Ah, here comes one, with parents, and lots of crumbs left. Life still prevails!
************
While the rain has stopped for awhile, it was a misty walk early this morning and still overcast here in the courtyard. In the miasma of a sinus headache, I mistakenly took a Tylenol PM, so now the benedryl component is at war with the sinus medication that followed it down. The coffee should help! Sparrows are here this time, sharing my croissant, but not many people. It is rather dismal, and after so much rain, who can trust that the sky will not open up any minute. Confounding is the need to mix ones winter and summer wardrobes, making for light pants with a woolen blazer; uncommonly it is still too cold to mothball the woolens.
To the deli briefly and then home while I am still fit to drive; always so glad to live just a mile from our fair village!
*********
And now April showers are waxing into May showers. The ferns are loving it, and the moss; the shrubs and trees are drinking it in, but mold I fear is growing on my bronchi. Never mind, when it stops, temperatures will soar and all things will fry in the summer heat. Frankly I am enjoying the opportunity to continue wearing my L.L.Bean boiled wool pea jacket with the doeskin pockets.
But of course the courtyard languishes whilst I am ever tending toward the Bakery for morning coffee. Lots of people here with laptops today, causing me to consider that such a thing might be my next Moleskine. No, no, no... the pen, the paper, the ribbon marker, the clastic closer, so reassuring! Never to depend on microscopic bits and bytes of information embedded on a flash drive so small that the cat could swallow it!
Well, I must talk to Grey later. He has an idea regarding perceptions that he wants to run by me.
********
More April showers send me to the Bakery for refuge. My Tunisian friend was on the phone, so today I had to pay for coffee and a muffin. I am glad to do so, as I always worry he will get in trouble for his generosity.
A young mother is diapering her baby on one of the bench seats. The child is quiet enough, but really - hygiene? She then puts a blanket over her shoulder and begins breast feeding, after glancing furtively to see if anyone is watching. Well, her secret is safe with me; I only hope the next person to sit there is not immune suppressed!
*********
A perfectly clear April day in the courtyard, with warm sun and cool breeze. Sun or shade is a toss-up. A table full of half a dozen young women send up a loud chatter, yet I am able to eavesdrop on two men who have chosen the sunny table next to me. One is young, in a blazer and jeans, his youth broadcast in repetitions of the word "awesome". His companion is older, with a salt-and-pepper beard, an Iranian accent, and a decided smell of tobacco, though he is not smoking. His Mideast origin is emphasized by his suede, tasseled loafers, worn without socks They are talking business, the young man peddling some type of real estate investment, and the older fellow from a financial firm that might be interested.
But I have "miles to go before I sleep", and the sun is getting hotter, so onward!
**********
Do not try to save a table with a newspaper; the next person just assumes it has been left. I usurped such a table at Starbucks this morning; but the hirsute older man who claimed it was gracious enough to share, and as it was a larger table, I agreed. He spoke first, commenting on how busy it was, and I added that we need more cafes, upon which he started in about the Paris scene in the early twentieth century and the hangouts of the great artists.
Well of course I then pulled out the Moleskine - precursor to the laptop - attesting to my kinship with that school, whether they were artists, writers, or composers; and he volunteered that he is an artist, which was not surprising given his unkempt appearance. I said that Starbucks would be a good place to sketch people, and he recalled having startled the locals in Paris once with the sight of an American sketching in the cafe.
Shortly he took his coffee and left, leaving the newspaper.
**************
It is raining pitchforks. Little creeks and rills run like rivers, closing any road that dips past them. Naturally I am at my rainy day refuge, the Bakery, feeling like a drowned rat. The Tunisian manager is working today, and insists upon a hug before bestowing coffee and cake. He loves his work, and anyone who becomes a regular patron becomes his friend. A most unusual person.
The place is abuzz with other refugees, young ones with laptops, old ones with the Post, or engaging in face to face conversation, which has become luxury of old age. Ironically, the young don't have time. Even their Facebook has given way to tiny tweets, worthy of the lowly house sparrow.
The rain lets up and a fog rolls in. Time to go.
**************
Just the first of April and shade is at a premium in the courtyard. I am here at noon and people have brought their children, getting lunch from the deli or the bakery. Easter decor remains: plastic eggs hanging from the trees and bunny dolls surrounding the lampposts. The early holiday has already past, but spring weather is also early; the air is soft, the breeze southerly. Showers come on and off alternately with clear sunny sky. We are April's fools though if we imagine the winds will not soon shift, allowing March its due for the premature April weather.
Two hairdressers from the salon, both men, sit down with sushi and converse in a foreign tongue. They are black haired and dressed in black. I decide to move on, leaving them my shady table. As I go, Linda's Passion arrives. Farewell, Easter Bunny, till next year!
**********
At Starbucks by the chiropractor, an old man suffers the indignity of having a young woman hold the door for him. Well, he is limping. I compliment the clerk on her smile, enjoining her to keep smiling because it helps everybody. I like to compliment a nice smile, finding it necessary as an old person to say things that others don't. Civility needs to be taught, if only by example.
The place gets busy around mid-morning coffee break. Two people sit reading a newspaper, a real paper one! And one girl struggles with something on her laptop - homework? A March wind still howls without, but "the cruelest month" approaches with April Fool's Day.
***********
It is good Friday, and schools are on spring break, so at the Bakery the employees lounge and talk with each other, Spanish of course. (Please, President Trump, please don't take our Mexicans away, we love them!) At Panera yesterday, however, someone had bought up the soufflés - a Church lady? I left sorely disappointed.
There are spring showers this morning off and on, in keeping with the occasion. Grey and I never fail to remark the strangeness of celebrating a crucifixion after millennia. Surely it is the residual power of papal Rome. Of course we also believe the victim was a closet Buddhist. Grey showed me the gay love scene from the biography, and I must say it is the most romantic thing I have ever read. But then it is in Montreux!
********
March came in like a lamb, so it is going out like a lion. The biting March winds, unmitigated by a warming sun, have driven me to the Bakery this morning. I like to tell them here that I would starve to death without them, which is only a slight exaggeration. The place is uncommonly quiet. One man chatters on his cell phone in a foreign tongue, completely indistinguishable as anything I might be familiar with. Well, we are outside the nation's capital, which draws people from all over.
I will stop in the courtyard on the way home to see if Grey has braved the wind. I fear his imagination is getting ahead of my research; he tells me he has Jeremy Brett involved in his first gay romance in Montreux, on Lake Geneva, at the foot of the Alps, in 1961. Wow, do I have work to do!
*********
Fickle March has returned to the typical damp chill of early spring, and thus I have the courtyard to myself but for the few sparrows who are not preoccupied with mating. Saint Patrick's Day is coming, and sure enough right on schedule, the Bentley pulls into the parking lot. Grey is back this morning in his gray felt fedora and long forest green muffler, walking into the bakery for his coffee and croissant. He knows I will be where I always am. Though he is himself the quintessential Brit, "Champion" is an Irish name.
He has warned me he is posting about the asymptote, but alas none of my math textbooks ever was that advanced. Well, I'll wing it!
*********
In front of my table at Panera are two young women conversing in Hebrew, which is not unusual across the street from the Jewish Community Center as it employs many Israeli natives. There is a stroller next to them, but no occupant. The infant is at his mother's breast, and I must say most discreetly concealed under a large scarf strategically positioned. When she takes him out, I see he is quite young indeed, not yet able to hold his head up. He is a fortunate child, or so it seems, to have such an attentive and loving mother, though of course I do not understand a word of what they are saying.
Eka is here in a lovely hijab this morning, and she has my soufflés ready to go. I take them home for dinner. Really, I should be getting some money from the chain for advertising. What do you think, readers?
**********
March is in like a lamb, and right on schedule, Linda's Passion florist is here in the courtyard decorating for spring, including a new Easter rabbit in a spiffy sky blue jacket. Behind me are two women in a tete-a-tete, and I hear one of them ask, "Did you ever worry that your daughter would never get pregnant?" To which the other replies, in the patois of the times, "I would never go there."
The wind is also here with March, blowing everything around. If the wind chills get any colder, I will need to take refuge tomorrow at the Bakery, hoping for a free coffee and a hug from my Tunisian friend. I welcome Linda back as I leave, and of course compliment the new rabbit. She greets me in return, forgetting my name.
*************
Undermining my boasts of braving the courtyard in all weather, a very wet winter has sent me to Starbucks far too often. Here in the tiny shop that edges the courtyard, I am wedged in beside a young man in a rather private conversation with his aunt. He is probably a college freshman, who aspires to be an actor; and she is an older woman wearing pearl earrings with an artificial white flower - in her hair. She underlines each of his statements with a firm "Absolutely!" They discuss his anxiety, his meds for it, his therapy; and he observes that his drama classes are very technical, unlike his high school experience of performance. He probably went to the local school renowned for its productions, which in my opinion indulges the thwarted dreams of its faculty at the cost of inflicting them on impressionable students.
Ah well, with a real hazelnut coffee, as opposed to this rotgut flavored with syrup, I might have recommended to him before leaving some of the theatrical memoirs I have been reading, in my research for Grey's book.
**********
Snow mountains remain in the parking lots, trickling down in slow streams like glaciers, threatening to ice whenever the temperatures drop. But on a sunny day, sheltered from any wind by the optician's wall, the courtyard is pleasant, and I am guaranteed that sheltered table. Soaking up the solar radiance, I ponder the crowd shoe-horned into the Starbucks opposite, and wonder anew why people consider winter a dark season. Not unless you are at the North Pole! It is the brightest season at the bottom of a forest, which happens to be the natural history of the east coast of North America.
Meanwhile, Grey is finding his biography of Jeremy Brett to be his favorite distraction. I try to help with research, and we communicate by email as he is still in Yorkshire. He is skeptical of that prediction by the Pennsylvania rodent; but oh, to see the Bentley in the parking lot once more!
************
At Panera I am overhearing a conversation between a white-haired woman and an unshaven man with a mousy gray ponytail. They each have a laptop, and he is advising her about promoting "A Vegan Life", a charitable, animal welfare organization. Beside them on the windowsill is a jar of instant coffee, Folger's decaf, and they appear to have brought their own mugs. Not much money in animal welfare, obviously. It turns out he is ignorant about such organizations and winds up offering his own money.
Across from me is the Chinese couple, perennial moochers, though they don't seem to be here as often as formerly. They are thoroughly absorbed in their handheld devices, and do not speak, though of course they could be eavesdropping. No, no, the siren song of the web is irresistible! At least they bought their coffee.
***********
Back at Starbucks after the chiropractor. An old woman comes in who is worse off than I am; and she must be a regular, because after she orders she sits down, and the clerk brings her a coffee and pastry. The place is not busy; when it is there is no place to sit. Most of these shops, I find, are unaccountably small. The parking lots are still a mess anyway after the big snow.
This place draws people from the gym across the street, in their tight outfits talking about their classes. But today there is a nicely dressed young man in a suit, with a red tie sporting foxes. He is accompanied by a young woman, also well dressed, who may be a relative or colleague from the casual hug they exchange in parting.
Grey is sitting out the winter in Yorkshire, waiting for me to report the forecast of our local groundhog.
*********
On the fourth day following the blizzard that left two or more feet of snow on the entire mid-Atlantic region of North America, I am once again sitting in the courtyard with my hazelnut coffee and an apple croissant. I attempt to call Carmen at the management company to sing her praises for the amazing job their crew has done not only in the courtyard but the parking lot as well; her office is closed however. It surely seemed a daunting task to move enough of that snow to let people park, but it has been accomplished. Kudos to Zuckerman, Graveley!
Next stop the post office, then the grocery, pulling on ice cleats over my boots in case their lots are not as well tended.
*************
It took until the middle of January, but winter has begun at last, the arctic cold howling in on sustained high winds bending the trees and rattling the windows. One may sit in the courtyard briefly, but to hold a pen risks frostbite; and so of course I resort to the Bakery.
Two young women sit in front of me discussing their children's athletics. One is wearing an Under Armor hoodie plus a cap over her ponytail; the other has a buzz cut, softened to a degree by her dangling earrings. She does most of the talking, too softly for me to follow it, but the two seem unduly animated about something. The Tunisian manager is here, in deep conversation with the old guy who wears a USS Forrester cap. Alas, he does not see me. And so I slip away, back into the cold clutching my coffee.
***********
The last day of the year, and it is mild and sunny in the courtyard, still blazer weather. People are trooping into the deli, no doubt provisioning the evening's festivities. Here is a woman of some age laboring with obesity, causing her to shuffle along breathlessly; another older woman appears to have a permanently bemused expression plastered onto her face through years of habit. Now a young man goes by balancing on a hover-board, and I am relieved that it does not explode before he leaves.
The sparrows are not hungry; they must think it is spring. And strangely there is no line at the liquor store, as there was on Christmas Eve. So, onward!
*********
The morning of Christmas Eve and warm rain is forecast for the foreseeable future. It is unnatural and puts me on edge. Of course I am taking refuge at the Bakery, where a bear hug from the Tunisian manager, along with free cake and coffee, sets all aright. He and his staff are truly spreading the Christmas spirit this morning; I am not the only one for whom this place is a refuge. The goodness of people is very moving, and this season of the year is emotional anyway - the nostalgic songs, the beautiful sacred music. Loyal readers will understand, for example, that I choke up whenever they sing "... hear the angel voices". Grey has the good sense to spend Christmas in England, where he meets with an old friend on the day, in Matlock. He returns in the new year, and all will be back to normal, surely.
************
The thing about coffee is that it simulates the brain and the tongue, hopefully in sequence. People become more talkative and friendly. This effect is not to be confused with that of wine, about which it is said, "in vino veritas". Wine pulls the truth out of one, risking the breech of discretion. Coffee just causes strangers to smile at each other and to chat over the coffee urn.
Last week here at Panera an Indian man on his day off from AT&T, started a conversation about the hazelnut as I was warming my cup. Before I left, I had given him Grey's card. This morning a Chinese woman comes in, wrapped in a very soft woolen shawl of pale gray, and smiles several times in my direction. She has joined a friend who proceeds to inure her, jabbering in Chinese on her phone. The surrounding neighborhood is very ethnic: many Chinese, Israelis, a Jewish Center that has a school and senior residence. And here, Eka, in her hijab, cheerful and sweet. But don't worry, Donald, there are still a few old white men as well.
**********
It is still blazer weather, though Christmas nears. In the courtyard, the old mannequin Santa has been replaced by a new standing one; the old slouch I suppose was a poor example for the children, always looking like he had just stumbled out of the tavern after a few too many. There are two young women here this morning, one with a black Labrador and smoking an actual cigarette, a rare sight anymore. She and her companion are talking about Marjorie Merriweather Post and the sad loss of style in modern times, as the smoker puffs stylishly, evoking that bygone era. Another woman comes with a grubby looking Labra-doodle, and the dogs greet one another in the canine, olfactory ritual. The grubby girl seems inordinately attracted to the black one, but oddly he does not reciprocate. Maybe he's too young, or too old - or she really needs a bath, poor thing. And so, on to village errands.
