The two books I've most recently read included passages about life needing to contain trouble. One was a long soliloquy by an attorney-gone-bad (some would say: Redundant!) in Scott Turow's... (oh now I have to get up and look at the title...) Personal Injuries. The other was in Kent Haruf's Plainsong, in which a female character tells two elderly farmers that she fears they will live all their lives without having enough trouble of the right kind, as she is offering them some of that trouble. I recommend both books. I felt the latter better than the former, the plot and immense cast of which confused me a little. Now I'm reading Jeffrey Lent's A Peculiar Grace, and again with the mention of everybody having their own bad times. Sometimes when I get these messages through my reading, one book after another, I realize it's something that I'm struggling with. I thought I had long ago accepted that into each life a deluge must fall, mountains must crumble and need to be rebuilt from a single pebble, etc.
Perhaps the cosmos is providing a refresher course for me, preparing me for some news. If so, ho hum. Tell me something I don't know.
The deer have been strolling, running, playing in the fields, the baby swallows have left the nest but not yet the barn. They sit in a three-bird row and peep vigorously. Mama and Pop keep a close eye on us if we enter to retrieve a vehicle and if swooping around doesn't chase us off, one or the other will perch next to the babies. I don't like to think what would happen to us if we went closer than we do. MiMau lies in the driveway and lolls, reaching up and swatting, as the watch-guard parents swoop over and dive at her, squeaking and veering off mere inches from her fluffy white belly.
While checking the vegetable garden one morning I found a skyscraper of a robin's nest with two dead babies nearby. Despite the sturdily built eight-inch deep foundation, the powerful wind knocked it loose from the maple tree. Mother Nature is a very stern parent. Rather than leave the poor corpses on the ground for the dogs to roll in, I picked them up by their limp yellow toes and tucked them in between the two trunks of the maple tree. I threw the nest into the garden. Such a waste, such a shame, for all that construction work to have amounted to nothing. I suppose the bird who built it doesn't even remember now; I doubt she's mourning. But I am, a little.
Early in the spring, or late last winter, Husband threatened two zucchini plants. He planted six. I am keeping pace, but expect to slip behind when I go back to work. Zucchini bread, zucchini pasta sauce, zucchini boats. Remember the "shrimp scene" in Forrest Gump? I feel like that about zucchini.