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I’m from Louisiana.  Don’t make too much out of that.  I wouldn’t live there again for all the crawfish in Lafayette.  But I’d love to have a couple pounds of those juicy little buggers right now.  I am in the mood for some crawfish creole.  The key, of course is the sauce.  You got the sauce, you got it made.

The Summer Solstice often passed without much notice. It’s the first official day of summer. It is the longest period of daylight in the year. For us Druids, that a big deal. This time it was clear skies and almost perfect temperatures. Dry, cool, but not cold air. That kind that those souls enjoy who live in Nirvana, or heaven. or Pownal, Maine.

It was nearing the 9 PM hour and I decided to take a stroll around outside and see the last rays of the day as they faded into a purple evening and bed time. There was so much light I felt wonderfully blessed.

I made a few iPhone photos and have included them here without much comment, as an ode to the light we have when we have it, and a sharing with friends.

The first thing I saw were these “Stars of Gold” (Stella d’Oro). I love them dearly. Their common beauty sets the standard for those expensive hybrids ordered from White’s.

These tiny beauties defy description. Enough said.

The alluring “outback”. It won’t be long until the critters invade this area.

This oriental willow came home in the trunk of my car 5 or 6 years ago. In the near dark, it glows at 15 feet. It’s getting out of hand. Not!

The garden gate. I always wanted to have a reason to say that.

Our play pen. It’s getting there. Yes – that’s a purple pyramid. It makes great beans. Deal with it.

Honeysuckle. I can remember the aroma of the southern kind that could be detected a block away. These Northern types rely entirely on their beauty.

Not to be outdone, these volunteers are ready to stand against anyone. What is more perfect?

Time to go inside and have a cup of tea. Almost a shame to do so, considering that the days light now will be diminishing, I think to the tune of about 4 minutes a day until that dark night in December when darkness holds us in it’s cold grip.

A garden heart. I mean, what’s a garden without a heart? Be well and stay tuned.

Jerry Henderson

I have read a few stories about writers who spend hours in restaurants, bistros, bars, parks and libraries tapping into that special inspiration available only in such public venues. It is sometimes implied that writing produced in such an unlikely place is somehow better.  I don’t believe a word of it.

I harbor no such illusions. As a matter of fact I seem to do best when there are no “public” distractions around me. (Disclaimer: by “do best” I do not infer any measure of quality or even grammatical correctness to what I write. Doing best, simply refers to me having fun and being in some way satisfied with the process and now and then the product.)

I used to write poems more than I do now, and I often pulled out a pad and pencil to jot down a memorable word or phrase or idea. Seldom did a full blown verse appear in the restaurant or bus stop or on the park bench where I happened to be at the time. That instant recording of the fleeting thought proved, on more than a few occasions, to have been helpful. Not altogether unlike amending a grocery list on the way to the market.

These days, when I write, I find that I mostly do so on the keyboard. I never would have dreamt that I’d say that. I have always been a pencil ( of the lead type ) and paper writer, and find that tactility – the scratch of the lead upon the paper – to be a satisfying sensation. It makes me flash back to those Big Chief lined tablets at Wyandotte Elementary. Nowadays I find that if I think I’ll be out long and will have any time to myself, I will include my laptop in my kit bag and quite often never even light it up. But it’s there, should the flash of inspiration suddenly blind me.

( Disclaimer #2: I am presently in a public place patiently waiting for a sudden stroke of location inspiration. So far, I might as well be napping on my couch at home. )

I am reminded of that period in my adult middle life when I was single, how in such situations, I would be more interested in staking out the shapely form of the female bottom, or the profile of a smallish bust line, letting my mind do the rest of the work. Fortunately for all who could possibly be characters in my fantasy play, I am, these days, as likely to pursue such an action as I am to fly. I will say, however, that given the exigences of aging, which include the progressive and irrevocable process of deterioration, the mind is as racy as ever. Blessing or burden? Forgive me Jesus, but you-know-Who gave me the mind in the first place. Deal with it.

As I have noted: nothing is happening. There is one thing and it is this: I rather enjoy doing this in a public place. So far, I have seen few people as they passed down one or the other aisles in this library. I’ll have to try this in a coffee shop soon. More stimulation. I see people in coffee shops with their huge computers and they are constantly looking around to see who’s looking back. I want to tell them to find the darkest and most remote corner and stay out of the way, AND don’t take up that nice window seat where I actually want to sit and have an actual cup of coffee, dammit!

When I am really brave, I’ll try a bar. The problem there is that I never have been a bar guy. And after a few beers I am liable to say things, for which, I would rather not be held accountable. If you know what I mean.

Well, I have a book to check out. Really. Then it’s off to an afternoon of digging in the dirt. No matter how I try, I can’t escape the overwhelming ordinariness of my life. I don’t even think I can say with a straight face, “I couldda been a contender”. But if the truth be known, and surely it must, it’s what’s happening now that is important. And now, I am having fun in a public library.

A glass of summer ale would indeed be nice.

I am tooling along at a moderate clip, following my Honda self-propelled lawn mower, sweating profusely in the heat and long sleeves and pants that hopefully thwart the sun’s rays and the fly’s gnawing assault.  Unless you have endless circles, ellipses or Didos to deal with this task is best suited for the individual who thrives on the less challenging of chores around the plantation.  

A lawn mower is machinery and one must not loose sight of that fact.  Outside of that fact, however, cutting grass is one of life’s most ubiquitous repetitive tasks.  

“Then, if ever come perfect days.”

We can surely hope that Lowell’ statement on the first real summer month is right. For those of us living barely south of the boreal regions, it is a month of hope, planting, lawn mowing, deck furniture and crossed fingers.

We had fires into June last year and the year before. I mention that only to promote humility (My own) as I speak of the natural order. The natural order seems, these days, out of order, but June is indeed the right time to dig in the dirt and adjust your costume to take advantage of soft breezes, letting your skin take a little air.

(I’ll mention black flies only parenthetically, as I hope this is the year that they are not so bad. Am I the only one?)

June is also the time for perspective. There is a heaping pile of stove wood in the yard and we will attack it with some vigor today, knowing it won’t all be done. It’s the beginning that’s important. We know it’s for a good cause. Even though our under arms are wet and we take frequent sips to maintain hydration, we know the lesson of seasons: this too shall pass and there will be a time to feed the fiery belly of the stove – again.

Hello June! You are looking good. Throw off your coat and stay a while. I’ll make some iced tea and lift the deck umbrella and we’ll watch the shadows move across the day.