************
Again taking refuge at the Bakery. I can brush snow off the courtyard tables, but rain is another matter. This morning there are two men who appear most unlikely to be seriously engaged in the conversation they are indeed having, concerning emotions and psychology. One is in a suit and tie, thinning hair, the other is Asian American and has not removed his rain slicker. At first I wonder if they are mental health professionals, but it becomes clear that they are educators discussing a problem student, who is in therapy. The eavesdropping is hindered by the employee making coffee beverages, who shouts them out like a Starbucks barrister. The Asian man is doing most of the talking, and at one point the man in the suit begins to seem that he might be the parent, but he wears no wedding ring.
Well, I must leave this as an intriguing mystery, and back into the rain, which has been accompanied today by a lovely fog hanging in the wet trees.
***************
***************
The sparrows also swoop down; they stand in a line for their croissant crumbs as soon as they see me - so well trained! Grey pulls up in the Bentley. He is back from Yorkshire, looking dapper in his brown Fedora and a Harris Tweed, a long forest green muffler thrown over one shoulder. I hope he hasn't discovered he was erroneously tagged in a Thanksgiving photo on Facebook. I didn't do it, Grey!
**************
I arrive at Panera on a rainy day, rattled by the drive over, in front of a young man determined to pass me illegally on the right or left, and irrationally angry that I did not automatically defer to him. I sped up, but it is a two lane road, so we just caught up to the slow traffic. Finally I let him around me, and he used a left turn lane to bypass another dozen cars, expecting I suppose that somehow we should all understand his need for haste. Well, being young he must hurry; he doesn't know what makes him tick, but I do.
Eka filled my usual order without a word, except a "good to see you" and "take care". But filling my cup with hazelnut coffee, I knocked it over as I reached for it. A terrible waste! Luckily there was more in the pot.
**************
On a rainy day I take refuge at the Bakery. The Tunisian manager is here, and greets me with a big hug - a lovely, warm soul. Behind me is a young woman with a piercing voice and an odd, guttural laugh, telling her companion about growing up in Cicero, the suburb of Chicago, where she had Italian friends. She describes their hair and clothing, and their homes, in such vivid detail, I entertain the idea that she should be, if she is not, a novelist. For some reason their conversation turns to REI, the outdoor outfitters. Perhaps it is the stand they have taken this year against the insanity known as "Black Friday". More power to them!
And so, "once more unto the breach", or at least the rain.
***************
So they are still together, the aging hippy woman with her long gray-blonde hair and her bearded, paunchy companion, here at Panera occupying the same corner as of old. Neither wears a ring of any kind, so the nature of the relationship remains a mystery. She does ninety percent of the talking, so he may just be the friend who is a good listener. But then again perhaps she is the vocal in his garage band. A story at every table!
I read that the aging hippy generation is moving back to the cities, downsizing from their suburban mansions, and putting themselves in competition for urban dwelling with their own children. These poor young people, saddled with student loans and wanting for any job security, need to get their faces out of Facebook and start taking the lead!
*************
The sunny side of the courtyard is delightful this morning,yet I am alone here but for one young woman whose head is bent low over her personal device. Before long the sparrows discover me and are abundantly rewarded. Then more people arrive, as the deli has opened. Old-timer Jack passes by with his walker, which he has been using for years now; and he puts me in mind of something I must tell young readers, i.e. gravity is your enemy. If you live much longer, you will find yourself cursing it whenever anything falls to the ground.
But then the young are least likely to listen, which is why their elders in former times learned to keep mum and save their breath. Not me. I intend to curse - loudly! Well, on to the deli for a nice piece offish for dinner.
***************
It is a chilly Halloween, and the dozen or so people here in the courtyard are huddled by the optician's wall to catch the morning sun. The courtyard trees are bare, and the ghosts are somehow scarier today, even in the sunshine.
A young woman in cycling gear sits with a male companion, a fellow cyclist. I notice something guttural about her voice, an apparently characteristic quality I have heard in other women of her age. Are they wanting to sound like men? They are uncommonly desperate these days, but surely that should incline them to use their feminine wiles. Ironically many of their male peers seem to be attracted to women who dress like them, swagger and swear like them - and talk in a deep voice - adding to the already confusing matter of sexual orientation.
Well, well, enough of rumination. A bottle of wine and a bag of trick-or-treat goodies, then home to find my witch's hat!
*************
The clientele of Starbucks is certainly distinct. The women are Amazonian, businesslike in tight clothes and spike heels; the men are hip, Dockers and deck shoes. They are uniformly the people who seem to require a high octave coffee, and one that adheres to rules of Purity, which for them apparently defines superiority. I am not a fan myself of anything high octane, though my Highlander, I am told, requires it.
I only stop here after the chiropractor, because it is close, and by then I am ready for something. When it is too wet to sit in the courtyard, I may go to that Starbucks. But both of these are quite small, and I find more and more people using the wi-fi hot spots for their online employment. We need more cafes! Entrepreneurs?
*************
A peaceful morning in the courtyard, a mild breeze bringing down rafts of the small, yellow leaves of our courtyard trees. Three young girls in their Catholic school uniforms are studying together, as a woman nearby chats interminably on her cell, in Spanish. If at least one of the girls is studying the language, here is practice.
A woman comes out of the deli who is the sort I suspect only seen in our humble village. She has frizzy gray hair and wears tight black capris, with a flowing tunic top striped in gray and causing the unfortunate illusion that she is twice as large as she really is. Adding to this flamboyant impression, the frames of her sunglasses are white. I try not to make eye contact.
When I spot the Bentley pulling up, I am glad I still have coffee left. Grey is already in his felt fedora and long, dark green muffler as he approaches, smiling.
***************
Halloween decor adorns the courtyard this morning, and a couple takes pictures next to the scarecrow, while a flock of crows perched across the street on a wire seem to be discussing it. They are a veritable Greek chorus, lined up at regular intervals referred to in relation to flocking birds as "individual distance".
The ghosts are new this year, appearing to seep out through several windows, white of course with scary black features. But here again are pumpkins, fake and real, straw bales and corn stalks, the perennial witch upended in her cauldron, and spiders, for which as a gardener I harbor a soft spot, to the dismay of arachnophobes, whom I have developed an instinct for sniffing out.
And so, equally as frightened as those chatty crows, I am off to the bank! Grey is back from Yorkshire soon, where the herds are flourishing.
************
There is quite a north wind in the courtyard on the autumnal equinox. The sun is still warm, but one is hard put to keep things from flying away, while the sparrows are not flying at all. A very unhappy toddler is screaming his head off as I approach, and his mother is hastily putting him back into his stroller. It is a double; he is a twin, and his brother has not made a peep, the odd but consistent thing about twins. Easy to conclude what part of the DNA went to the screamer!
Linda the florist is here, removing summer decor, little though there was, in preparation for Halloween; and the planters are bing switched out. Good riddance to the red begonias, and a hearty welcome to yellow and purple violas, as pansies are called, correctly, in England. God save the Queen!
**************
Once again by the door at Panera on a rainy day, wi-fi corner being full. Is the reception better in the rain? This is nonetheless a good spot, which I have taken to calling "Mycroft's Perch". Two of the local gendarmes walk in, one in uniform, his firearm on his right hip, a taser on his left. He resembles Vladimir Putin. His companion is taller, in white shirt and tie, though also bearing arms, and ear phones draped around his neck. The other buzz cut here is on a young man who is seated and appears to be a body builder. I am tempted to ask him if he is the bouncer, but I might be bounced. He is heavily tattooed. For that matter, a young woman in line has a tattoo on her leg, something small and feminine that might be discreetly concealed under pants; she is wearing a dress. Odd, this impulse to adorn ones body in such a permanent fashion, when it could as well be done less indelibly. Of course, you might not want to admit to your sweetie that you feel reluctant to have her name inked into your skin, especially if you are drunk.
Well, that's it, Mycroft; onward!
**********
Cool mornings give way to warm days in this season, and the first yellow jacket has shown up in the courtyard, where a good number of people are lingering, two with laptops, which must be hard to see in the dappled shade. The trees are gradually shedding their leaves. A young mother is here with a toddler, who is most eager to share her iced coffee from Starbucks. He is not indulged. It seems a bit chilly for that anyway, but they are sitting in the sun and she wears a jacket. The sparrows are also eager today - for croissant crumbs.
A fire engine blasts through the crossroads headed south. It is the new red truck the men seem to prefer, though I still think the old white ones are classy. I suppose though that men expect a fire engine to be red, having learned as much from boyhood, and they must be indulged! Shedding my jacket, I move on.
**********
As long as there are leaves on the trees, we do not notice that some are falling, as they are from our courtyard trees, the early sign of fall. Indeed without the twin gifts of observation and time, we tend to miss the early signs of anything. But this morning there is a young woman already in pumpkin colors, an orange skort and a black top. Her high spike heels are laced up her ankles like the sandals of a gladiator, and despite her Asian features, her auburn hair is long and wavy. She is married, sits alone, and reads a magazine, which I believe is "O".
It is early on an overcast morning, and people await the deli and other shops to open at ten, meanwhile nursing their Starbucks. The outliers, like myself, favoring the Vie de France, are of course older - like myself. I leave crumbs for unseen sparrows, but with some confidence they will come by lunchtime.
***********
Readers know that Grey has returned from his yearly sojourn in Maine, with a quite nice addition to the Bar Harbor poems, I should add. ("Read more" under the Carriage Lamp.) But I know he is back when I see the Bentley outside the bakery in the morning; he is so patriotic, despite the sad conditions at home. Indeed he won't be here for long before he is off to Yorkshire to check on the home farm and the family office. Of course he keeps tabs via internet, but he is nonetheless a believer in "face time" with his staff. I can be sure when we meet up in the courtyard today we will commiserate about struggling to find time to write in the midst of ongoing duties. There will be hugs, hand holding, and another bon voyage.
Ah, there he is - in his Panama!
*********
Summer is winding down, and it is quiet in wi-fi corner at Panera. Most families, I presume, will be on a last vacation before school begins, when the roads will be choked with traffic and the line at Staples out the door. This morning there are two older women here, well dressed, but as they converse in Spanish they are not a distraction.The one interesting person appears to be a woman, despite a conspicuous tattoo on her arm. She is wiry, with short gray hair, and her blue tee shirt announces that she ran in Richmond. Her Nikes confirm she is a runner. She is talking business with a young man, who is fairly nondescript except for the beginnings of a beard, a headstart on "Movember".
They are still there as I leave, and I hear Eka tell a customer they are out of soufflés.
************
No seats in wi-fi corner at Panera this morning, so I am sitting by the door, a spot where Mycroft Homes would relish the comings and goings of all sorts. Are they always this busy on Friday? My routine most often brings me here on Thursday. Tall men always get attention, and one is here in line, wearing a black top and jeans. His buzz cut does not conceal male-pattern baldness, which must be premature. He is not old enough. It seems a curious impulse to preempt nature when men, losing their hair, shave all of it off. Apparently it is not well appreciated that baldness is associated with high testosterone; ironic too that total baldness is macho while partial baldness is not. But then I suppose it must take courage to shave your head, which suggests something about Mr. Trump's comb-over.
People are still flocking in as I leave. It is a rainy day, and this is a welcoming refuge.
******************
It is a pleasant summer morning, a gentle sunlight filtering through the four courtyard trees. The planters this year have been filled with red begonias and blue ageratum, less thirsty than petunias I suppose, of which some volunteers from last year manage to spill over the ends. I miss them, and Doyle, the maintenance person, whose replacement has yet to reveal his name.
Two Jewish women are conversing about an enterprise the younger one is fostering, which apparently involves autistic children. Perhaps she is mother to such a child; both women are married. I catch the term "old soul", and the young woman digresses onto the subject of reincarnation, about which she has concocted an idiosyncratic ideology, i.e. that each soul has a mission, failing at which it may need to return in more than one body. She then moves on to the metaphor of the candle, explaining that with every good deed we pass along some of our light, making the world better. At least she has some acquaintance with Eastern thought, albeit glancing. This interchange has distracted me to the extent that I may as well move along.
************
As mornings are increasingly congested, inexplicably, I am not in the courtyard as often as I would like. For example, the nearest coffee to the chiropractor's office is, of course, Starbucks - what else? But the doctor is doing my spine a world of good, so afterward it's a tall Pike's with two pumps of hazelnut. At Panera meanwhile, there are two women in business attire this morning, one older with short hair, and the other young with the obligatory long, smooth locks. Both are in dresses, so their main distinguishing feature is stockings. Young women, I observe, never wear anything on their legs, regardless of the footwear. Bare legs are de rigueur! Oddly though, I am seeing more skirts. Have the girls noticed that their elders all wear pants now? Peculiar, these humans!
As I begin to get dirty looks from an influx of patrons bearing laptops, I become aware of taking up a hot spot - with nothing but a Moleskine! Time to march!
************
Oppressive summer is in full swing in the courtyard, and still it teems with diverse mankind. A group of Harley hogs descends on us, identified by their tee shirts and paunch. They take a group picture in front of Starbucks, suggesting that they may have come from a distance. Two men sit near me, one in a shirt and cap saying "Autism Speaks", and he speaks, wishing me a good morning. His friend is a handsome fellow, married, graying hair that is long, compared that is to the buzz cut now so prevalent. Indeed there is a young woman here with something of a buzz cut herself. Strikingly dissimilar is the woman emerging from Starbucks who knows the two men. She is dark-skinned, perhaps Ethiopian, with long, straight, black hair, and while not heavy, is spilling out of her long sundress. She does not stay, but the men linger, discussing their cycling adventures - and misadventures.
Stifling hot, I long for winter...
************
A teenage girl is here in wi-fi corner at Panera this morning with an older married man, who seems to be tutoring her in math. At least they start out with two plus two and four times three. Soon however they are talking about logarithms, and he digresses into an admiring explanation of how NASA got a small craft close enough to Pluto to take pictures, using Jupiter as a pivot. He must be a very inspirational teacher, but in her case any amazement is well concealed.
Before I leave they have moved on to acoustics and the harmonic series, the factor of two being significant, which he demonstrates by humming an octave. Poor man; well at least he had one attentive listener!
*********
As I take out my Moleskine here in the courtyard, which is heavily populated this morning, the two women at the next table lower their voices, as though it were a recording device. Well it is, I suppose. They have daughters struggling in college, both in some medical related studies, and one threatening to drop out of Georgetown. On the other side of me, an old man in an Oberlin polo shirt is reading the morning paper, with pen in hand. There is also a couple with two dogs, a yellow lab and a young bulldog. The dogs get loose of their leashes and come after the crumbs of my apple croissant, which the sparrows have not yet finished. The canines make short work of this treat, and the man is apologetic, though I suspect annoyed at my bird feeding proclivity.
All of the tables in the shade of the Starbucks roof are occupied, and laptops aplenty, while cloud cover and our courtyard trees spare us all the high summer sun.
*************
Idle teenagers are frequenting the courtyard this summer morning. One pair, a boy and a girl, are particularly distracting. They are engaged in lively conversation concerning mutual friends and teachers, what courses they will take in the next school term, and other typical matters. The girl mentions her art class, and brags that she was very good at "modern art". Well, that was easy! Before long the boy begins to slip in obscenities, first the "s" word, then the "f" bomb. Primed by my friend Grey's essay, The Sexual Theory of Everything, I have two sudden epiphanies: the boy is testing her, as to her threshold for crudity; and neither of them understands that she is as eager as he to reproduce, nor why. Ah, youth!
Wishing them luck, I am propelled onward by the eternal urgency of errands.
