A barely live scarecrow spent the day in our field garden, in 86-degree partial sunshine and blue jeans, a long-sleeve shirt and a wide-brimmed hat. He was trying to rake up wiregrass he'd rototilled on Monday and plant more oats and corn before predicted rain. When he straggled in bedraggled at 6:30, dusty head-to-toe like Pigpen, he threw off his sweaty clothes and raced around the yard in a thunderstorm. I'm kidding. He had no energy left for that. But yes, it rained. Perfect timing.
It was a day for praying, for praying types. If you're a parent you'll understand. If you're not a parent, imagine your dog or cat traipsing five hundred miles in search of his or her real mom. Fall on those knees and pray. Our 20-year-old was driving 500 miles to Hilton Head Island for his summer job, an internship in a resort's recreation department. During previous shorter trips, he had checked in now and then, to ask for directions or assure us he was all right. This time he went cold turkey the entire trip. I wishfully thought it was a good thing -- no problems, less multi-tasking at the wheel. It was. He got there.
"What does a barely live scarecrow think about for 8 hours?" asks Virginia.
Mostly nonsense, garden yoga. Now and then, things that should be ignored, such as what to say when so-and-so says such-and-such. Think of the amount of time people waste imagining words others end up never saying. Stop, I say, when I realize that's happening -- although it can be useful to prepare for court appearances, speeches and, I suppose, debates.
It's a good time to think through story plots and characters, or the content of an article I'd like to write. Mostly, my mind floats almost senselessly, as it does on a long run after that first mile or so of settling in. Now and then I get angry at a persistent weed, one that refuses to let go of life. I discovered long ago that when someone irks me, if I look deep I'll find a bit of something about myself. I'd like to think that's why I'm angry at that weed.
2 weeks ago