July 26, 2014

Hadn’t expected yesterday to turn into Gardening Day, but it did.  After the hewing of the walnut, and recalling what Will had said about his plans for 62, I decided to get out as much of what was imperiled as I could. The bloodroots are so entangled with other things this time of year that I could extract only one. I took another native hibiscus, the Mr. Lincoln rose, a big fern, a peony (the one left with the oddest foliage), and an iris that came up with the peony. Watered hugely and often against the dry heat of the day. The rose came out of the ground as though it had never committed to the space where it was planted a few years back. In a fit of enthusiasm I ordered four roses on the Internet, and will have to dig more garden to put them in, having filled all readily available land in six months.

Reading at Malaprops afterwards, dismal except for the encountering of old friends. It wasn’t the emcee's reading, but he is such a show-off you came away thinking it was. Was meant to attend another reading at the Wolfe House, but it was too crowded and I was too dispirited. I coveted the cake being served, but it seemed too crass to grab a slice and run. Did have a calm Riesling at the wine bar. The man beside me never stopped fiddling with his phone, except to tell me a particular seat was taken, which it wasn’t. I do not resist messing with my phone; I am not even tempted, having grown up with such a near-morbid attentiveness to the world around me.

Sally Stang posts a photo of me from Hiram. It’s the way I look today, in my own mind. I’m biting a nail in some forgotten anxiety.