*****************
The two men talking business here at Panera are going to meet with Joe within a week or two, concerning a manufacturing enterprise involving energy generation. One man is Iranian, still with the accent though having left before the revolution. He speaks of collaborating with a friend in Australia whom he has not seen since leaving Iran. The other is American, and wants to keep this proposed business in the States, though they concede the possible advantage of lower labor costs elsewhere. Always a story here in wi-fi corner!
The place is not busy, being summer, yet the soufflés were nearly gone before ten o'clock. People sit outside; sparrows gather. A small boy with strawberry blonde hair comes with his grandmother and eyes me coyly. What is it about young boys? Perhaps the charming dissonance between their size and strength relative to what they can be expected to become, like the puppy with large paws.
*************
A bit of a quandary in the courtyard this morning. While I was occupied parceling out croissant crumbs to the sparrows, a group of three people at a table nearby got up and left. Only later did I notice that one woman had left her handbag hanging on the back of her chair. Our courtyard chairs lend themselves to this, and I have myself made this grave error. On that occasion some while back, a gentleman had taken my purse into the optician for safekeeping; and when I returned searching frantically the optician was waving in like frenzy through the window of her shop.
This morning the unfortunate man seated closest to the forgotten bag was trying to concentrate on his laptop. He had not paid attention, but thought the group may have been European. I rummaged through the purse and wallet hoping to find a phone number, but found only the name. She was indeed a traveler; there were plane tickets, foreign currency, credit cards, and car keys.
We do not have thieves in the village, so I left the bag hanging. When I passed by again it was gone. Quizzically, I eyed the man with the laptop. She had called Starbucks, and they were holding it for her. Happy ending!
************
Mycroft Holmes should step out of the Diogenes Club and come here to the courtyard this morning if he would study mankind. It is summer and the place is "buzzing like an overturned beehive", as the latter proclaimed in reference to the Admiralty in the Bruce Partington affair. There is a Sikh in a bright orange turban; a woman standing in the shade, rocking a newborn infant; two young men, each with two small dogs; and a table of four young girls, three of whom may be French African. The white girl also has nappy hair, putting one in mind of the recent outing of an NAACP official who has somehow been passing for black, to the great puzzlement of media, though the case is as plain as a pike staff: her parents adopted how many black children, during their daughter's developmental years? And what might she have been thinking? The girl needs therapy.
Reflecting how dreadfully uncommon is common sense, I move on to many errands.
**********
The pinwheels turn this morning, installed in the courtyard by Linda's Passion as an invocation to summer; they turn but slowly, and clouds gather, the atmosphere predicted to boil over in the heat this afternoon with thunderstorms. We are blessed on the east coast of North America in having relatively moderate weather, in contrast to the extremes now suffered routinely further west, the long drought in California, for instance, turning it into a desert to the peril of our food supply.
We have however had two frigid winters in a row, which may account for this year's paucity of sparrows. With the few that I see, I share my croissant. One swoops down, touching the foot of an Islamic girl sitting at the next table with a companion. She announces that she is terrified of birds, and I attempt to assure her that he is harmless. Such fearful people - afraid to show their hair.
************
I am assisting Grey with research on a book he is contemplating - a fictional biography based on the life of the late British actor, Jeremy Brett, famous for his quintessential portrayal of Sherlock Holmes. In the process, I am learning a good deal about England in the early twentieth century; but I find that mining the internet can be arduous and frustrating. I will require a laptop that I can bring here to the courtyard; after all, I do need my morning hazelnut fix!
The courtyard trees continue to shed their tiny spent blossoms after last night's heavy rain, which brought in a cool breeze this morning. Grey is back in Yorkshire; he is not surprised that Brett despised Eton, where caning went on until the 1970's. Ah, England!
***********
The Moleskine is being pelted with tiny blossoms from our courtyard trees, coming down in a cool, stiff breeze this morning. Carmen was ahead of me at the bakery, our representative with the property management company. I asked after Doyle, whom I have not seen in awhile; and sure enough, he no longer works here. He was a most excellent worker, and when the many large planters had not been watered, I knew something was amiss. Well, someone new is to start Monday. Carmen has a hard job, and does it well.
We are to have two days of spring weather before the early summer resumes, and I am enjoying the feel of my wool muffler once more around my neck!
*************
As I sit by the window here at Panera, two helicopters fly over in a northwesterly direction, followed closely by an "Osprey", the aircraft that can fly like a plane or hover like a helicopter. It is an odd looking bird indeed! I surmise this entourage may be headed for Camp David, where the President is convening a summit of Arab leaders. The king of Arabia will not be there, but will send an emissary - well, really!
Meanwhile, the mellifluous voice of my Islamic friend, Eka, can be heard greeting each customer in the sweetest, most helpful manner. The barbarians who will be under discussion at Camp David are by no means her brethren. Life is full of such ironies, arguing against generalities.
*************
Lately I carry my binoculars on my morning walk, since spotting a pair of red-shouldered hawks building a nest in my neighbor's sycamore tree. This raptor is native here, and distinguishable from the red-tailed hawk, another native - well - by its tail, which is not red but striped. I saw the two just once, but today there were fresh evergreen boughs on the nest. Hope springs! The sycamore stand lines a small creek, typically, as this tree likes water. Indeed the distinctive sign of white bark on its tall trunk is a wilderness secret for finding water.
Now I am in wi-fi corner at Panera; surrounded by laptops, I am jotting this on a napkin, having left the Moleskine behind. So long as there is a pen, there are always napkins! Maybe I should get a laptop.
*************
There are at least two pair of mommies in the courtyard this morning, in earnest discussion of their progeny as they interface with the educational experience. One easily observes their heavy investment in the outcome. I have seen two young women on crutches, and I begin to surmise a very rough yoga teacher; but one of these women is an amputee, at least she is missing a foot for some reason. I am reminded of a late friend who wore a prosthesis due to birth defects. What crosses to bear! Even those among us who seem at peace may have theirs.
I am sharing my orange cranberry muffin with the sparrows, who are relishing it, and feeling genuinely peaceful.
*************
Spring brings the most delightful reminders that the natural history of eastern North America is forest, as we are graced with the visits of migratory birds. The brown thrasher is back, with every motif of his endlessly varied mimicry given twice. Then on my morning walk today, I heard the buzzy monotone of a pine siskin, no doubt on his way to the Maine woods, where I hear him in summer.
In the courtyard, hungry sparrows again gather. They will be nesting and soon have young. People also are gathering, and it was a toss-up between sun or shade, the breeze still being cool. The optician, who has always excelled at window dressing, has his display matching the yellow and purple violas filling the planters. Still too cold for petunias. As I leave, a male sparrow hops on my table with a plaintive look, and of course he gets another crumb.
**********
Miraculously, the mountains of snow piled up in the parking lot here at Panera are gone by mid-April; and this morning there is a crew fixing numerous potholes, some that were veritable canyons. Outside, the sky is crystal clear and the sun warm. Inside, it is quiet. Are patrons awaiting their tax refunds? I hurry here for their soufflés; on rare occasions they do sell out, but Eka packs them up as soon as she spots me. I keep them for dinner. The hazelnut coffee, though, is my addiction.
As usual the people who are here are conducting business, via laptop or Blue Tooth. A bus goes by with an ad on the side that says,"We buy ugly houses.com". Imaginative, or desperate? A postal truck parks, and an old mail carrier gets out. He is already in shorts, while I still guard my throat with a muffler. Ah, spring!
*********
To escape the morning rain, and eager for a free coffee and a hug from my generous Tunisian friend, I take refuge at the Bakery. At the counter an old man is expressing profuse gratitude for a platter of food sent by the establishment to his family. From the solicitousness of a younger man accompanying him, I surmise that this unexpected gift may have been occasioned by a death, the old man's wife perhaps. He explains to the employee that he and his family have been regular patrons.
As I sit with my coffee watching the gentle spring rain outside, four young women take a table; they have gathered to plan some occasion, discussing numbers of guests, menu, and the like. Then from another quarter I overhear the following from a giggly young blonde in what we once called "horn-rimmed" glasses: "Is the chicken's egg fertilized before or after it is laid?" Well, at least she was laughing!
***********
Spring has come to the courtyard. Three men are here with a young boy, who goes off to a separate table to have a conversation on his cell phone. Two of the men are Israeli, talking in Hebrew, the third is not. One says in English, "The Iranians are the best merchants in the world!" At another table, two older men seem to be discussing the hire of a woman minister named Robin. They themselves may be clergy from the gist of the conversation, but if so I surmise Episcopal, as one wears a wedding band. Perhaps they are attached to Saint Francis just across the street.
It is the week following Easter, and the weather vacillates between warm and cold, wet and dry. Linda has not come to collect the giant rabbit yet. Doyle greets me passing by. I should ask him about the sparrows.
**************
The absence of sparrows in the courtyard this morning is curious and troubling. The sun is already quite warm, enough so that the chill in the air feels welcome; the day is clear and not windy, March having left yesterday in leonine fashion. Did the sparrows starve over the snowy winter? Their numbers decimated by hungry hawks? Looking around, there is just one other person here today. I suspect the birds know that handouts only come when people are here, and so far not many have been drawn by giant Easter Bunny, who I daresay is looking the worse for wear after some years holding court in the yard. Sorry, Linda!
At last as I sit basking in the sun, a male sparrow and his mate discover me, and are rewarded with a good half of my croissant.
************
A brisk walk early this morning was glorious, with the rising sun on one side and the setting moon opposite. For me, one brief advantage of daylight saving time is the later sunrise. Soon it becomes so early I must walk before breakfast.
Now at Panera I enjoy the radiance of the sunny window, having arrived just in time to catch Eka's eye thereby procuring the last two spinach soufflés. The place, while not unduly busy, is abuzz as usual. It's the coffee. Across the street in front of the old folks home, a female officer in a cruiser has stopped a respectable looking minivan. Most unusual, occasioned by what heinous infraction one cannot imagine. Rookie cop no doubt. A hawk patrols overhead, on far more meaningful business.
************
Here at my refuge in the Bakery, the Tunisian manager gives me a welcome hug, plus a free coffee and crumb cake. He has recently returned from his homeland, where a young niece had lost her husband - and there were children. There is nothing like the death of a young person, especially one who leaves even younger ones, to impress upon us the fragility of life at any age. But this lovely host here at the Bakery, as I never fail to observe, is just naturally warm and friendly, causing me to wonder whether this is typical in his country.
We have had ice falling from the skies, so the place is not busy. Pavement is treacherous, more so for pedestrians than for cars. Boots are wearing out this winter, and I fear for the lace-cap hydrangea, which was nearly done in by last year's winter.
**********
The writing life, I regret to observe, may cause dangerous absent mindedness, presumably due to a preoccupation with ones work. I walked away from my hazelnut coffee this morning, leaving the cup on the dispenser and not missing it until I sat down. Of course it was still there, monopolizing that spot under the favored drip, when I then fetched it. I am thus alerted that special care must be taken in driving.
It is quiet here at Panera, as the temperatures are still very cold and much significant snow remains. Few want to venture out for coffee, or even their soufflé, which is only available in the morning "while supplies last". Eka has two waiting for me, which I take home to keep until dinner. The sun is pouring through the window, warming and salutary - like the coffee - and I muse that by tomorrow an early morning walk may be reasonable.
*************
The past two winters, which have been unusually cold and snowy, have underscored a lack in our village that I have long bemoaned. Aside from a small Starbucks, there is no indoor place to sit with a decent cup of coffee. So while I am not a fan, here I am at Starbucks with a tall Pike's Roast over sweetened with their hazelnut syrup. At least they have warmed their new almond croissant for me. The soundtrack in a Starbucks is interesting - from reggae to classical jazz - and this morning I am hearing popular songs from the golden era - the thirties and forties - delivered by the greats, Ella, Louie, et al. Have the young finally escaped thralldom of the Boomer Generation with its hard rock? Lady Gaga has a singing voice, fetching raves for its beauty! Wait, beauty is in?
Outside a graying Boomer couple passes by in their matching jeans and quilted jackets, she a diminutive version of him. Children, your grandparents wear blue jeans - you can stop now.
*************
The courtyard is a delight this morning, and all mine. The air may be chill, but the sun warm, the wind calm, and the sky clear as the church bells across the street at Saint Francis, which now chime the half hour. I am joined by just a few sparrows, who seem grateful that I chose the orange-cranberry muffin today. But as for people, they are just passing through, from the seafood market to the parking lot. One of them is Jackie, among the regulars who now seem to desert the courtyard in winter. She is dressed to the nines in a full length fur coat so long it conceals the top of her stilettos. She is a singer, so perhaps she is giving a recital to the Friday Morning Music Club - except it is Wednesday.
*************
It is not often that members of the constabulary are to be seen here at Panera, but this morning there is an unlikely pair, not on business, just having breakfast. One of them is a young woman with a blonde ponytail and the most delicate gold earrings, contrasting dissonantly with her billy club and pistol. She is unmarried, and her male companion looks enough like her to be her brother. I fancy they might be Paddy O'Hara and his little sister Kate, who stubbornly followed him into police work, against all advice. The Irish have always seemed well suited to the job, given their inherent truculence. A dark haired officer joins them. They are all so young and trim, debunking the old joke about policemen and their taste for donuts.
Ours is a peaceful jurisdiction, not much for our public servants to do as a rule, and nothing likely that this slip of a girl could not handle - especially with that billy club!
************
Back in the courtyard, the temperature above freezing for a change, the sparrows have ventured out from their cozy roost to share my croissant. Aside from them, I have the place to myself, as I bask in the morning sun that hits the westerly wall.
Groundhog day has passed, when that old legend is eternally invoked, which began in Germany with farmers speculating as to whether the bears would emerge early from hibernation. Here in the New World it ad to be that lowly varmint. In Catholic countries the day is also Candlemas, which I understand involves blessing the candles. Catholics do seem to entreat divine blessings on most everything, from ships to animals, even the groundhog no doubt. Nevertheless, on this day at certain latitudes in the northern hemisphere, there are once again ten hours of daylight, the threshold at which dormant plants begin to stir.
Thus as I toss the last crumbs to my avian companions, I relish the thought of crocuses!
***********
Just outside the window at Panera, basking in the morning sun on a ledge of the brick wall, sits a tiny sparrow, his feathers puffed out against the cold. If I could open the window, he would share my crumb cake. It puts me in mind of my early years, when I labored in the concrete canyons of the city in a job at a government bureaucracy. The work was seasonal, so for long periods there was nothing to do but read The New Yorker, surreptitiously hidden in a brown folder. The city sparrows, gathered on the wide sills of those thick old buildings, were faithful companions, and the subject of many a poem, surreptitiously penned.
One may sit in the courtyard on these cold mornings; but in freezing temperatures, to write may court frostbite. So Panera is a refuge, and the Bakery is especially conducive to creative thought. The Tunisian manager is a gracious host, and he must lace the hazelnut coffee with something!
***********
The courtyard in subfreezing temperatures can become uninhabitable; so here I am at Panera again where the southerly sun always warms wi-fi corner. Behind me, a woman is on her mobile phone telling a friend that her Kindle froze at 5:00 AM due to automatic upgrades it incurred while connected to the internet. The "Kindle people" are already sending a new one. I reflect that such people might be those adept at lighting fires.
To the side, a young man babbles on to his girlfriend about publishing something with his advisor, and the possibility that he may need to "pony up the dough". He describes himself as a sensitive person. No doubt. Outside, the trees that have retained their leaves are perfectly brown, seasonal coordinates with the evergreens. And indeed, 'tis the season!
