Durham Diversion
When the rain comes, water pools on the yard and sits for days and seeps into the clay. Heavy, hammer-handed, wet slop; thunder, rumbling, unyielding clay. From indignant and rock hard to asphyxiating and slick with nothing between but dread at my next battle with it. But, then again, I am committed to it, bound to it somehow, and determined to tame it.
Such was the scene Friday in front of my house, at a low spot where the rain collects. I had my head down in an iris patch, digging in soppy clay, remarking at the purple iridescence of the flowers and the yellow sparkle of pine pollen, like light from the stars against a summer dusk that I saw once long ago in Athens, laying on my back at the Ridges, alone, waiting for darkness to fall complete so I might walk the forest at night and confront - what else - fear! A grape scent wafted up, brought me back to the present, and I saw Susan smiling, watching me from the porch. “We’ve been invited to dinner,” said she. “Get out of those overalls and into something sexy.” What could I say but “yes ma’am?"
We went to Gorsha’s downtown with friends to celebrate a new job, and ate Ethiopian lentils, doro tibs (marinated chicken cuts), and injera until half past ten, and bantered with the waitress and the owner, and cooed over a large, cuddly dog.
After parting with friends, Susan and I - Chris, have we met? - went to the hip, expensive Main Street strip, and parked and walked. We were startled by a boom. Gunshots? No... Rounding the corner, there were red, purple, and white fireworks popping, flowering, drooping, then fading away. The Bulls just opened their season. We stood arms around each other and watched them wondering which flurry of bursts was the grand finale. Every firework show ends in a fury, like a shootout, with drama and passion. After even the impromptu show, there was more: rich Cabernet at the Counting House, a repeat of the previous weekend, when we ended a Garifuna music show with wine. I was happy for the routine.
We made it back to the car without any requests for French fries, and drove back home to our poor, broken dog, who is recovering from a torn ACL.
Such was the scene Friday in front of my house, at a low spot where the rain collects. I had my head down in an iris patch, digging in soppy clay, remarking at the purple iridescence of the flowers and the yellow sparkle of pine pollen, like light from the stars against a summer dusk that I saw once long ago in Athens, laying on my back at the Ridges, alone, waiting for darkness to fall complete so I might walk the forest at night and confront - what else - fear! A grape scent wafted up, brought me back to the present, and I saw Susan smiling, watching me from the porch. “We’ve been invited to dinner,” said she. “Get out of those overalls and into something sexy.” What could I say but “yes ma’am?"
We went to Gorsha’s downtown with friends to celebrate a new job, and ate Ethiopian lentils, doro tibs (marinated chicken cuts), and injera until half past ten, and bantered with the waitress and the owner, and cooed over a large, cuddly dog.
After parting with friends, Susan and I - Chris, have we met? - went to the hip, expensive Main Street strip, and parked and walked. We were startled by a boom. Gunshots? No... Rounding the corner, there were red, purple, and white fireworks popping, flowering, drooping, then fading away. The Bulls just opened their season. We stood arms around each other and watched them wondering which flurry of bursts was the grand finale. Every firework show ends in a fury, like a shootout, with drama and passion. After even the impromptu show, there was more: rich Cabernet at the Counting House, a repeat of the previous weekend, when we ended a Garifuna music show with wine. I was happy for the routine.
We made it back to the car without any requests for French fries, and drove back home to our poor, broken dog, who is recovering from a torn ACL.
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