May 17, 2010

Diaristic Pseudo-Weather Report

Saturday was a gilder, a mint julep from the get-go. I heart Saturday mornings; the gentle relaxation response of having the whole enchilada in the front mirror without any mixed metaphors. While my wife went to water aerobics I dallied with a book till it was ten am and McD’s was wane-songing. I hustled right out to the bike path and pounded out thirty minutes and then collected breakfast from the Lebron James of fast food breakfast joints. Ate out on the patio, a gift from the returning gods of summer.

Sunday was surprising for its variability. From a deep well of sunshine, trick-or-treating up to 78 degrees, to a sudden cloud putsch and immediate temp drop.

It feels of Ireland now, the coolish but not cold temperatures, the clouds, the memory of sun with the threat of rain. The clouds don't bother me so much as offer fluffy opportunities to read something serious.
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Our independently wealthy neighbor is showing some financial bicep by building a four-car garage next to their 2-car garage. I guess the guy likes cars. It does make me feel less sheepish for having AAA come out today and install a new battery in the truck instead of installing it myself. Sometimes I wish we’d get serious and try to save vigorously but it's difficult when I see most savings options as illusory, the stock market a pie-in-the-sky confidence-man scam.

Called AAA and the old gentleman, a throwback to an earlier era, went about his work as methodically as a Methodist. Since we’d already tried to jump start it and since the battery is older than Betty White, it was a foregone conclusion we’d need a new one. But he was dead set on proving to us it was dead, and was so chipper that he was a living advertisment on how one gets to be 90: friendly and optimistic, like Bob Hope. He also had that Great Depression-era streak of frugality, shaking his head sadly when we decided to have him install it.

Planted the tomato plants and geraniums, clipped the hedges in front and the side yard. A nap at 2-ish, a 5pm dinner., until the sudden cooling. Read more of a biography of Charles Carroll, Catlick signer of the Declaration. Meanwhile the sky looked like a series of low-hanging pillows over two recently planted trees which provided scale for the pillar'd twelve-year old pines.

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Said a Divine Mercy chaplet the other day and appreciated its audacity yet felicity in offering the Father the blood of His son with the refrain "for the sake of His sorrowful passion...". Reminded me to be grateful. Want to be grateful in advance, like Christ did in his loving the Father before the Father raised Him up on the third day. I always think that others are receiving greater experiences of God and the Spirit and that that somehow absolves me from lethargy. But that's a non-starter because a) He loved us first and b) taken to its absurd physical end, not thanking and praising Him till "after the fact" would mean we can't praise God until after death and the general resurrection. It's nonsense and it's not how we're made. We're made to adore and worship now; the only question is WHAT we will worship. It makes no sense to worship what perishes.

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Read about Steven Riddle's 3-4 hours of leisure reading a day and found that somehow inspirational, this permission to read unapologetically. Then too was Betty Duffy's husband, who makes beautiful tables in his leisure time and finds it therapeutic when her folks come over. *grin*

5 comments:

Roz said...

When I first found the Divine Mercy prayer, I was struck by what seemed like the presumption of me - me - offering the Father the Body and Blood, Soul and Divinity of his own Son.

Then, I realized I was incapable of offering anything else, and the thought took my breath away.

TS said...

Good, true thought Roz.

mrsdarwin said...

Your 2 pm nap sounds marvelous -- although I find myself really wanting to close my eyes around 10 am these days, not really an ideal time with the youngsters pupping at my feet. Can't wait until baby is born...

TS said...

I like that descriptive verb "pupping"!

mrsdarwin said...

Oh, it's a standard around here, but I can't take credit for it -- my dad has used it for years to describe the antics of bouncy children, usually toddlers.