************
There is a line at Panera, but I manage to grab a table in wi-fi corner, which enjoys the solar radiance this morning. The widow is here, as she often is, the lady who used to come with her late husband. Across from me is a stout old woman with curly white hair, in an aqua velour exercise suit. Behind her, yet poles apart sartorially, is a young well-dressed man. I always notice a well-dressed man since they are extremely rare. He is in a gray wool suit, black oxfords and black socks, with a blue pullover sweater over his striped shirt. He has no laptop, but is deeply absorbed in his hand-held device, to the neglect of all else, including a large coffee and a book entitled, "Save the Cat". He has that ten-day beard that has been shown by experiment to be especially attractive to women, who apparently appreciate visible evidence that a man is capable of growing facial hair. Inexplicably then, this particular man is unmarried. Too self-absorbed perhaps. But "Save the Cat"?! Come on, ladies!
************
Heavy rains last night, and the courtyard tables and chairs are wet. As it is Sunday, Doyle, who usually tilts the chairs at least, may be forgiven for slacking. A couple has brought two Labradors, a golden and a white with a beautiful soft coat, which the man reveals to a curious passerby is called "English creme". The woman emerges from Starbucks, then disappears into the fish market, her husband apparently the designated dog sitter. They are the only other people here, unless you count Santa, still recumbent by the Christmas tree, past the New Year. One hopes Linda will rescue him this week.
***********
I knew he was a hawk flying high above me this morning because he was alone. Seen from the ground, vultures can be mistaken for hawks as they have the same pattern of gliding interrupted by occasional flapping. But vultures always congregate in small groups of five or six. One rarely sees a lone vulture. The visual identification of birds is actually the most problematic, natural history often being the most useful route, followed by call note and song, once one has learned them.
A bracing wind and a bright rising sun accompanied me on my walk, so I knew the courtyard would be all mine. Others have yet to discover the shelter of the optician's wall under the Zuckerman, Gravely Management sign.
**********
It is Christmas Eve, and raining cats and dogs. So of course, I am taking refuge at the Bakery. It is not busy, and my friendly manager is here; yet unaccountably, things are not going smoothly. Two coffee makers are under repair; a man complains that he requested sourdough and got rye; a lesbian couple, two black women, one in a postal uniform, have waited overlong for their food, which finally arrives cold. I surmise the shop may be short-handed due to the holiday.
The manager is a Tunisian man by the name of Ridha. He is kind, generous to a fault, and patient, i.e. perfect for this job; and indeed he handles himself with his customary aplomb this morning. Having missed the opportunity to give me a free coffee, he gives me a hug before I leave. Peace on Earth!
*********
The wi-fi corner here at Panera, which gets the warming sun on winter mornings, is quite chilly without that sun. It is yet another day of steady rain, of which we seem to be having more than usual. On such a day, how does one leave behind ones umbrella? But there it is, a nice blue and white one with a wooden handle, on the floor by my table. I assumed its owner would be coming immediately back for it, but so far, no. Of course I will turn it in before leaving.
Eka was singing this morning, the kind of day we most need it, and a practice I encourage with lavish praise and thanks. Singing is so salutary; perhaps if people were less self-conscious about it, there might be more cheer in these dismal times. Real cheer, not the trumped up, commercial variety. But then popular music, for three or four generations now, has been sadly, miserably unsingable.
Well, thank you, Eka my friend, so lovely in your hajib - at Christmas time. As I look up from the Moleskine, the umbrella, which I had placed on the sill, is gone.
************
There is but one dog here this morning, which regular readers will know by now is unusual on a Saturday in the courtyard. But it is chilly; everyone is in a cap. The dog is a handsome one, not large, shades of brown, with a soulful expression that causes passersby to pet him. He has been tethered first outside the bakery, then Starbucks, finally retrieved by a young man with that now notoriously attractive ten-day beard and sporting a knit cap that reads "Neff".
Another young man in a knit cap is here with two well-dressed women, African by their accents. In front of me is an old smoker reading the newspaper, which nearly flies off in the breeze. Before long his buddy emerges from Starbucks and they leave. And yes, Linda's Passion has struck, so that creepy life-sized Santa lolls by the elf cottage.
**************
Two of the retired doctors are here in the courtyard on a rare Sunday morning, along with a young man in a navy blazer, and tight pants that are embroidered with little polo ponies. He is the son of one of the older men, it would seem, the one he kisses on the cheek before leaving. Also here today is a lone man with his golden retriever, a dog with a barking problem. The man pets the animal to silence him, failing to realize perhaps that the affectionate gesture could be subject to canine misinterpretation.
Another group of three couples and assorted children occupies a large table. They are newcomers and could possibly be Iranian, though since a Romanian church sprang up not far from the village, I have come to suspect spillover, especially on a Sunday. A very old man hobbles in leaning on a finely carved cane. From a previous encounter I recognize him as the father of Jackie, one of the regulars. Perhaps the old man has moved in? A man with a white poodle is here, along with his young daughter, a beautiful child. He says the line at Starbucks is to the door; and when she volunteers to go, he hands her his credit card. Lucky girl!
**************
In the shelter of the western wall, bathed in the radiant warmth of the morning sun, a person can be quite comfortable in the courtyard even with this unseasonal cold spell hitting us prior to Thanksgiving. The mums already are frozen, and my fall lettuce, which has been known to last until Christmas under a cold frame, is finished. But I have the courtyard to myself, as few people appreciate the potential of radiant heat. No dogs, no children, no cyclists. Hooray for winter!
Jarring to my aesthetic sensitivity, Christmas decor has begun to impinge on what is left of autumn. The large wreaths are already hung on opposing chimneys, and the orange of pumpkins clashes with red bows on the lamp posts. Alas, one cannot afford to be too picky.
***************
The war of seasons goes on this November day, which started out with a beautiful fog, winds calm, then cleared quickly as a wind came up. But it is sunny and pleasant, sheltered by the wall of the optician here in the courtyard. Three young mothers are discussing the pubescent angst of their teenage sons. Zach, it seems, appeared heartbroken when his first romantic overture toward a girl was rebuffed, but alas, he was only embarrassed and soon recovered. Modern in their approach, these women are obviously eager not to be meddlesome.
Linda has left trappings of the harvest decor - even a few crows - and the optician, who makes an art of window dressing, has followed suit, with wicker cornucopias extruding pumpkins and fake autumn leaves. But Thanksgiving falls late this year; it will be a challenge to keep Santa waiting!
***********
It is Veterans Day, and Panera is especially busy, although it is not a school holiday, a devolution surely from my school days when I memorized the poem "In Flanders Field" in honor of the occasion. Today in fact is the centennial anniversary of the armistice that ended the first world war on the eleventh day of the eleventh month at eleven o'clock, a treaty so punitive that as Churchill predicted the war had to be fought again, after which the same mistake was not repeated. Instead the Marshall Plan gave rise to modern Germany.
So much for my historical ruminations. There is scarcely a table free, and a line is out the door, so I will move on. In London, I hear, surrounding the Tower, are more than 800,000 ceramic poppies, one for each Brit who died in the conflict. And doubtless, poppies still grow in Flanders.
***********
Election Day in the village. Schools are closed so as to serve as polling places, and the courtyard is well inhabited, dogs, kids, and all. Two school boys, newly bearded, are having a lively conversation about a girl who randomly stops talking to her boyfriend. Tim sits with a friend, and the friend's dog, a yellow lab. The friend tells of a neighbor who threatened to shoot the dog, reporting that he replied to this neighbor, "Go ahead, make my day." My, my! He seems an old, sweet canine - the dog also. Behind me a man tells his buddy of a "full body scan" at the dermatologist, and the buddy, who is British, does not even blush. So much for their tauted priggishness.
Linda has come to change over the Halloween decor, as I set out for the polls.
*************
It is Halloween, the eve of All Saints Day, and the courtyard is deserted save for one lone man in a pumpkin colored vest. The cold gray of November is a day early. A boy in a dinosaur costume walks by with his mother - a school party perhaps. The witch hats, spiders, bats, even crows will soon disappear, leaving the pumpkins, mums and corn stalks to signify the harvest of Thanksgiving.
As I leave, the lone man remains, and sure enough the church school at Saint Francis lets out a parade of costumed children, while the steeple chimes ten thirty.
************
Panera is abuzz this morning, autumn rain having set in for days. Two women behind me chatter in Spanish, with that rapid ballistic sound of the language necessitated by the excessive number of syllables required to express anything. In front of me is an old man, who quickly finishes his bagel and coffee; doubtless he had fasted for a blood test at the physicians' group up the road. A small Lexus in the parking lot sports the fanciful plate, "Bonezee". A tall thin woman approaches it and gets in. She has ATE syndrome (Arm to Ear) as she clutches her phone, leaving her with a furrowed brow and just one free hand. She might be an orthopedist, or married to one. I doubt that a forensic pathologist could afford a Lexus, but I could be wrong. Anyway, Bonezee is in keeping with the Halloween mood.
Staccato Spanish carries on as I warm my hazelnut coffee, and do the same.
**********
I did not have to wait long; already I am huddled by the wall of the optician's hoping for the sun to break through the overcast. The temperature is in the sixties, but I find this parameter has only a limited bearing on comfort. Even the "feels like" temperature one may see in a forecast, accounting for humidity, doesn't do it. Wind speed and direction, sun or cloud, all enter in. It is no wonder people fall ill during these transitional seasons, their bodies weakened by the constant struggle to maintain a core temperature, while their brains can't decide what season to dress for.
In the courtyard this morning, some are in coats, others in shorts. For me it is blazer weather, and I find a woolen muffler to be a godsend in a stiff breeze. At least it keeps the neck warm!
************
In line at the bakery, a young woman in front of me is in a tee shirt proclaiming, "I wish I was ...", with the ellipsis being three bejeweled stars. As I ponder the decline of the subjunctive case, I am at pains to restrain myself from correcting the grammar of her shirt. Well, no one is perfect.
The weather though is perfect in the first days of fall, and the courtyard is teeming. Since it is Saturday there are dogs and cyclists, and scarcely a spot for a sparrow on the cobblestone. The Indian doctors have a table, and the Chinese group. Grey has come in the Bentley, back from a chilly week in Maine; but he is British after all. I wave him over, and we share our yearning for the peace of winter.
*************
The summer was cool; the fall has come early. What does it bode for winter? Already here in the courtyard, Carmen, representing the property management company, is in a tete-a-tete with Linda, the florist of Linda's Passion. One may safely surmise they are planning for Halloween decor - and negotiating terms.
A very persistent bee is after my croissant, which I therefore dispatch quickly, breaking up much of it for the hungry sparrows. As I leave, I boldly interrupt Carmen and Linda to express my appreciation for their good work, proffering Grey's card with the blog and email addresses and suggesting they check out "In the Courtyard". They are most polite. Pumpkins and mums on the way!
************
My golden opportunity to be together with my two brothers, probably for the last time before one of us dies, and to gain insight about my nephew, his bride and her family, was dashed by an angry FAA employee in Chicago, who sabotaged air traffic control, causing chaos across the continent for hundreds of thousands of people. So here I sit in the courtyard instead of at brunch in Iowa, the day after the wedding, still recuperating from the airport ordeal that ended after seven hours with a cab ride home.
I share my orange cranberry muffin with the sparrows, who are relishing it, and ruminate about the passenger trains that used to carry us out west - the Chesapeake and Ohio, the Burlington and Quincy, the Zephyr - all gone now, having given way to the alleged superiority of flight.
************
Again it is unusually cool - blazer weather - but remarkably a good number of people linger in the courtyard, also unusual for a weekday morning. There are more hot cups than cold, however. The sparrows are so hungry that the bolder ones attempt to sit on my table.
Two women are here waiting for the Tavern to open. They are undoubtedly sisters, looking enough alike as to be twins, but one is older, dressed in jeans and a plain shirt. By sharp contrast, the other is dressed "to the nines", as they say, in high spike heels and a pearl necklace that must have six strands - at least. Siblings, of course, may be born with distinct proclivities, but this contrast is so stark one might suspect some discord in their formative years, the older sister following in Daddy's footsteps, the younger in Mother's, or vice versa. Then again maybe she just came from a job interview. But really, six strands!
***********
It is unusually cool for the time of year, and the sparrows in the courtyard seem especially hungry. A goodly number of people are enjoying the pleasant breeze, which has the petunias fluttering in their several planters. They are profuse this season, in red, white, fuchsia, and deep purple, though Doyle assures me that all he does is water them - profusely. He is a hard worker; previous employees in his job have been sadly neglectful.
I am in the shade of the Starbucks wall, where every other table has someone working on a laptop. A young man goes by with his daughter, who is eating an ice cream. As they cross to the parking lot, he takes her sticky hand, despite her objection. Could it be that after some generations of decline, fatherhood is once again flourishing, like our petunias? Ruminating on that fond thought, I am off to the shops.
***********
On Bastille Day, the Vie de France bakery in the village hires a mime and an accordion player to entertain on the sidewalk outside the shop - there, along with red, white, and blue balloons, to attract attention and drum up business. Most of the employees are African, hailing from Benin and Liberia, among other places, the baker is hispanic, and the owners, I believe, are Lebanese. Close enough; anyway, today we are all French, n'cest pas?
In spite of the heat, the accordion player is standing in the sun hefting a heavy instrument. Moreover, he is the same old man who plays every year. I have forgone the courtyard in favor of sitting here under a sidewalk umbrella to hear him, and I am straining to think of any French related songs I might suggest - The Poor People of Paris, April in Paris - when he breaks out singing an Italian folk song. Even the accordionist is not French! I can't tell about the mime.
So far this summer we are blessed; another stormy night has wrought a lovely morning, and the courtyard is consequently abuzz. Regulars Jack and Jackie are here. He speaks of a son coming to visit, and of a daughter. She leaves, saying she needs to make reservations for a wedding in Lake Tahoe next month - and she "hasn't been there in ages".
Much chatter goes up, the way coffee promotes, and here in many tongues. A light breeze moves the treetops just above the roofs, and the sparrows slowly clean up the crumbs of my croissant. As I move on, I notice the old woman who walks here each day; she is with her daughter, whose hair is equally white. Mon dieu! Well, she survived the winter.
********
It is a refreshing morning after a heavy storm last night, and Jack, a courtyard fixture, is here, sitting with a young woman in tight, white pants. She has dark skin and long dark hair, so not a blood relation. This circumstances is remarkable because Jack is not exactly a dapper old gent, with his nappy gray hair, weathered features, and now using a walker. He seems to be holding forth on village history, upon which subject he must surely be expert. Perhaps she is a newcomer - or a reporter. She opens a laptop. She might even be a social worker.
Alas, the Tavern is setting tables for lunch. Time to move on, leaving a mystery!
***********
Panera is, to quote Mycroft Holmes, "the spot to study mankind". Here today, three women, one of whom does all the talking, having to do with a troubled young girl from a broken home. The woman is in health care, perhaps a nurse. A man working on his laptop is talking on his phone, in Hebrew. The couple with the aging hippie woman and the portly, bearded man is here again. I have not seen them for awhile.
Then an odd troupe of teenagers marches in. I say odd because they are dressed up - the boys in suits and ties, the girls in heels, struggling with mini-skirts that threaten to expose them as they walk. Their purpose here, aside from eating, I can only surmise. Were they not so obviously the same cohort I might easily believe they were coming from a funeral!
