19 June 2014
Recently acquired outdoor funk for the House of Owls and Bats, because, you gotta have the funk. It has been named R. T. Tavi...
Sabina planted sunflowers along the south side of the house. Everything is green and budding, if not blossoming. Our columbines, pinkish-red in their countenance, have popped into a full bouquet. Lilacs have finally bloomed in town and on our walks through the dusty streets, Sabina stops to bury her nose the abundant flowers. The short, sweet, season is upon us.
My daughter, having spent a week in New York City-New York City! Git a rope!-found herself feeling the affects of altitude sickness when we started up Kearney Gulch. It makes me glad we didn't try climbing Mount Bierstadt, which was our alternate walkabout. She may have been worse off. As it stands, we made it about quarter to half a mile before turning back. We spoke of astrobiology and black holes on the way down in between water breaks. The fact we got out into the bush in one another's company was enough.
At home, we played chess and rummy. For dinner, with the scant bit of leftover lamb from Father's day I made a Sri Lankan curry. Something that could easily become my new favorite curry. We concluded our visit a day later grilling a jumbo lobster tail, which my daughter insisted I share with her, despite me telling her I'd eat the vile devil meat and she could content herself with salmon. She had garlic butter with her half whilst I had north African chermoula butter with mine. The way we tried to take one another's portions and defend our own could be likened to wolves fighting over a kill.
No one seems surprised at all that with the coming of hot weather I am reading a book called Cold: Adventures in the World's Frozen Places by Bill Streever. Of course you are, my daughter, Sabina, and Jezebel have all said. Fucking women. It's not the only book I'm reading. I tend to read between three and six at a go-there is so much consume-but this is the main one. One of five. Oh, and a Calvin and Hobbes compilation when I don't want to commit to a chapter in one of my tomes.
Sometimes, I wonder if I'm not becoming more like my father. Whilst grilling, Sabina had our few minutes of growlies. This happens around cooking time. Despite our years together, I can still sometimes-a lot of times-get territorial in my kitchen.
"The reason you drink?" Our Montanan import asked me.
"Yeh," I chuckled. "Oh, we snarl sometimes, but we're devoted to each other. I enjoy her company most of the time...a lot of the time...some of the time...okay, I tolerate her because she pays the other half of the mortgage."
He laughed. As did I. The thing is, my parents would say the same thing about one another, and the only reason my father is no longer with my mother is because her immolated bones are scattered near the ruins of Waldorf. So it goes.
Warm sun, cool breezes, thunderstorms, and graupel up high. Brilliant stars and chimenias with wine and smores. The tourist crowds are thick, even on the weekdays. The shadow of the season.
We look forward to meals and trips, either on foot or by vehicle. There'll be camping sometime in the coming months, before the green leaves turn the color rust, flame, and spun gold. Summer may be short and sweet up here, but I feel I have all the time in the world and our days are just packed.