Wednesday, April 12, 2017

Spring in Atlantic Canada

Yesterday, it was sixty degrees and sunny. It was the first day of Spring. I have to remember this for next year, so I won't be disappointed the first week of April when it is 30 degrees, foggy and raining with not one bud in sight. I am not kidding. I went out to examine the trees. Nothing. No plants bursting through the soil. Zip. Nada. Zero.

Yesterday, the hostas leaves appeared. You might have heard me yelling: "The hosta is up! The hosta is up!" And there are tight buds on some trees. I had a simile in mind--tight as a--but unfortunately I cannot use it on this blog. Fill it in yourself.

Hosta grows like bushes here.

 What to do on the first day of spring in Nova Scotia? You go for a walk on the beach, of course. We chose the beach in Blandford (about a ten minute drive) and walked near the water. I took on a hefty stride while Tom dawdled looking for shells in the sand.

Look at me, I'm walking so well, I thought to myself. Good girl, I thought. Watch me go. I am woman; hear me howl.
I am alive and well!

Then a little stream came up from the ocean and cut through the sand. I'll just hop this. I stomped my foot into a large pile of seaweed, which collapsed and sent me diving forward landing in water and sand. I was not hurt, only humiliated. To add to the humiliation, I could hardly get up. 

I was like a rolling walrus on a seesaw.

These are not good images to have of oneself, but I have a feeling they are more accurate than not. 

In a half mile, the beach ran out altogether, so I would have to recross the stream. Tom yelled at me not to do that and told me to he'd pick me up in the car. I had to to climb a small wall of rocks to get to the road. I couldn't do it. My knees don't support climbing over a few rocks. He had to get out of the car and pull that ox out of the mire.

I know another beach!

I have been patiently waiting for my print copy of YOU ARE BORING, but I think that Amazon has sent it with an old man riding a rusted out Schwinn bike from 1955. It doesn't come and it doesn't come and it doesn't come.

Wide-brimmed Hosta. They grow like bushes in Nova Scotia.



5 comments:

  1. I love hearing news of you and Tom. A) I love walking beaches, and B) I love married folk, and C) who doesn't appreciate a tussle in the seaweed?

    I am sporting a yoga bruise and it is so embarrassing. We have hardwood floors (ca. 1887), and my tumble from pose to the next gifted me with a smart reminder.

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  2. I'm waiting for my print copy, too. Geez, Amazon, get it together.

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  3. I love your blog. Are you going to post any time soon. I hope you are well.

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  4. Sister Plummer, I hope you remember me. You were my committee chair when I completed my creative thesis in English in 1996. Eugene England and Susan Howe were the other two members. My last name then was Bernhard. I did a collection of short memoirs and entitled it, A Voice From the Fire: The Authority of Experience.

    I am trying to get in touch with you to see if you would be willing to write me a letter of recommendation to get into a doctoral program in creative writing at the University of Utah.

    I hope this message reaches you. I love your writing and am just now feasting on your book, You Are Boring, But . . . Sincerely, CH

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  5. P.S. I tried to get a message to you via Facebook. I left my phone number there.

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