*************
The baby sparrows have fledged and are hopping around on the flagstone here in the courtyard, flapping their wings for a handout. Often an adult sparrow will stuff a crumb into an open beak, but many of this crop seem to know already that they can feed themselves. Parallels with ones own species are so tempting! Two women here this morning are roasting in the sun, but must be very compatible - birds of a feather - long, bleach blonde hair, jewels, high black wedge heels. Is it a uniform?
In the parking lot, management has started towing cars left too long. It is a popular corner of the village; however, Doyle is coming around to warn the regulars. I guess he can't really help the yoga students. I'm never here over the limit, which is three hours, after all.
***********
It is summer in the courtyard, and the denizens flock to the shady side. Fortunately, we are still blessed with four healthy trees. And the summer, bringing more people, also reliably brings a rare sight. This morning it is a dog in a baby stroller. But this is not what it seems; it is not a case of infantilization. The stroller displays two handicapped signs. The dog is handicapped. Her master could by young, though there is gray in his hair and his complexion is weathered. He goes into Starbucks, and his pet becomes the center of our collective amazement, especially for the children.
He returns with coffee and for the dog, a muffin, which he proceeds to feed to her by hand. An older, stout man is audacious enough to approach him and to inquire about the dog, so we get to hear her story. She is five years old, and the man found her as a puppy on an island off the coast of Thailand. He was working in Bangkok but is now retired. He seems too young to be retired, unless he had a windfall by some means in Asia. In any case, surely a strange tale of unusual compassion.
***********
At the next table here at Panera an awkward conversation is going on between Joe Michaels and Leah, who it would seem is his employee. He is in a blue scrub suit and keeps using the phrase "bottom line". Obviously health care of some kind, but this is a personnel problem, what is now called "HR" for human resources. He is trying to be diplomatic as they discuss employees at his Virginia office, perhaps including Leah. She challenges him, albeit weakly.
Many discussions and meetings that occur here should happen in private. Could it be that Panera is now more private than the modern glass office honeycomb? At least here no one overhearing, presumably, has a stake in the conversation. I think it's the coffee - better than any office dreck, even Keurig.
**************
A lovely Saturday morning brings our last musical event to the courtyard, another trio, with keyboard, guitar, and vocalist - an African American man in a Hawaiian shirt. The place is not crowded today, which turns out to be unfortunate as this group is good. The singer has some range and is a skilled performer, engaging his audience successfully, small though it is, while his fellow musicians lend admirable support, particularly the keyboard player.
They stick to the standards, especially those popularized by celebrities - Nat King Cole, Frank Sinatra. Then this charming singer asks for requests, a miscalculation on his part perhaps. Having made eye contact with him, I suggest "Pennies from Heaven". Well, he is younger than he looks, while his listeners, he realizes suddenly, may predate his repertoire. He is still smiling though, as I wave goodbye.
*************
It is May, but a day borrowed from July; we can look forward then to a pay back. The courtyard trees are shedding their blossoms as usual, and they fall upon the Moleskine, illustrating the page along with the occasional, meandering, little green aphid. Shade is at a premium, of course. I am sitting by the Tavern at one of the tables that they co-opt at lunch time. It is only 10:30 when a hispanic busboy starts setting them, but he politely avoids disturbing me. Perhaps people have grown accustomed to my sitting here scribbling and feeding the sparrows.
An elderly man comes by with a woman who appears to be an occupational therapist. The man carries a cane in one hand and a white stick in the other, so he is both lame and blind. She is instructing him in mobility. The white stick shows modern improvements: it is quite long, and has a rolling ball at the tip to feel the pavement. Amazing what afflictions a person can surmount!
*************
The halcyon days of spring, and it is Saturday morning in the courtyard, the second week of our annual "Concert Series". This time it is a four man group - three with guitars and a drummer, whose bass drum proclaims, "Motor Driven", and indeed as they set up there is considerable acoustical adjustment being made. I presume amplification is needed, even in our small courtyard, because everyone is deaf - the young from over-exposure, the old from natural decline.
To test their system they launch into "Folsom Prison", made famous by the late, great Johnny Cash, and one cannot help but hear his booming twang on the opening, line, "Hear that train a comin', comin' round the bend..." It is a promising start, but once they are satisfied with their amplifiers, they move on to some mediocre trash from the sixties, foregoing the risk of any negative comparisons with Johnny. And so, I move on ...
*********
Sure enough, performing in the courtyard this morning is a rhythm and blues trio: two guitars and a man on bongos. They are good, quite pleasant, and the day cool and sunny. It is interesting to hear the rhythm and accents of the South, and to reflect how African culture entered the West via the slave trade, so that now, having spread so widely, it is affected by all manner of people, even the British. Well, it is catchy, vibrant.
In spite of the music, the usual summer crowd manages to talk - or to bark - over it, with only a few moved to applaud after a song. A musician's lot is so thankless. I insist upon clapping, drawing a smile from one performer - poor man - but have to leave after just a few numbers.
************
A spring day borrowed from July, and everyone in the courtyard is on the shady side. That would be east by Starbucks in the morning, shaded by the buildings as the sun rising over them hits the western wall. A woman is here with a fluffy, yellow and very boisterous dog named Teddy. She is accompanied by the dog's trainer, who manages to control Teddy by dispensing treats. I learn that Teddy is an Australian breed, just seven months old, and it is his first time in the courtyard.
Deutsche Schule must be on break, as tables to the right and left of me, all young girls, prattle on in German. I really should learn the language, though here in the village one is as likely to hear Chinese or Farsi. As I leave, Teddy is doing his best to learn "stay" as his mistress walks away.
*************
A breeze and overcast brings a chill to the courtyard this morning. The coveted table, alas, is monopolized by two mothers, riding herd on their respective toddlers and each pregnant with another. Needless to say, their conversation is child- centric. Contrast that with the talk between two young men at another table, which actually is still more superficial and less consequential. Ah, youth!
Everyone is dressed for the month of May rather than the temperature, but I love this blazer weather and remain wrapped in my muffler. As showers threaten, I hurry on to my errands.
***********
At the stroke of eleven from the Saint Francis church, the sunny table in the courtyard is coveted only until the clouds pass over. It is early May, and the place becomes more interesting as people emerge from hibernation. A young man in running shorts and shoes and sporting a black cap is studying a book entitled "Nancy Caroline's Emergency Care in the Streets". Were it not the thickness of a Physician's Desk Reference, I would suspect a novel; but then some publishers do pay by the word. A couple huddled by the optician's window speak a foreign language, quietly. He is in green trousers, and she wears navy blue, which clashes with her black shoes and bag - at least where I come from.
A breeze is welcome and my muffler comfortable. Linda still has the place decorated for spring: wind chimes, forsythia, ferns. I look up at one of the chimneys to notice a poster advertising the Courtyard Concert Series. A month of noisy Saturdays lies ahead then!
***********
Lovely April showers send me to the Bakery this morning. The coveted table by the window is taken by two young women deep in conversation. A purse hanging from a chair back and gaping wide open is making me nervous. An easy mark for pick-pockets, who have been known to hit this place especially when it is busy, as of course it is this morning. I consider speaking up to her, but decide simply to be vigilant on her behalf. Another table has three women and a bearded man meeting apparently to discuss a film project. Talk centers on a festival. Someone by the name Chuck is blamed for roping them all into this endeavor.
I am loathe to leave before the careless woman, lest she be robbed. So ... more coffee!
**********
Naturally I am in the courtyard to inaugurate this, the fifth Moleskine, in spite of a cold, blustery wind still plaguing late April, and too many scudding clouds impeding the otherwise compensatory sun. I am once again the sole companion of the Easter bunny, who has yet to be retrieved by Linda's Passion, the contracting florist - or perhaps he is the real McCoy!
The sparrows enjoy sharing my muffin; and as soon as a warm spring sun breaks through, another human sits down, but not for long. I have promises to keep, as the poet said, and so farewell Easter Rabbit!
***********
Nearly mid-April and the sun glinting off this white page is nearly blinding me. For the first time this year, I contemplate abandoning the coveted, sunny table here in the courtyard. When I arrived, a white haired man was taking a picture of his equally aged friend next to the Easter bunny. Forever young! Two other men, not yet enjoying the permissions of relative age, are deep in discussion of investment strategies. There are also three other lone men here and two pairs of women. It seems to me that women are rarely by themselves, except when they are quite old, like the one who is 86 and walks here for lunch, at times waiting impatiently for the liquor store to open. She, of course, has been absent all winter; but being so well preserved is bound to show up soon.
**********
Ah, back in the courtyard at last, and just in time to catch Linda decorating for Easter. The human sized Peter Rabbit is back with a bunch of pink tulips in his lap. While representing the Easter bunny, he looks more like Harvey, the poltergeist, as I remark each year; and he does indeed tend to frighten the smaller children.
It is a raw day, but with a warm enough muffler, still blazer weather. Grey arrives looking dapper in navy, so the season is official. He is off to Yorkshire soon to check on the home farm, but wishing he could wait until summer, when England tends to be more pleasant than our swamp here. Well, duty calls!
*********
There is a young woman here at the Bakery this morning having a business meeting with a man in a suit. The woman is nicely dressed in short sleeves, a pearl necklace, and a leather jacket hanging on the back of her chair. Her name is probably Anne, as she is chinless, with lanky hair and acne scars. She resembles Anna Massey, whose memoir I am reading, and is a ringer for a neighbor girl I knew growing up, who died in her teens by hanging herself under the basement stairs. This woman does not seem depressed. Their business may involve hospitality, as they often refer to hotels. He is instructing her on a laptop.
It is a sunny April Fool's Day, and spring is here, unless it is fooling! Surely it will be safe to return to the courtyard tomorrow.
***********
Snippets of time, like bytes of memory on a hard drive, are of little use. One may barely start a train of thought before it is derailed by the agenda. I am here in the courtyard, for example, wishing I might elaborate on the couple with three skinny daughters whose mother clearly regrets losing her figure; but now I must move on. I had hoped that retirement would resolve this fragmentation of time, that I would sit with my mid-morning coffee and scribble to my heart's content. Well, not so far. It is a modern malady, the more ironic since we may expect to live much longer than our forebears, who nonetheless managed to achieve more than we may even hope for.
For now, the couple with their girls, who apparently wanted to lunch at the Tavern, cannot wait fifteen minutes until it opens; so they are off, as am I.
********
I am still hiding from the cold, as Doyle claims he has been doing when finally he is sighted in the courtyard. He is in a rush, or I would quiz him further about the turnover in the shops. For many decades the same stores were here: the pharmacy that hosted a postal service window, the liquor store, the Orient restaurant, the hardware store, and the grocery. But gradually we have fallen prey to creative destruction. A small book store lasted awhile; it is gone, likewise a children's boutique. There was a Mrs. Field's cookies that had wonderful sandwiches and coffee, and one day it was gone quite suddenly.
As for the Vie de France Boulangerie, it made the terrible mistake of not using the extra space it acquired to provide indoor seating. Now in a merciless winter of snow and cold, it has lost considerable business. But these days that is business.
**************
... and beyond. The Grille is a good place to meet up with carless people, those who believe we can still live as though the human population were below one hundred million. It has free if limited parking on the side. Coming early for the parking, one may have lunch at the bar, which at that time is clogged with the regulars, distinguished by their familiarity with the female bartender. She is Asian, single, seems to enjoy her job; but I surmise that her family disapproves her lifestyle.
A space to the left of me is taken over by a man and woman, who squeeze two stools into it. He is married, she is not. They discuss travel to Europe. Could she be a travel agent? She has the spareribs, which she cannot finish; then on top of that, orders a huge salad. Presently two well dressed young men crowd in on my right, students of a local prep school. Busy as the place is, no one seems bothered. Presumably these carless ones just don't know any different.
********
The sights here in the courtyard have been minimal this winter, with dangerously frigid temperatures and abundant snow forcing even stalwarts like me to retreat for refuge indoors. But with spring in the air, here I am again, and the place never disappoints. An old man comes, being dragged by a pale yellow Labrador over whom the man is nearly losing control as the dog strains to greet another man's small, fluffy white pet. Then a corpulent young woman goes into Starbucks - dressed all in pink. That girl craves attention!
It is chilly still, the wan sun giving scarce warmth at the coveted table; yet a blazer and muffler are adequate. Overhead, a long "V" of Canadas is flying northward.
********
It is my kind of morning in the courtyard: warm sun, cool air, alone to share a muffin with the sparrows. Saint Francis chimes the quarter hour. A light snow that dusted the foot which fell last week has vanished from the tables and chairs as soon as the sun clears the roofs; but then it is March. The sun is intensifying and the days lengthening. I have to hustle if I want to walk at sun-up, as I did this morning, snow or not. By summer I will need to walk before breakfast.
I have left the Moleskine at home, so I am writing on a napkin. I simply cannot miss enjoying the sheltered, sunny table in the quiet of winter. A brisk breeze comes around the corner; before long it will be welcomed.
********
A foot of snow fell on the capital of the free world - most untoward of late. Given that it is Saturday morning and the Bakery is not crowded, it would seem the populace is totally demoralized. Indeed a light snow is again falling, and the parking lots, already mounded with snow, have scant room for cars. The courtyard is of course deserted, the Valentine decorations, which replaced Christmas soon after the New Year, looking bedraggled and forlorn.
Despite its inconvenience, the snow is beautiful and welcome. It was dry and light, and just after it fell a breeze blew it into ripples, like a rumpled white silk scarf. It won't last long; spring looms.
*********
We have a foretaste of spring this morning, with the sun warm and the air cool enough so that people are all sitting on the sunny side of the courtyard. The sparrows are back, and there is one old black dog. I do not recognize anyone though - none of the regulars. It is odd to see the place devoid of decor; we are between Valentine's Day and Easter. Whether there will be a nod to the Irish come March is anyone's guess. The florist, Linda, with her black hair, does not look Irish, although there are black Irish, those heirs of long-ago wandering Spaniards. Well, we shall soon see.
*********
Surely this must be the coldest day of a frigid winter, with subzero wind chills day after day. It is foolish to brave the courtyard in such conditions, and so, already having succumbed to a head cold, I am taking refuge at the Bakery, which of course is busy as ever. At the coveted table sit a man and woman talking business, apparently government. He is Asian and has a loud voice; I catch random hints - GSA, website platforms. But most of the conversation is gossip about coworkers, a certain giveaway of bureaucrats. In front of me a young Asian girl is writing diligently, something requiring creativity, as she looks up occasionally and gazes into the distance. The "skinhead" has become a regular, and so far seems harmless. I surmise he may be brain damaged in some way, perhaps requiring surgery.
A wan sun is breaking through. A quick stop at the pharmacy and then I must home to nurse my upper respiratory tract, sadly the weak link in our species.
*********
I am often here at Panera this winter, the weather being so inhospitable. This morning a middle aged man and woman sit together over their coffee. He is stout, poorly dressed. She has long, straight blonde hair, a youthful style belied by her face. Despite the wrinkles and jowls, she is apparently a person accustomed to thinking of herself as attractive. Neither she nor her companion is married, though she wears rings on the middle finger of each hand. They give no clue as to their connection, leaving one free to speculate; they may, for example, have met online and are getting to know each other. They might be former co-workers; they could even by siblings.
