The used book store beckoned. The door when he opened it to the cool dark air welcomed with the old-fashioned jangle of a metal bell; the tattooed clerk looked up over squarish glasses and smiled. Classical music, of course, on the radio. He wandered the aisles, ran his finger rippling along the spines, the titles a blur, the smell of dust and mold enfolding. So many books. A ludicrous number of books, unimaginably many.
At last, the six-panel willow oak carving.
One green thing beside another,
Shoulder to shoulder, brother to brother,
Sure broad leaf and frilly sinner—
The knife comes for all, and makes them dinner.
In late April I planted a row of Blue Lake green beans along a makeshift trellis by the side of my house—old metal fenceposts and jute twine, same as I use for tomatoes. I wove a soaker hose through them to keep the soil wet through a dry spring. They sprouted. They grew. They occasionally flowered. They did not make a single damn bean. In mid-July I gave up and quit watering, and since two wet weeks in early August they have had no more than a sprinkle or two.
Memento mori? What the hell. You’re going to die—you might as well.
The view yesterday from Crowder’s Mountain, North Carolina. There was a lot of clambering up boulders to get to the top… a good fun hike that I was glad not to be doing with a full backpack.
Just a quick public service announcement: if you are shot to death, didn’t know me personally, and would like me to care, mourn, pray for your soul, or frankly even notice, you are going to have to take a number. I understand there’s a political activist in line, but we’re currently serving the toddler in Chicago who accidentally shot himself in the face yesterday. Please know that all our customers fellow human beings are valued. Thank you for your patience.
“I am ashamed that American government should have become the chief cause of disillusionment with American principles,” wrote Wendell Berry — in 1972.
Something different: a peg rack in red oak, carved with gouges.
Reading about continuing failed attempts to curb New York City’s rat infestation, I had a brilliant idea. Bait traps with a drug that uses messenger RNA (or, you know—something like that) to make the rats grow bushy tails. Bam! Instant squirrels! Squirrels are cute! Problem solved. You’re welcome.