Hit and Run

 

April 24, 2026

Spring returns. Black iris a shock in the front yard. Tree peony wane and herbaceous peony come to the fore. First pale yellow roses, first flat pink climbing roses in the near shade, wild white thorn in utter shade. Even as I type in the attic, perfume wafts through the little window. 

By means of the security cameras watched the cleaning ladies pick at the flowers on the front porch. Couldn’t hear what they were saying, which was a disappointment. They waited until I got home (I usually wait for them to be gone, but my timing was off) so they could talk with me after, by their calculation, a year. They told me how lovely my house and garden are, pointed out loose bricks in the stairway, said how well I look, and complained about the unreasonable client who was their next stop. It would never occur to me to try to negotiate downward a workman’s fee. They wondered if I collect antiques. I didn’t know how to answer. I have antiques and so must have, in a sense, collected them, but I never thought of it that way. Need a bowl? Get an old one. 

Got buzzed by an old black pick-up last evening as I drove to chorus. Its muffler was shot, so loudly and aggressively it wove through lanes on Patton Avenue, trying to inch ahead of traffic. I was stopped at the first traffic light west of the Smoky Park Bridge, looking at the cars stopped a little ahead at the second one. The pick-up wheeled around me, cut the red light, and in five seconds hit the car in front of me with considerable force. The back of the car disintegrated, while the pick-up reversed, found a new angle, and took off through the red light, having committed a hit and run. I waited for somebody to get out and check on the driver, but I was first in line, so I realized it was me. I got out and ran (as much as I can run) toward the wreck. The driver was visibly unhurt, but stunned and disoriented. He was either very stunned indeed or was Hispanic and didn’t understand what I said. He looked at the back of his car, struggling to comprehend. Patton Avenue, especially at that hour, is the busiest street in Asheville, so I knew I couldn’t leave my car where it was. Another driver and I kicked the largest and pointiest debris to the side of the road, and I got back in the car and drove on, over the remaining debris, which I assumed would shred my tires, but seems not to have. Cars going around us shouted ugly things about getting out of the way. When I got to St George’s I called the police, and when I got home received a call asking for details. I knew how incredibly unhelpful my testimony must have been. What kind of truck? No, I couldn’t read the license. . . all I had was the blackness and scruffiness of it, and that fact that its muffler was shot. It must have been bashed in considerably at the front, by I didn’t actually see that. The cop on the phone was very pleasant. As I drove on, I had to remind myself that I hadn’t been the one in the wreck.

Dug weeds and grass from the iris bed, then put in zinnia seeds and watered. While I watered, a cock robin came and stood in the spray. He dug for worms a little, but mostly stayed for the spray, and moved to follow the spray when I moved it. Spent a length of time providing cok robin with a shower. As I worked in the garden, a rabbit grazed unconcerned ten feet away. 

My father’s hoe finally broke, as I was tugging on bamboo. It broke right at the head, so is still usable as a staff and a hand cultivator. 

Rehearsal was unexpectedly merry. 

Huge fire in the River District.