The parking lot is adorned with mountains of snow, heaped up from the recent storm. Schools opened late, causing untoward traffic, but the snow is beautiful and welcome.
***********
There is a clamor in the village due to the approach of a snowstorm. Everyone has rushed to the shops, though fat flakes already are falling fast. In the courtyard there is still no sign of Doyle. Has he been replaced by this small Latino woman casting salt on the sidewalks? Before dashing to the store myself, I tilt half the chairs against the tables, since several inches of snow are forecast, followed by frigid temperatures. Leaving crumbs in a sheltered spot for the sparrows, I join the throng of desperate villagers.
********
It is bracing in the courtyard this morning, with a stiff north wind, but sheltered from that one is warmed by the sun. Needless to say, no one is here, but Grey has returned from Yorkshire where he spent the holidays. We catch up; and while he has followed my postings, he is still amused by my account of mannequin Santa, the elves house, and other fancies dreamed up by Linda's Passion - amused and pleased he missed it all. We reflect how different the courtyard can be now from the height of summer, when Saturday can be a zoo of cyclists, dogs, and small children. Hearty souls that we are, we are partial to winter; yet given the windchill, we do not linger.
************
A soft gray veil of fog has been washed out by heavy rain, from which I now take refuge at the Bakery. I recognize at least two courtyard regulars, though the place is not crowded for Saturday. When it is crowded, one is forced to sit at the counter by the front window. A Chinese couple has finished breakfast and is lingering with the morning paper. All I understand of their conversation is the proper name, Chris Christie. Odd, I reflect, that a corpulent man with an alliterative name should have success in politics.
Shortly, in my London Fog and with my dripping umbrella, I venture out.
***********
An unfortunate slippage of the polar vortex has given us subzero wind chill temperatures this morning, causing me to take refuge here at the Bakery. The friendly manager, whose name I still have had no opportunity to ask, is so cheerful that he gives me my coffee and a slice of cake free of charge. Of course, as I often tell him, I would starve were it not for him! In front of me are two well-dressed men, with topcoats and mufflers. The first to arrive eyed me enviously, as I am sitting at the coveted table. Despite his topcoat, he wears jeans under it. His companion is in a pinstriped suit. It is a business meeting.
The cold did not stop me from my walk at daybreak, having been assured by the weatherman that frostbite would not set in for thirty minutes. And so, back into the deep freeze.
**********
It is the new year and snow threatens, so I am here at the Bakery for my hazelnut fix before the weather breaks. The place is very quiet. The soldier from Nepal, Raj Kumar, no longer works here; one of the managers, however, is very friendly, and recognizing me as a frequent customer, gives me free coffee whenever he sees me. He is tall and thin, balding, with a mustache and dark-rimmed glasses. Managers do not sport name tags. A disturbing young "skinhead", I notice for a second time, stalking around with an angry expression, in a long coat and sneakers, mumbling under his breath. I refill my coffee and set out warily into the first flurries.
**********
A powdery snow some days ago, crusted over by frigid cold, has rendered the courtyard uninhabitable this morning. Our usually efficient maintenance man, Doyle, did not tilt the chairs; so the accumulated snow is sealed to each seat by the ice, despite the sun. Thus the only place to sit is under the Starbucks overhang, in the shade.
Linda's Passion has yet to remove the Christmas decor but it is just four days into the new year. Santa, I must say however, is looking more like a corpse than a mannequin, sprawled in a chair by the elves house - a homeless man who has frozen to death. With such dark thoughts and not wishing to court frostbite, I move on quickly to my errands.
*********
I walked out this morning in the falling snow, wonderful, fine and dry. The only tracks were rabbits, three, crossing the road in different places, to which I was adding my own, boots and walking stick. Even birds were not out of their roosts yet, aside from a few crows flying bravely. By the end of the walk though, a cluster of snowbirds, feeding under a holly tree, flew off as I passed, and I heard a bluebird's soft greeting without seeing him.
By the time I returned up the driveway, my emerging footprints had filled in. Later I drove out, with scant company on the roads, and am now ensconced at the Bakery, snow still falling. A young couple with a son is having breakfast. On the front of the child's shirt is the word "boy", in case there should be any doubt. The old man in the Forrestal cap is asking for more Europa coffee, "my favorite", he says. And I thought everyone drank hazelnut.
********
It is at Panera where I have observed and concluded that young people are now as ugly as we were in the 1950's, if that is possible. This morning a young woman, dishwater blonde, is in tan suede oxfords with pink shoestrings and soles. These she wears with Argyle socks. While dressed all in black, she apparently favors pastels, judging from the many rubber bracelets. The Chinese couple is here with their breakfast from home, and that child bows to none in her capacity for sartorial outrage.
It is not easy, of course, to make a young woman look ugly, though I have long suspected that men in the fashion business have a clandestine competition going with just that aim. One wonders why these designers are not irrelevant, even now, having driven their models to skeletal extremes. Ugly.
*********
Winter has indeed come to the courtyard. Already there has been snow, followed by temperatures cold enough to preserve it, but not until Christmas. The jolly little house erected here, decorated with lollipops, has an elf peering out the window at us. It is too small for a modern Santa.
Of course I have the place to myself this morning, though a woman is waiting outside of Starbucks with a stroller. In it is a child who lets out a blood-curdling scream at regular intervals, to which the woman responds on cue, reinforcing this mode of communication. At last her other children emerge with beverages. They are three girls, perfect stair steps in age. I surmise the baby is boy. Dad got his wish to mother's dismay.
**********
Winter is coming: Linda's Passion has visited the courtyard and removed all the symbols of harvest time. Gone are the hay bales and the pumpkins, making way for evergreens and lights that twinkle. This morning it is still a work in progress; a a small house has sprung up, the size of a large dog house, sitting on cotton snow. Could this be for Santa, an elf, reindeer?
I rather fancy the notion of flying reindeer, but the Clement Moore poem whence they originated has been hideously distorted. St. Nick was himself "a jolly old elf". He may have been plump, but not so as to preclude an entrance via the chimney, a perpetual mystery now to children who see him as enormous. His sleigh was pulled by "eight tiny reindeer", and forget about Rudolph, please. Who even remembers Gene Autrey?
***********
The week before Thanksgiving, the courtyard was already adorned with the large wreaths that hang on opposite walls, and these created considerable dissonance to my mind with the remaining autumn decor, which the florist had not retrieved. Autumn after all is naturally colorful with its pumpkins and the gorgeous hues of the deciduous trees. The whole point of evergreens at Christmas is that they offer the only natural color left in the temperate zones, punctuated by the red of holly berries, which support the over-wintering birds for awhile. These berries are abundant this year, foretelling a winter of snow.
Well, after another week had passed Linda of Linda's Passion had removed all the pumpkins and hay bales. Winter has come, and there is consonance in the courtyard once more.
**********
Two women here at Panera are showing their wares to a third, a young black woman with long, straightened hair. These wares appear to be dental instruments. Is the black woman setting up a dental practice? Perhaps she is an itinerant hygienist. Very strange. Meanwhile the mysterious widow has become the doyenne of the place; she even greets the penurious Chinese couple. How does she know these people? She has never approached me, except for a passing comment outside of Vie de France, and I have never seen her at the Bakery, which also has hazelnut coffee. Well, well, I am just the scribbler!
**********
An early blast of winter wind has the courtyard deserted this morning, vacant of sparrows and even of cyclists, which is rare for a Saturday in any season. Christmas decor is creeping up, though Thanksgiving remains for us to get past, which seems to be the general attitude. Unfortunate really, since thankfulness for ones blessings, however scant he may regard them, is the true foundation of happiness. And yet I understand completely. The keeping of Christmas has become so enormously complex for any number of reasons that it really must begin months in advance.
Before I leave my sheltered, sunny corner, the Chinese have gathered at their table. Hearty souls ... thankfully.
************
Here at Panera the woman who used to frequent the place with her late husband sits in front of me. She seems to turn up wherever there is hazelnut coffee - a fellow addict. The staff has taken her in, on a hugging basis; and she is a good listener, indulging a young lad as her breakfast await. People are always interesting to me, and usually endearing. A lanky young woman is in a tee shirt that reads, "Another day, another dog pose". I assume this is a yoga reference, and if so it is distressing that she seems to move with some pain.
In spite of heavy rain, I am off to stock up on birdseed. They are already begging at the window.
*******
A splendid Saturday, and the courtyard is buzzing. It is cool enough already that the sunny tables are all taken, the one sheltered from the north wind especially coveted. The Indian doctors have a large number at their table, but few other regulars are here, though the traffic is such that the sparrows do not even venture to beg. I am sitting by a table of some half dozen cyclists, but these of an older set, all men, graying and paunchy; they discuss finance.
I await the rain and snow to have the place to myself!
********
In spite of the fall color in the trees, we are seeking shade in the courtyard on a day left over from summer. The unseasonal warmth may account for some bizarre attire. A stout young woman has a Halloween skull on her tee shirt, with her ample thighs stuffed into black fishnets. Another, as thin as the first was fat, is in skin tight pants, and hobbles along in obvious pain on wedge-heeled platform shoes. And now comes an old man driving an old Kubota tractor, with bushhog attached - through the parking lot!
While it is not the Diogenes Club, if one would study mankind, "this is the spot", to quote Mycroft. Before I leave, a woman passing by looks at me quizzically and announces, "You're not Percy." Well, hardly!
**********
The sun is welcome in the courtyard, and there is a hum of conversation among the denizens, a side effect of coffee. A young brunette woman, dressed all in black, is accompanied by a young man. He has a spiral notebook and pen, and is married but not to her. They are discussing some investment, but it is hard to say who is pitching to whom. Meanwhile the sparrows descend in a flock upon the crumbs of my croissant; and when the crumbs are gone, a crow plops down on the chair beside me with a look of considerable disappointment.
I remark upon leaving how peculiar that a piece of jewelry on a certain finger of a certain hand may reveal one person's commitment to another.
*********
A woman is holding court at the coveted table, in the morning sun. She is the typical village patrician, in a cable knit cashmere hoody. I hear about a store that sells "shabby chic", decor that is "westernie", and a second home that is "log cabinish", while her two long-suffering companions are baking in the sun.
At the next table back, a man talks with his buddy about "dipping his toes in" with a European river cruise. I would be interested in that conversation, but the large rock glistening on the ring finger of Mrs. Patrician is distracting me. I retreat to the shade. Mornings are cool, but the sun warms things quickly.
*************
It is autumn in the courtyard. The leaves on our four trees are mostly down, and Linda's Passion has come in a timely fashion with harvest and Halloween decor: pumpkins, straw bales, corn stalks, scarecrows, spiders, ravens, and flowers on each table (artificial, since Doyle could not be expected to tend them). The sun is misleading in its warmth, and the air treacherously cool, so the sunny table is now coveted. It is taken be regulars, Jack and Jackie, when I arrive. I take the next one back, which is sunny enough with the trees bare. Confirming the season, a yellow jacket is after my coffee.
*********
... and beyond. The conversation at the table in front of me at Panera has taken considerable eavesdropping to interpret, the only obvious facet being that these three people are talking about wholesale: brand recognition, market niche, distribution, test markets, etc. Gradually it becomes clear that the product will target women, but what is the product? The word "craft" comes up, and crafts are typically a women's market. But then I hear "Miller Lite". It is beer; "craft" may also apply to beer. They contemplate marketing a new light beer to women. Yum!
Of course, I could ask them what they are talking about, but that would be nosy. The challenge of eavesdropping is much more entertaining.
*********
When I walk before breakfast, it is also predawn, and today the first one to greet me is a bat, out carousing rather late and doubtless searching for his roost. Of course by the end of the walk, it is light, but as the overcast hangs like a shade down to the horizon, there is still no sun. Next week I expect the sunrise will be coming after breakfast.
As I arrive in the courtyard, the sun has emerged and it is hot for the time of year. A man and woman near me talk about organizing marathons, and the man speaks disparagingly of college students, who, he complains, cannot plan ahead, organize, or do anything but drink too much beer - and carouse, like bats!
*********
It is raining, but as the bakery has an overhanging roof, and umbrellas, I am able to sit with my coffee and croissant in splendid solitude. Not even the sparrows are venturing out; nonetheless, having multiple errands, I am forced to ignore the forecast that predicted "a slight chance of showers".
No one seems to know why life gets so busy, yet I do realize that my time constraints are self-imposed by a stubborn refusal to alter priorities. Not on a whim will I sacrifice mornings in the village, my Moleskine, my hazelnut coffee. For no trivial pursuit will I forgo my meditation or at least an hour devoted to my labor of love. No, Dr. Huxtable, only a very important issue could call me away from Baker Street. The Duke of Holderness, for example.
*********
A simply gorgeous summer day with unusually low humidity so that one may actually enjoy the warmth of the sun; and yet the only regulars in the courtyard are the Chinese, with a full table. I have never been able to discern anything about them, except for - and because of - the apparent fact that they gather in order to speak their mother tongue. There are cyclists galore, who swap information about their favorite routes.
Anna has come sporting her Panama, and chides me for neglecting mine. We share our research into potential publishers for the Conjuring manuscript, reassuring ourselves that we can always have it printed and bound and sell it for cost. Well, onward! It is back to Yorkshire soon.
***********
Wednesday in the village, a patrol car pulls up and the officer, using his loudspeaker, orders two cars out of the fire lane. He then parks there himself and chats with the grocery store employee who on occasion grills hot dogs and hamburgers outside of the store. This is the employee who moonlights as a clown. The patrolman must be waiting for lunch.
Meanwhile, the old restauranteur with his sheep dog arrives, and someone inquires about the dog. To my surprise, I overhear him say it is actually a rare breed, not a sheep dog at all; it is a "conanduga". Well, really? As I move on, the police car is still in the fire lane.
************
It is just early September yet clear as a bell and dry, with a chill breeze. I have sought a table with dappled sun in the courtyard, but several people are at the sunny tables. The former owner of the village restaurant is here with his wife and sheep dog. It is his second sheep dog and already getting old, but the old man himself soldiers on, his neck chronically bent, doubtless from surgery. They sit in the sun reading the newspaper and enjoying their Starbucks, his hot, hers cold. Which sums up the day: hot and cold simultaneously. I note how the sense of touch can produce this paradoxical sensation, reflecting the transcendent oneness of duality.
The chimes strike the half hour, the sparrows have had their croissant, and I am off to the shops.
***********
As the drizzle is again falling, I am at Corner Bakery on a Tuesday morning, affording the opportunity to see Rajkumar, ex-soldier from the army of the deposed king of Nepal. His lack of English is unfortunate. I wait out an African American man with a bulging backpack to get the coveted window seat.
The old man in the USS Forrestal cap is a regular these days. Also here is a young dad with his two sons, who are playing an electronic game that seems to be edging them to their threshold for meltdown. But dad takes control; and so, peace prevailing, I am off between the raindrops with my hazelnut coffee.
*************
A lovely summer morning and a Saturday, so the courtyard is very busy. The retired doctors have a full table, but oldtimer Jack sits alone with his head in his hands. The old woman who walks here and has wine with lunch is present, as is a new face, a woman who distracted me yesterday with questions about the coffee, causing me to add too much sugar. The poor sparrows are hard put to snatch the crumbs I throw, given all the foot traffic, dogs, and small children who run after them squealing. Ah, summer!
