Monday, September 17, 2001 5:42:09 PM
I'm sitting in the back yard, comfortable on the picnic table, the umbrella is flying full mast and picks up gushes of wind which threaten to sail me off to Borneo or some such exotic location. Bees buzz around my glass of wine, a peppery Valpolicella from somewhere close to Venizia. Ain't modern commerce a wonder?
And apples are falling. Falling with an appalling frequency in the heavy breeze. I have asked my mother but she assures me these apples are no good. "No pies?" I moan, stricken. I live on Orchard Drive and right next, as I realized about a week ago, to the orchard that gave the street its name. Not the brightest bulb in the incandescent luminescence. Eventually I get it. I have lived here for almost six years and have gazed upon the trees that separate the neighboring house from ours every single day without ever associating the tract of land with an orchard.
There are apple and pear trees and they only serve the function of making mowing the lawn a sticky torture and getting the local fauna drunk. No kidding. The fruit ferments, soggy and soft. I saw a cock-eyed turkey bobbing for apples down by the vegetable garden and I swear he was singing about a dead man's chest. And the bees. They don't sting; they just congregate and buzz some honey dipped gossip while they try to get passed the cork that I am forced to stuff back into the wine bottle. It's madness here in the autumn!
The squirrels and the deer sit on their haunches and sing doo wop favorites. Available. I might add, for just $21.95 on three CD's. Just the other day I saw three raccoons streaking, each carrying dancing chipmunks on their backs. Fetching little dervishes!
I look forward to the bleak black and whiteness of winter. I may just haul the old laptop out and chop ice from the top of the table, brush the snow from the seat, boot it up to this journal and write and drink my wine in peace!