Let’s chat, Gentle Reader. It’s been so long since we’ve just sat down together and had a good gab session, so I vote that we rectify that situation right now.
For our little chat I’m imagining you are wearing work dungarees (which is just a fancy word for jeans, but sometimes you just need to be fancy) and awesome Wellington boots that will repel any March mud, while holding a garden hoe. Because, obviously, after our little chat you’re going to help me out in the gardens. Right?
Because I do, I really do, think it’s finally time to get out into the gardens again. The husband and I spent part of this weekend making plans for the yard. He has agreed to build me three more raised garden beds under the stern injunction that these are absolutely and positively the very last ones.
And I, as I have done every year when he makes the same pronouncement, nod my head in agreement say, “Of course dear, you’re right. These are the last ones.” All while scoping out the backyard to look for new places to grow food.
This year we are going to try to grow a few different kinds of heirloom tomato plants- all from seed. Which is exciting and nerve racking and thrilling to me- all at the same time.
Yes. Tomato seeds excite me. I don’t think that is quite a normal, American sentiment. In fact, the older I get, the more I suspect that I might indeed be officially weird.
While such a realization might have devastated me in junior high, now I take a sort of perverse pride in such an accomplishment. I AM WEIRD! It feels like an accomplishment. So many people are conventional, it’s rather nice to be a bit odd, a bit different.
You know what else I love, besides heirloom tomato seeds? British movies and t.v. shows. I love them because the actors in them appear like real people- not supermodels. Sure, some of them might be freakishly handsome- I’m looking (and looking) at you Hugh Grant and Benedict Cumberbatch. But so many of them are average looking. They seem like normal people I would find anywhere and I find that immensely satisfying. I am now completely sympathetic to J. K. Rowling’s refusal to have any American actors in her Harry Potter movies.
Speaking of books (we weren’t exactly, but almost and that’s all that counts), my to read pile by the side of my bed is at an all time epic high. I went a little crazy with the ‘reserve’ button on the library website and now I have multiple stacks from which to chose from. And that feels like such a decadence: oodles and oodles of books to choose from every night to read before going to bed. (Or to choose from every afternoon, thus insuring that dinner will NOT be ready on time.)
A few days ago I finished reading Rainbow Rowell’s novel Attachments, which I loved with a fierce passion. It was clever and witty and romantic and lovely. It was one of those books that when you get to the end, you sigh happily and sit for a minute, basking in the knowledge that you just read a marvelous thing. A few minutes later the realization that you finished the book hits you and you’re left with equal parts satisfaction (because it was so good) and melancholy (because it is now over.)
I know I can’t be the only person who feels that way after a great book. Feel free to reassure me that you do the same thing.
So, Gentle Reader, have you read anything amazing lately? Started planning your own garden? Fallen in love with any movies or television shows lately (British or not)? Tell me in the comments. I’m all ears.