sprung

Yesterday was scrumptious.

I can't really think of any other way to put it - summer temperatures in March??

The weather was talked about like juicy small-town gossip -
'Can you believe?' Shocked faces. 'No, I never...'

And then people would trail off and breathe deeply and shake their heads a little in disbelief.

Funny, isn't it? How an early spring or unseasonable temperatures lead to remarks about what's waiting in the wings, about what we're going to have to endure - as if this fine March day (it was warmer in Nova Scotia than in JAMAICA!!!) will have to be paid for with high winds and encroaching waters.

My poor little quince bush, though. It put out shoots and unfurled leaves like little waving flags to welcome spring and now we're supposed to have flurries by the end of the weekend.

My kids left for school in tshirts and sweatshirts and came home in shorts and tank tops. And suntan lotion.

In MARCH.

Big breaths in like cake, sweet and frothy and perfect, the birds and trees and everything greening and announcing that spring spring SPRING was here!

A day that made you glad to be alive.

 Just scrumptious.

hiding in closets with birthday boys

My grandfather's ninety-fifth birthday was last week.

And he spent most of it in the closet.

When I called to wish him a happy birthday, the phone rang and rang and rang - a little odd, but maybe they were out? Celebrating, no doubt. Painting the town red. Why ever not?
I would call back later.

I checked Facebook that afternoon and found out that not only was I wrong, I was really wrong. Not only were my grandparents not out kicking up their heels, they were huddled in their bedroom closet with towels wrapped around their heads*, worrying that a tornado would burst through their walls and send them on a spin through the countryside.

Happy Birthday, Grandpa. May this next year not be so tumultous.


*My aunt's idea, to protect from debris. A good one, even if the visual still makes me crack up a little.

the silver bells of whye*

I'm taking a quick break from putting the bulletin together on this blustery, wow-winter-really-is-here day. (it's cold and bitter and not at all what we've become accustomed to)

I'm not used to being here in the manse at this time of day anymore - it's light and bright and the school bus drops off kids right off on the corner.  There's a lot going on!

(The parents have decided to take their munchkins in warm cars - no homeward strolling  in this wind today.)

But yes, I haven't been here in the middle of the day in awhile and I can hear the church bells and they're lovely and pealing out over the wind and still joyfully ringing out

and still
and still??

It must be a wedding. Except who gets married on a Thursday at three pm? That must be a coooold wedding party. I started to feel sorry for the bride in her white dress, resolutely setting her teeth against the shivers that wanted to crawl up her spine and worry her knees, the groom, wishing he had a wool waistcoat instead of just a cummerbund, the flowergirl pulling at her skirts and sitting down to protect her ankles.

And then I remembered that the minister here is an avid gardener who loves windchimes.




*Why so worried, sisters why?  (Look it up, it's pretty. And kind of grim.But pretty, like the windchimes here)