************
A drizzle falls upon the courtyard, but the stalwarts prevail. The Chinese have a full table, and the retired doctors are leaving as I arrive. A good many sparrows come to be fed, including fledglings begging help of their mothers. A small girl also looks for her mother, as her father watches with detachment, never touching her. She wants to go one way, he says another. She then wanders off in her own direction by herself, while he commences to call after his wife, who upon arriving looks on in the same detached manner. The parents appear to think the proceeding is charming.
Then comes another young father, this one carrying his lovely daughter across the street in his arms. Which child has a chance at normalcy?
************
I have started to hear the crickets, the sign of high summer that quickly begins the slide into fall. Fifteen hours of daylight are already down nearly an hour. The courtyard is pleasantly cool this morning, with an overcast and a rather stiff breeze. Chatter goes up from some twenty denizens, mingling with the drone of various machines, some of which sound like crickets. When the waiter from the Tavern comes out to cordon off the tables they have taken into custody, it is time to move on. They open at eleven.
******************
The summer dearth of peace sets in. It seems that with the growing season it is not alone the vegetation springing into exuberant activity. As for myself, I should rather hibernate in the hot months. In the courtyard this morning was a family group - man and woman, girl and boy, and an older man, who may be the other man's brother. Both resemble Hosni Mubarak, and from the dour demeanor they all exhibit as they listen to the older fellow, I surmise they may indeed be Egyptian, as chaos and violence boil up in that unfortunate place. This family may be Arab, but not Muslim. They are in western dress and have been to the bakery, so they are not observing Ramadan. They move on and are replaced by the regulars - the retired Indian doctors.
*************
As summer heats up in the courtyard of a Saturday morning, any table at all is coveted, with shade at a premium. Our four trees are a blessing, but I worry for them in the tree box environment. Two middle aged couples behind me are - typically - discussing health issues. They talk about the eye doctor, and I listen intently as I may need cataract surgery at some time; but all I learn is that one of the gentlemen found the female doctor attractive, while nevertheless addressing her formally as "Doctor". They move on to massage therapy, concurring that deep tissue masasage is painful. One of the women discribes a bad experience when she used a gift certificate for a massage. Inexplicably, she develops a cough while speaking and retreats into Starbucks. Just wait until they get old for real!
The musicians arrive, and I depart.
*************
Blame it on the sinus pills I am taking today. The chimes of St. Francis have just marked the three-quarter hour as I sit in the courtyard, when an old woman, whom I have noticed here before, asks me for the time. I look at my watch and tell her it is 10:45. After she has walked away, I realize I was an hour off; it is just 9:45.
I have the opportunity to redeem myself when she returns. She explains that she is waiting for the liquor store to open, since having lived in Europe for 30 years, she is accustomed to having a bit of wine with lunch. She announces proudly that she is 86 and walks to the village five days a week, a goodly distance from where she lives. She does not look her age - surely a walking endorsement of wine with lunch!
************
A mother sparrow, with her three fledglings, is here in the courtyard showing them how to forage for the crumbs of my croissant. The young are identified by their open mouths and flapping wings, being at the stage when they have yet to learn that they can feed themselves. It is precious to watch their discovery of this independence, as they pick up a crumb on their own, though of course if they chirp loudly enough, mother will cave and feed them.
Nature can be so instructive. These town sparrows are not a native species, but have been around for so long, surely, as to have earned honorary citizenship. They long ago carved out a niche for themselves, not unlike any immigrant population. Birders will complain of their cruelty to native birds, but there can be no greater cruelty than that of our cavity nesters in their competition for housing. My little "aliens" may count on me!
**********
A stormy night had me wakeful, so I am bleary-eyed in the courtyard; but the hazelnut coffee is working its magic. Now the weather has turned gorgeous, and the place is bustling. The old-timers seem to have gone the way of old-timers lately, but the retired doctors have a full table. There is an old woman sitting alone, sporting a straw hat, a long sweater, and a flowered skirt to her ankles. A young woman comes with a beautiful husky - typical Saturday.
Father's Day nears, but as I run my errands, I notice it gets short shrift. While there are ads for clothing and cologne, there are few cards, no decorated cakes or special flower arrangements such as mothers occasioned. A disturbing cultural reflection, perhaps. Has society forgotten a child's greatest blessing in this life is a strong and loving father?
*************
It is a pleasant spring morning in the courtyard, a Saturday, tables full, including the Chinese group and the retired doctors. Dogs are arriving but no cyclists yet. It is early, and the musicians are setting up - a woman who must be a singer, and two men with guitars, one electric, one acoustic. The line at Starbucks is out the door.
I reflect on the beauty of the place, this courtyard, and how attached we grow to common things the older we get, as though we imagine we will feel their loss after we are dead, which is, of course, irrational. The irony is that this projected nostalgia dampens the immediate pleasure!
************
Taking refuge from the rain, I am at Panera this morning rather than the courtyard. The Chinese couple - the ones who bring their own food - beats me to the last table in wi-fi corner, so I am sitting by the door next to an old woman who appears to be a "bag lady". She is toothless and disheveled, with two shopping carts bearing garbage bags stuffed with goods. She puts me in mind of The Crooked Man, short and stooped. She is having a bagel, coffee, and orange juice; a successful bag lady then!
The entrance is of course the best place for people-watching. There comes a family with an older man, a woman who could be his wife or daughter, and two young teenagers: a girl, and a boy in a suit jacket. The youngsters are better dressed than the adults. A hopeful trend? I reflect again upon the phenomenon of men aging faster than women, at some point looking so old as to invite confusion.
***********
A day borrowed from March - cold and blustery - though it is May and Memorial Day; but glorious in the courtyard, with the crowds off to the beach no doubt, despite weather. Still there are cyclists and dogs - always on Saturday - and even the live music, which we get in the spring, is not obnoxious this morning, but a pleasant jazz combo.
Rarely, but on occasion, we get a beggar in the village. Today a large black man sits asking passersby for a handout. Surely our taxes should take care of him in a careful and equitable manner, or is he the face of budget cutting, giving one pause and taking ones spare bills? Well, onward, faces to the wind, taxes to meet...
************
The courtyard is certainly more popular in the warm months. There is shade from the trees and the buildings. The table that gets the morning sun is, of course, no longer coveted. Nevertheless, it is inexplicably occupied this morning despite the heat. There is also a table with six young women in the sun, all graced with the loveliness of youth, one or two nearly stunning. They are uncommonly well dressed for young people. Hope springs eternal, even as spring wanes.
As I am being peppered with the tiny blossoms of the overhanging trees, I move on.
************
Everyone is huddled in the sun this morning, although it is mid-May. Linda is here with an assistant packing up the spring decor. What could be next, I wonder expectantly? The assistant, with black gloves and an orange coat, moves in a cloud of heavy perfume. Two of the old-timers, who are retired doctors, are close enough that I can hear their accent. They are not Iranian, but Indian. They waver between English and their native tongue, presumably according to what they may or may not want to be overheard. They are joined by a younger man in a business suit, who calls one of them "Uncle"; and they do share a family resemblance.
Musicians are setting up, but I will be gone before they begin. The secret to avoiding the summer performances, I see, is to come early!
**********
As the sun comes out of the clouds after heavy spring rains, the denizens of the courtyard retreat to the shade. There are still four trees here that shed their blossoms on us in spring and their leaves in fall. Linda's Passion, the florist, has bird cages hung in them and butterflies clinging to their trunks, with artificial tulips at their feet. Once there were shrubs, but they never flourished and were replaced with a bicycle rack.
The courtyard is well-peopled for a Wednesday, a lovely day after all. Only one stands out: a horse woman in tight black pants, as bowlegged as she can be, which in our village can only mean equestrian.
************
Summer must be coming; though there is a cold wind this morning, there is live "music" in the courtyard, thumping loudly, as though they meed to amplify the sound in such a small space. The performers are black, including a female vocalist, with one white boy, who struts around with his guitar, Jagger style. How rare is originality!
Reflecting on the morning's agenda, it occurs to me that there are too many tabs in the binder of my life, each small but contributing to a daunting sum generated by many small but various responsibilities. Onward then, before I join the legions of young deaf people!
*************
It is a lovely day in the courtyard, sun and shade equally pleasant. Being a Saturday, cyclists are here, so numerous today, for some reason, that police are directing traffic. More interesting are the bikers, distinguishable from the cyclists by their helmets and their age. The helmet of a cyclist, who is invariably younger, is streamlined, while that of a biker is more like medieval armor. Four bikers sit at a nearby table, all at least 60, and in their company is a young woman with long auburn hair, a red leather jacket, and stiletto boots. One of the old gentlemen must be wealthy!
The Tavern cordons off five tables, and I am sitting at one. The tables are not the property of the restaurant, which in any case does not open for another hour. Nevertheless, I am the only one to breach their black ribbon, as I do every Saturday.
**************
The wi-fi corner at Panera catches the morning sun, so it is indeed a worthy refuge from the courtyard on a blustery spring day. Through the window, the sun can become too warm this time of year. I am here enough that the employees know me, to the point that they can safely provide my cheese pastry and small coffee without asking. One hefty young black woman has a most infectious smile that compels my mention whenever I see her. People who smile truly brighten the world, and surely must lighten their own burdens in the process.
The Chinese couple, who bring their own food, are apparently here every day. As they leave, I notice that they drive a white sedan, not expensive, probably Toyota. And now I am off to procure another Moleskine and another journal.
************
Early April still, and though the weatherman said the wind was shifting to the south, the wind is still cold. Nevertheless, the courtyard is busy, the sheltered tables occupied. At least I am in the sun. A woman with a German accent is interrogating a group of cyclists. Her outgoing nature suggests Austrian, but her Starbucks coffee argues against it. She is so forward that she tells the lone female cyclists how sexy she is in her funny cap, going on to ask whether the girl has a husband! Of course, she does not; the young people do not marry, they just "hang out". But the outspoken, older woman then implies that is the reason the young lady has time for cycling. They laugh and go their separate ways. Surely the old woman has done a good deed if she has inspired the young one's male companions!
****************
Early April and still a cold wind, but warm sun at the sheltered table. Easter decor has yet to be removed, the big white rabbit still sitting for pictures with the children. Otherwise the courtyard is empty. One lone sparrow comes for my croissant. A serious photographer arrives, a young man with a duffle bag and a tripod, but he of course has no interest in the rabbit. A newspaper, perhaps, or advertising for one of the businesses.
A beautiful walk this morning, with a half moon hung in the budding trees. But spring encroaches on the night: the sun will rise in the wee hours and stay up late, and the green curtain will close over the sky. Then we smother in air that is mostly water. So I enjoy this while I can!
************
I was the first in the courtyard, though not early, and I seem to have started something. It is filling up, on a cold but sunny morning. Even the bike rack is now full. One child asks her mother if the large Easter rabbit might be a person keeping very still so as to employ the element of surprise. What an odd fancy! The sparrows are sharing my tart, but of course a small boy runs after them. I cannot recall ever as a child having the impulse to run after wild creatures. It has always been obvious to me that they would simply flee, and that therefore the only way to get closer to them would be to sit perfectly still. Like the giant rabbit ...
************
I am here with Peter Rabbit in the courtyard. He puts me in mind of the imaginary "Harvey" made famous in the Jimmy Stewart movie. Also here, a table of young German girls, native speakers by their accents, and a young couple, unmarried (no rings). He speaks of putting his boat in the water and the risk of a late freeze. He seems interested; she lowers her voice in a confidential manner, looking back at me to see who might be listening. I am more taken with the sparrows enjoying the crumbs of my croissant. We are all sitting in the sun, which gets higher and warmer by the day. In fact, the equinox was this morning.
Another woman has brought a bulldog puppy, outlandishly cute on his stubby little legs. Two young for a leash, and apparently wiser than his mistress, he refuses to cross the street, forcing her finally to bend down and pick him up. Bravo, Winston!
***********
It is the day before St. Patrick's Day, and I am able to get by with just my green blazer, thanks to a woolly muffler, also green. The courtyard has been visited by Linda's Passion, the florist, and is now bedecked with pots of spring flowers, and an Easter basket of eggs on each table, presided over by a giant white Easter bunny, who sits in a green chair beside a trellis of forsythia. I surmise that as Easter is so close to St. Patrick's, Zuckerman Gravely management decided not to spring for back to back decor. I further observe the cleverness of the Christian faith in attaching secular elements to its holidays, making them somewhat more palatable, if confusing, to people of other beliefs. Christ and rabbits?
There is not another soul here. Though the sun is warm, the forecast called for rain!
**********
It is borderline blazer weather, but I am braving it with the aid of my Irish wool muffler. Predictably, the sheltered table is occupied - two Asian women. There is another Asian table, with a woman and two men, alternately speaking Chinese and English, enough of the latter for me to glean that they are discussing the Redskins football team, suggesting that it might be named for a specific tribe of native Americans, say the Navajo or the Apache. They are excused for not realizing that these people have their own names for themselves.
The sun is high, bright and warm. The courtyard fills up. Spring is coming. Before I leave there arrives a man with his adorable Bijon, and the mysterious Indian cigarillo man, whom I thought had succumbed to the consequences of his habit.
**************
We are expecting some inches of snow tonight, more than we have had in two years, but this morning the March sun is warm and welcoming at the sheltered table in the courtyard. Two young women are the only other people here; they are standing and chatting endlessly. One is speaking about Passover plans; the other appears eager to display her tolerant nature - apparently not Jewish.
I assume most people are already in the grocery stores, stripping the shelves of milk, bread, and, of course, toilet paper. The courtyard, remarkably with St. Patrick's less than two weeks away, is not festooned in green. What, our tolerance flags in the face of the Irish? Well, they are a quarrelsome lot!
**************
After a night of pounding rain and furious wind, the courtyard is quiet, the air clear, the sun warm, just a few clouds trailing from north to south. Doyle did not tilt the chairs this time, but I am prepared with napkins to dry the seat. Not a soul is here to enjoy this halcyon morning, but the blissful solitude will be gone soon. Spring is around the corner now.
Obviously, I am not averse to company, or I would stay home and make my own coffee. As Mycroft comments in The Greek Interpreter from his perch looking out a window of the Diogenes Club to his brother Sherlock, "To anyone who wishes to study mankind, this is the spot!"
*************
A bit of snow fell, two days in a row; so I approach the courtyard fortified with half a dozen napkins to clear the table and chair. I am, of course, under the circumstances, assured of having the sheltered table. Nary another soul is here. But I am spared the snow removal, as Doyle, our maintenance person, has tilted the chairs against the tables and already put salt on the icy cobblestone. Bless you, Doyle! I have yet to inquire about his name, which is incongruent with his Asian appearance. But Sherlock Holmes is very popular in Japan, I understand.
As it is still below freezing, I do not linger. The Bentley needs an oil change.
*************
This being February, Linda, of the floral enterprise, "Linda's Passion", has struck the courtyard; and her passion is hot pink chiffon with red hearts hanging from each lamp post, and a white bird cage on each table. Hot pink and red? I suppose it could be worse!
It is a blustery day, borrowed from March, meaning I am assured my spot in the sun at the sheltered table. A tall young man eats his breakfast quickly, standing up; he does have a hat. A few cyclists arrive, and witness to my bravery, venture to say they might sit outside. They disappear into Starbucks. The young man is still standing, no doubt waiting for someone. Just three sparrows share my tart before I move on, fingers freezing.
