I’ve had a writer’s weekend. Except for a few brief encounters – getting my bangs trimmed nearby, chatting with neighbours, yesterday’s yoga class – I’ve talked to no one for two days. Well, that’s not true. I’ve been working on the book about writing, which is chatty and direct, so I’ve been talking to readers all weekend. Perhaps one day they’ll want to read the book and find out what I’ve been saying.
I’ve also talked a lot to the garden. The red roses at the back have black spot and are suffering. I made a big fuss about them. The gardenia W*yson bought me is finicky and needs a lot of cheery conversation. The clematis, which has been feeble every year, this year is lush and beautifully purple, so it gets a LOT of praise, in case it decides to change its mind and droop again.
I’m sitting on the deck right now at 6.45 p.m., taking a break to drink a glass of wine, smell the scented air, look at the fresh burst of tiger lilies, the fat white heads of the … of the … I know the name but of course, being 59 with a head stuffed with names, it has vanished. It happens all the time now – something I have known for years, gone, to surface at 3 a.m. Drives me crazy! I am staring now at the masses of big puffy white blooms – you know the name, don’t you? Send me some telepathy, or I’ll go nuts.
A moving moment this morning – on my Sunday morning tiny jogette through the neighbourhood, I went to the Necropolis, the Cabbagetown cemetery, one of my favourite places. It’s full of hundred-year old tombstones engraved with marvellous names – Elwood, Gertrude, Frank, Minnie. What happened to those names? As I walked around, I heard laughter, and there on the path was a young mother, sitting on the ground, with her little one in a stroller. They were playing together, laughing in a patch of sunlight, surrounded by gravestones. Such a sight and sound of life, in a quiet place honouring something else.
Begonia. Lobelia. I think it starts with c. No, maybe an h. I’m going to call my mother; she’ll know.
