SENSE AND NONSENSE

I took a run over to the North Shore where our old cabin stands, skeleton-ized but still in a jaggedy upright position. Not so the outhouse- so tippy you’d have to stand on your head to pee! Lots of memories. The petals & glorious scent of the Braithwaite Rose that Ivan Ray once gave me twigged my senses. The plant has multiplied wildly. It’s bright pink plumage peered out from the tall strands of uncut grass on what used to be our lawn. The grassy cavern nearby was the hole that Bruce dug for our septic tank when he was about thirteen. What really gets me is the row of pines, all healed up from the scourge of the mountain beetle, which did attack them during those epidemic years. They are now completely green and tower high enough to obscure the neighbor’s view. I think they could be marketable timber. Leon planted them the year Fern turned two.
Reminds me of the spruce trees my dad planted the summer I was twenty-one. My brother has put cables on them to keep them from falling on the house. Who needs clocks and calendars? Just plant flowers and trees!