****************
The cold snap continues, and without the sun, it is too cold to sit in the courtyard; so I am at the Bakery, which of course is a zoo, this being Saturday. Aside from a crying child, though, everyone is congenial. Other courtyard denizens are also here taking refuge.
Today is Candlemas, known in these parts with typical indelicacy as Groundhog Day. There was sun early in the morning, so I believe our resident groundhog, i.e. woodchuck, must have seen his shadow, which event, according to legend, may mean that spring will not be early this year. It is also the day we reach ten hours of daylight, and the plants take notice. Tomorrow I will take down the window candles, which have been up since December.
**************
Even in winter, the morning sun is bright enough to blind me just glinting off my hazelnut coffee; and of course, the coveted, sheltered table is all mine in the cold. We British are a hearty lot. An older gentleman sits down at a nearby table, and after I toss a few pieces of my croissant to three opportunistic sparrows, we strike up a conversation about bird feeding. He is quite chatty, in fact - coffee will do that - and before I must move on to my errands, I have learned that he has lived here since 1975, has thirteen grandchildren, and his first name is Dominic, being of Italian extraction. Thus are Saturday mornings in the village in winter, free of dogs and cyclists.
********
On my way to the village this morning, I was closely pursued by a woman in a BMW. I pulled to the right as soon as I could in deference to her haste, so that she might pass me. But she was also turning into the parking lot, and indeed was in such a hurry that she turned at the first entrance in an effort to cut me off at the second. Again I deferred to her, thinking that someone in her care must be having a heart attack and she was racing to the pharmacy for nitroglycerin tablets. But no, instead she parked and went into Starbucks. Perhaps she was late for an appointed meeting there.
But no, after I had been to the bakery for my coffee and croissant and was enjoying them in the courtyard, she emerged with her coffee, got back in her can and left. What are they putting into the Starbucks?
***************
Any time it warms up in January, one may anticipate a morning fog, and so there was today. Of course, I had to walk out in it! Now I am in the courtyard at the coveted table, which I had to first dry off with barely adequate napkins. There is no sun yet. A young man is here with a black dog and a hoodie, upon which there is a black dog on front and printed on the back, "The Black Dog, Martha's Vineyard", which I am guessing is a pub. As he reveals to an inquisitive stranger that the dog is a nine-year-old mutt, I deduce that the dog came first and the hoodie was fortuitous. I further observe on the dog's collar the initials "OBX"; this fellow loves the water! Before I leave, he is joined by a woman who minds the dog while he disappears into Starbucks. And here come the cyclists; it is, of course, Saturday.
************
On Saturday, there was a florist van in the parking lot bearing the name "Linda's Passion"; and sure enough, in the courtyard was Linda, busily denuding the Christmas tree and packing up the elves. One wondered how she was going to get Santa down from the roof; but today he is gone, so someone must have come with a ladder. The banners on the light posts were also changed, and no longer feature Christmas greenery. Gratefully, Linda is sparing us Valentine's decor, at least for now.
My friend, Anna, arrives and we discuss birds, a mutual love of ours. I wonder why we always want to see the bird, when many are easily identified by their song. She points out that some are clever mimics. Ah, yes! The bluejay, for example, does a good imitation of a hawk, scaring competitors from his feeding ground. But he is not so clever, because he immediately reveals himself with his telltale whistle, which sounds like that of the boatswain on a naval vessel.
It is a sunny morning, and we have the sheltered table; thus miraculously, we can linger.
*************
I am a refugee at the Bakery on a rainy Saturday morning. It is a zoo of fellow refugees, sneezing children, and pick pockets; yet I have somehow nabbed the coveted table by the window and out of the fray. I reflect that with old age comes the depressing insight that many conditions plaguing ones life are utterly intractable, upon which I resolve that my motto going forward shall be, "I give up!"
My friend Anna joins me, and we take up the matter of compassion. Of course, there are myths about the bodhisattva earning buddhahood by virtue of extreme compassion. For the rest of us karmic beings though, compassion must surely be tempered by humility and realism. Then consider the distinction between Hinayana and Mahayana Buddhism: enlightenment only for the few serious initiates, versus the belief that the bliss is attainable to anyone through the practice of meditation.
"That's where it's at, Grey," says Anna, uncharacteristically ungrammatical. "Meditation!"
**************
It is the day after Christmas; and as we are having inclemency of the sort referred to in these latitudes as a "wintry mix", I have taken refuge in Starbucks, which abuts the courtyard. It is small, with scarcely a dozen seats; and while it is rare to get a table, today is not busy and there are plenty. I did not want to risk the Bentley on untreated roads and parking lots, or I would have gone to the Bakery, the customary haven. Three fellow Brits are sitting near me, a man and two women of a certain age, no doubt visiting for Christmas or on holiday. I discern from their accent that they are Londoners; and as much as I would like to chat, I am anxious about the weather. If they see the car, I will never get to my errands!
*************
Everyone in the courtyard this morning is huddled against the sunny wall. A couple with a sleeping dog sits at the coveted table. Then there are four young girls; and apart from them, two men speaking German, commonly heard here as there is a German school in the community. I am one back from the couple with the dog, basking in the radiance of the sun as it wanes toward the solstice, but I dare not linger with a cold coming on. Odd that the stress of holidays should come just at the time when the weather is also wearing us down. Nothing holy about these days. Christmas fast approaches, as I am dragged kicking and screaming by the numerous, accumulated traditions. But if there is a sunset, I will be there - with eggnog!
************
Anna and I are comfortable at our sheltered table, though it is mid-December. But for us, of course, the courtyard is deserted. She is bemused by the rugged dress of the passing young folk in their heavy jeans and massive boots, commenting that the back of the right shoulder appears now to be known as the "North Face" of the anatomy. She and I, to be sure, are sartorial exemplars, sans followers. A young man talking to his "blue tooth" is unashamed to be discussing his financial problems in public. Mon dieu!
************
It is a cold, sunny Tuesday morning in the courtyard, so I am, of course, at the coveted table. Carmen, of the black Mercedes convertible, who manages the shopping center for Zuckerman Gravelly, is in serious discussion with two men and a young woman. One man is balding, the other white haired; the woman could be related to the first man, having the same hair, as shown by the curly fringe remaining to him. Messrs. Zuckerman and Gravelly, I presume. They discuss the tables - size, shape, placement - the bike rack, the trees. Having been lucky enough to have obtained the sheltered table this morning, I buttonhole Carmen to tell her she needs to put my name on it. She laughs; I compliment her performance as manager - loudly.
Tuesday morning in the courtyard can be most informative.
*************
It took something of a wait this morning, in the shade with my wool scarf wrapped around my head, but I managed finally to nab the coveted, sunny table. Actually the day is overcast, so the sun is intermittent, and most welcome when it graces me. The courtyard is not very busy for a Saturday; but typical of a weekend, the wealthy class has their children out begging for charities - Scouting for Food for the Homeless, Help Children Fight Cancer, Rescue Homeless Animals. Perhaps it instills compassion, one must hope, for surely the pennies they glean are as nothing to the tax deductible contributions made routinely by the very people the urchins are soliciting. Tax reform? The children, at least, will know how to beg!
***************
What I thought would be a quiet Wednesday last, was anything but. The courtyard was being redecorated for Christmas, after first blown free of leaves. I huddled in a corner, but even after the blowers had left, there was no shelter from a biting wind. It is a rare day indeed when I and the Moleskine take refuge in the car.
The next morning is cold but sunny, with a boisterous lot inhabiting the courtyard: four not so young women chattering loudly; unruly children, whose mother is apparently in line at Starbucks. Holiday decor is up: snowflakes hanging from the trees, evergreens gracing the lamposts, and Santa perched on a roof. Only the harvest wreaths, hung high on the chimneys, have yet to be replaced. Someone must have forgotten the ladder yesterday.
****************
November in the courtyard. The ghosts and spiders and skeletons are gone, but harvest decor remains: pumpkins, Indian corn, mums, hay bales. The devils have had their day; saints reassert their hegemony.
Two couples are here; inexplicably, they are standing, though it is a cold Sunday morning and the courtyard empty. The women chat about people, relationships, the men about the upcoming election. One is in a Green Bay Packer cap. They are conservative. They go on and on, in the cold, then leave, never having sat down.
Needless to say, I am at the coveted table - in the sun. A glorious walk this morning, the last late sunrise, since the time has changed. It will now rise at 6:30, and no later than 7:00 until next fall. But, there will be fogs! All is not lost.
********************
Musicians are setting up in the courtyard, and county police prepare to close the roads for our annual fall parade, which will feature scouts and politicians, along with floats provided by local members of the Chamber of Commerce, sponsors of the event. In days gone by, the hunt club would parade its horses and hounds, not now we are lucky if we have a mounted Park Police officer. Local high schools no longer have marching bands, so aside from piped in music, there is only the Hare Krishna temple to provide chanting and tambourines. The parade ends with our proud fire company exhibiting its shiny trucks, purchased with the help of community donations.
A grandstand of sorts is set up on the front porch of the real estate office, and I take my accustomed station nearby. Our very own opera singer opens with the national anthem, but today she is precipitous. She is supposed to wait for the boy scout color guard to stop in front of her. We are slipping!
***************
It is a gorgeous October day in the courtyard, and not overly crowded for a Saturday. Anna and I are musing about the perils of the writing life, chief among which the exposure to comparison, even with ones own previous work. Will I ever be as good as I once was, one wonders? Then there is the exposure to curiosity: what are you writing; what have you published; may I read it? There is the further danger of absent-mindedness, because one is constantly ruminating about the work; and there is the risk of misunderstanding should loved ones read your private thoughts.
We concur that "writing" as it is generally considered, is really writing fiction. What we do is more aptly called "journalism", which need not refer solely to news gathering. My plan for a safe in the attic, holding my life's work, evokes a hearty "jolly good!".
*******************
Autumn in the courtyard, and a yellow jacket has broken through whatever chemical must have been laid down against him. There would otherwise be swarms. A woman behind me is telling her companion in excruciating detail about her adventures in Haiti. Her condescension towards the natives is exceeded only by self congratulation.
A very young girl is here, no more than two, with her mother and possibly an aunt; the women could be sisters. Another woman has two small dogs, with whom the toddler proceeds to smooch. Fortunately, the dogs are as lovable as she is. The child is curious about me, and wanders over to my table at least twice to gaze up at me. Apparently, though she walks, she is still speechless.
The courtyard has again been decked out for Halloween, with ghosts hung in the trees, straw bales, pumpkins and mums, plus the occasional large, black spider. I reflect that there is some pleasure in the terrible, which may involve a neurochemical associated with risk-taking behavior as well as with addiction. Meanwhile, the speechless little girl is now seated on a straw bale, unmoved by it all.
*******************
Having waited out the retired Indian doctors, Anna and I are now sheltered and warm at the coveted table in the courtyard. We are discussing competitive people, especially those who conceal their impulses, apparently considering them unseemly. More power to them, we concur, not being of a competitive nature ourselves. If someone needs to be number one, we are content to be number two. Of course, Anna interjects, what about zero? If one is superior to two, zero must be better than one. No, no, says I, zero is just the truth!
Before we leave, we notice that the chimes from St. Francis church have not rung in days, reassuring ourselves that, as the church is Episcopal, there will surely be enough wealthy members to set things right.
******************
Our table in the courtyard is once again coveted for its sunny warmth, and the sparrows puff out their feathers for protection. Even the old-timers are huddled around a sunny, but small table; none of the women have come. They discuss when they should give up the courtyard and go to the "other place", which is probably the Bakery, where one can sit inside, though most every morning it is teeming with people and has even been known to run out of pastry.
Anna and I never give up the courtyard; indeed, it is only on bad days when we can hope to secure the coveted sunny table! She remarks how shamefully indolent we are, sipping our coffee when we should be writing. I protest that one needs most to take in and absorb experience before regurgitating it. But I share her anxiety. Am I so locked into custom, habit, ritual that I will never break free, change the routine? It only matters at the karmic level, though if something I write helps another untangle the knot, then onward!
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There is an autumn breeze today in the courtyard, and someone has left napkins, which are now strewn about. I consider picking them up before I leave, but rationalize that it is not my job and I am an old man. As I ponder, a couple comes, black man, white woman. Without a word, they look at each other and proceed to gather the wayward napkins and put them in the trash. When the man is in earshot, I say thank you. He replies that they like this place and want to keep it nice. I am old enough to reflect on the ironic reversal of stereotypes - to myself, of course.
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These are the regulars in the courtyard: the one they call "Jack", whose been here some forty years to my thirty some; Bob and his wife Grace, with their shaggy white sheep dog, former owners of a local restaurant; the mysterious Indian man puffing his cigarillo, an umbrella for a parasol in summer, wrapped in a muffler on cold days. I am probably known as the "bird feeder", as I am always doling crumbs to the sparrows. On Saturdays, the old timers table, where Jack sits, is really headed by an old couple who appear to be Iranian. They have an entourage that includes their grown daughter and sundry friends, relatives, perhaps neighbors. They sit, they sip, they joke; courtiers come and go.
Behind me this morning is a man of middle age, with a motorcycle helmet, talking with his daughter via his cellphone. They discuss her new Apple computer, power washing the house, random subjects, in the course of which he uses swear words and refers to things as "cool". Eventually she offers to brew coffee, and he says he will stop by. Soon they will talk face to face! Off he goes on his motorcycle. The younger people, of course, eschew motors, and are all serious cyclists, clomping round the cobblestones in their serious cycling shoes.
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On a cold day, the favored table in the courtyard is in the sun by the Zuckerman Gravely Management sign, sheltered by the wall of the optician's. Anna and I are one back from this table, but the sun is warm and thus are we comfortable.
We are so often accosted by the impressive conformity of modern people, who nonetheless pride themselves in a nonconformity defined by trivial distinctions: my blue denim jeans are torn on the right knee; yours are torn on the left knee; I am obviously very different from you. Or perhaps the fashionable tearing is accomplished more artistically.
It seems counter-intuitive, we observe, that the burgeoning population should bring more conformity rather than less. One would think that larger numbers of people would include more eccentrics, more true nonconformity Perhaps, we speculate, merely providing for multitudes demands they all consume identical goods. Even in matters of size it no longer seems economical to supply outliers; so no more narrow shoes, all just be medium or else!
Before we leave, the coveted table, which was occupied by two garrulous women, is taken over by two courtyard regulars. The men sit with their coffee and read. Two women would never read.
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An early September morning, when at last the sun feels good. Three young women are at a sunny table in front of me, one with a delightful, small white poodle in a pink collar and leash. The woman is dressed in white to match her dog, and appears to be wealthier than her companions, whose clothing is dark, tacky. One of these has long black hair and compensates for whatever perceived lacks with vivaciousness. They speak English with an accent, probably Middle East, but as management is power washing the nearby sidewalk, eavesdropping is thwarted!
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October in the courtyard. A cellphone ring tone is playing Debussy's "Reverie". The owner of this phone is a bald, black man, in the company of a semi-bald, graying white man. Meanwhile, an old woman with cropped gray hair walks by sporting gray suede cowboy boots. There are lots of tables free today; is it the turn in the weather or in the economy? The sparrows are puffed out, though it isn't that cold; and brave enough, emboldened, to perch on my table awaiting a share of the croissant. I try to give them each a piece. The people are likewise puffed out and desperate, thus prone to seasonal financial disaster.
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