What I'm Most Anxious To See

Diary of a week

Monday, April 22

We check the thermometer, then a few minutes later, check it again, hopeful. As soon as it climbs toward 55° we anxiously take our coffee and tea creekside for its morning melody. We’ve waited through all of winter’s days for this.

Tuesday, April 23

He mowed the grass; I sowed the grass. More Kentucky blue in the bare spot by the steps. I sowed the seed, scattered the soil, gave it a misting drink. I tapped in stakes and strung jute twine between them for a fence around it all. Maggie Mae sat on her haunches and watched.

Wednesday, April 24

We were only gone a few hours, but there she was when we returned, sitting, smiling, tail dusting the grass, the jute twine fence beside her destroyed, paw prints marking up the soil over the newly seeded patch.

Thursday, April 25

Twenty days since I planted those nasturtium seeds. The seedings in two flats never cracked the surface; the seedlings in the third are having a party.

Friday, April 26

We walked hand in hand along the river in the most delicious evening rain. Fog wrapped the landscape and muted everything. Everything but the green-tinged the trees, which refused to be hushed.

Saturday, April 27

The highly polished trim work, the floral patterned wallpaper, and the glowing venetian glass light fixtures are beautiful and all. Worth seeing, of course. But it’s always the back-of-house that I’m most anxious to see when touring historic house museums. I stand there, feet rooted in place, studying the cabinetry, the kitchen layout, the adjacent pantry. I see the windows, the pass-throughs, the enameled sinks, the kitchen table, the wooden floor.