jumpingfish

So they came into town, my family did. My aunt. My brother and sister-in-law. My niece from Berkeley. My other niece soon to be (perhaps) from Austin. My nephew. And my mother.

They came to town as the weather was oscillating wildly between warm, spring, sunshiny days and cold and dreary. Except the Berkeley niece, they came fleeing freezing cold and snow. They came expecting sun and blue skies and spring flowers. The came expecting March to be going out like a lamb.

But although the weather here was far better than there, there and there, it was by no means accommodating. There was wind and drizzle, and the skies were an uninviting grey, a drag to us as hosts, although we tried to conceal our disappointment as our visitors were likely were quite happy with the transitions they made.

The several days flew past. And the visitors left town, flight by flight, returning to Illinois and Ohio and New York, returning to the weather they had fled.

And the following day, the very next day, the sun reappeared and temperatures climbed into the 70s. And after that with the temperature in the mid 80s, we found ourselves rolling down the car windows to get a break from the heat.

And on that day, the Irises, many of which had succumbed to the first freeze several weeks ago (the same freeze that killed the tomatoes and the buds on the Spiderwort and on the Pomegranate and Ash trees)… On that day so soon after the visitors had gone, the Irises and Blue Bonnets and Englemann’s Daisies and Prairie Verbena and various wild, flowering weedy things exploded.

Missed it by that much.

I don’t know.

The weather is gray and blustery. The family has come and gone in a whirlwind (literally when it comes to the frisbees that were flying on Sunday). The dogs are looking at me like there ought to be dinner served up about now and why on earth am I sitting here staring at that infernal thing on the desk and holding that stick in my hand when there is dinner to be served, for heavens sake?

So I don’t know what it means. Heck I only have a vague idea what to call it. So without further ado, here it is.

And now… Dinner is served!

She sometimes talks about volcanology with a hint of lament in her voice. What her plans were. What might have otherwise been. I sometimes think about otherwise, too. With a hint of lament. What might have been but isn’t. Plans gone by.

But she didn’t do that. And I didn’t do those.

Instead, we met outside a restaurant that is no longer there, she walking with a confident swagger that spoke of the volcanologist in her. With a smile on her face and a glint in her eyes.

And it makes me glad for the this. For the what did. For the what is. With no hint of regret.

On a cold, cloudy day. With wishes that winter be gone.

Oh certainly these aren’t the trees we’d be wishing for. And the sun-baked sand brings problems of its own. But how about green things sprouting up and sun shining down and white clouds going by? How about that?

1.

There’s a butter-yellow butterfly fluttering among the Irises. The blossoms came out of nowhere and opened last night. And the butterfly has found them, uncertain about the white fall, intrigued by the yellow anther.

And there is an orange butterfly in the Lacey Oak, resting on a branch, opening and closing its wings. As the breeze blows  and the brown-orange leaves of the tree glow in the late afternoon light, it’s hard to find that butterfly if you look away.

There are Mason Bees buzzing around the holes in our bee house. I didn’t notice any overwintering there this year, so maybe these bees are lost, looking for some other holes in some other place in some other puddle of warm sunlight.

And there is a lizard stopping for a drink at the birdbath. The sunlight is glinting off the water’s surface, and the lizard’s silhouette strikes a micro-Jurrassic pose.

2.

After the race, after taking a shower, we sit on a patio drinking tea and orange juice in the warm weather of the early afternoon. It was hot running, and we ran slowly with sweat running down our cheeks. (Ok, the sweat was mine. The fair and industrious Trudy barely breaks one, ever.)

The leaves on the side walk begin to stir. A breeze whips around the corner of the building. High above us, a construction crane turns in the wind like a weather vane.

And in twenty minutes, the temperature drops twenty degrees, and our warm afternoon is gone.

3.

“Maybe the tomatoes will be ok,” she says. “Ben covered them. Maybe they were warm enough.”

I shake my head. “It got too cold.”

The night before, the temperatures continued dropping, and from a high in the upper seventies yesterday, it got down to 26 last night. I peek at the tomatoes, removing the stones, lifting the burlap, picking up the overturned bucket. They are dead, dark green lying limp on the ground.

Even the tomatoes in the green house couldn’t make it. And the dozen or so Iris blossoms are gone. Pale green lying limp on the ground. And the Spiderword, too. When we left, one was beginning to open its purple blossoms. They’re on the ground, too.

And there are no lizard or butterflies to be seen.

4.

But you know the lizard is there somewhere. And the butterflies. Waiting for the water in the birdbaths to melt. Waiting for the next wave of blossoms.

Indeed, here comes the next wave. The Agarita is covered in yellow, and its fragrance fills the air. The the Mexican Redbud buds are beginning to open. And the Prairie Verbena. And the Anemones.

Another warm day comes. Blue skies. Sun. But then the cold again. Cloudy gray. Rain falling from the sky. Thunder and hail.

Thank heavens for the rain. We can deal with the cold. But hail? I could do without the hail.