Roots

They couldn't have known, when they preferred the upstart lilac and cut down the hydrangea, that it had prospered there for eighty years--the ice storm had left it pretty tattered. Or known that it had sold my mother on the house, or that I had played in it as a child, and posed beneath it for my wedding photos. That was our story, and now it was their house--and so things go. But they called when the stump began to sprout, and I came to collect cuttings. Slice obliquely beneath a leaf bud, roll the wounded flesh in rooting hormone and press each into a mixture, half sphagnum, half vermiculite. Water and wait. When the cutting resists a gentle tug, there are roots enough to transplant. Then resurrect the past next to grandpa's peony, brought from Pennsylvania when he died, and moved again to this place beside my well.

The cult in culture

Looking through my conference notes, I found the handouts for a session on "marketing evangelism," using your enthusiastic and fully-satisfied customers (if you have any) to do your selling for you. The test case was--unfairly, perhaps--Crispy Creme donuts. They handed out free samples. Uhhhhuhuhmm, donuts! What was I saying? Oh, yeah. Now, public radio may be no donut, but it is the Crispy Creme of--say--other kinds of radio. What you can do is this: always set your rental car's tuner presets (all of them) to the nearest public radio station before you turn it in. Same with hotel clock-radios before checkout, and the radios in anybody's house you visit. Hint: send them out of the room to fetch you a glass of water. If you want to wear orange robes and chant for us in airports, or sell candy door-to-door, just let me know.

A-Maying

Purple rhododendron and crocuses, daffodils--both butter-yellow and paper-white, periwinkle, white apple and rose apple blossoms and lavender lilacs. Japanese knotweed and wild grape runners, the dawn chorus of songbirds and the evening chorus of peepers and crickets. Two whitetail deer and one white deer skull, a red fox and a groundhog, a blue heron and a cardinal. And down by the beaver lodge, where the west-facing bank catches the late raking light--a hundred trillium glow, the petals angel-wing white, the sepals green with earthy desire.

Dream Cars

The average American car just passed 4000 pounds in weight. Now, my first car weighed two tons, too--but it was a 1965 laundry van I bought to haul all the equipment for a nine-piece funk/fusion band. I'm thinking of going for an eco-friendly Hummer next time I go car shopping. Run it on bio-diesel and jack it up on 7-foot diameter mining truck knobbies made entirely from recycled latex medical waste. I'll defray expenses at truck rallies, crushing bloated SUVs to the cheers of small car owners. I mean--why buy Jabba the Hutt's party barge, if you can't get a deck gun, a house band, a 'droid bartender, and a skimpily-clad princess in chains to go along with it?

Wish you were here...

Sorry to miss you all on Thursday. I have been on California time, which means of course, the east coast is three or four days ahead of me. Nine days of non-stop public radio schmoozing has left my schmoozer all kaput. I am glad to be home, even though it means going through pollen season all over again. California, I must report, has the great good taste to run Amtrak along the beach for 30 miles going into San Diego. Bill claims it is paradise, finding filet of beef salad on the menu. I can't disagree, looking down the beach walk, along which roll the perfectly shaped and tanned on rollerblades. Then a geek superhero floats by, George Jetson-like, on a gyroscopically-stabilized People Mover, preceded by a scold of gulls. Whhrrr.