Saturday, April 17, 2010

What Does Green Smell Like?

Green is the tangy, sharp smell of newly budded willow trees along the river.

Green is the smell of freshly mown grass.

Pink, however, is apparently the colour of clams and proof that I dream in colour.

I just today read in the "Uncle John's Ultimate Bathroom Reader" (essential reading in any household) that only 5% of American households dream in colour (the book is published in Oregon, but I'd wager the percentage is the same here in Canada, even if they don't know how to spell 'colour' correctly).

I dream in lovely technicolour, and not just as proven this morning. A few years ago I dreamt of an acquaintance who had painted her toenails brilliant colours, a different colour on each toe.

But back to the clams. I who have never dug for clams in my life (scarce on the ground out on the Great Northern Plains) was out in some high-rolling ocean close to shore but out in the water (and even a prairie kid like me knows that's all wrong) with a kelp fork, digging clams, and the shells were a lovely blush pink.

Clams. Go figure.

I came upon a great book sale earlier in the week. Doesn't she have enough books in the house, I hear you ask. Silly people, there is no such thing as too many books.

And this was a really good sale. I came home with seven gentle used books for less than $6. Now, I ask you....

I'm deep into the first, 'The Quest' by Wilbur Smith. I know, I'm surprised too. I've never been a big fan of his but this is about ancient Egypt and a magus and a witch, all good stuff. Also acquired Dave Barry's 'Bad Habits' (he's the Miami Herald syndicated columnist I used to enjoy); 'The Thirteenth Tale' by Diane Setterfield; 'The Girls' Guide to Hunting and Fishing' by Melissa Bank; 'Jewel' by Bret Lott; another Maeve Binchy and and a little novella from 1942 called 'The Snow Goose' by Paul Gallico.

I'm also listening to 'The Lovely Bones' on disc on the drive to and from work, so my brain's a little crowded these days.

Ironing is a good way to clear the clutter. I don't mind ironing, I quite enjoy it when I make the time for it. The cotton things from my laundry were piling up in the sewing room so last night was designated Ironing Night. Popped a DVD into the player ("Elizabeth" with Cate Blanchette, Geoffrey Rush and Joseph Fiennes) and had everything neatly pressed and hung in the closet by the closing credits.

White smells like cotton shirts, freshly laundered, hung outside in the sunshine to dry and touched up with a hot steam iron.

That task complete gave me free rein to wallow in gardening today. But the day is less than stellar. Cloudy and overcast, ever promising our sorely needed rain but failing to deliver.

I finally resorted to digging out the sprinkler and began soaking the backyard early this morning, been moving it every two hours throughout the day. We are so desperately dry, I fear for what the summer will bring.

Happy little grape hyacinth faces are crowding one of the bed in the front yard just below the retaining wall.

Purple smells like hyacinths.

Everything else is busting out at the branch and root. The investment in perennials, though costly at the outset, is well worth the trouble when viewed from spring a few years along.

Haven't heard from Bryan for a few days now. Called him Tuesday morning to tell him the accountant had phoned, my books audited and our tax returns complete. Nobbut a signature and a cheque and all is done for another year.

Darren, a new neighbour just up a bit to the west, stopped by while I was weeding the herb bed.

"Has Bryan gone north never to return?"

Oh heavens, I thought, he wants his trailer back that he lent to Bryan to bring home some motorcycles.

"Hopefully next week," was my cautious reply.

"I've been hoping to get out on some rides with him," was the explanation.


"When he gets home, we'll all go for a spin."


Sort of the grown-up version of "can Bryan come out and play?"

As I moved the sprinkler yet again and resumed cleaning out the front flower bed, some people came walking cautiously down the driveway. I knew they weren't the local JW's because they had been by last weekend and tend not to wear out their welcome (such as it is).

"Could you tell me where the back property line is?" came a query from the woman. Ahh, prospective buyers of Kelly's place.

I thought she'd pulled it off the market, but apparently not.

I waved in the group of people - extended family I expect - and showed them where the line was between our lot and Kelly's, where the other survey pins were, the approximate size of the lot (Dennis Wangler is the realtor and for some reason didn't include that in the report) and other info they requested.

They were friendly enough. And the gentleman likes my pink fishing rod (hanging up on the garage wall, clearly in view with the door rolled open). That's always encouraging.

Time to move the hose again.

Black smells like moist, rich compost, a faint whiff of molasses, providing a comfortable bed for grass seeds, which in time will smell green.

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