THOSE IN-BETWEEN-ITEMS NEVER SEEM TO MAKE IT OUT OF THE CLOSET. I like spring. I like that slow transition from cold to pleasantly warm. You still may need a sweater or jacket. Your body fills with new energy. And no insects yet. You feel light, unencumbered...

We don't do that this year, do we? From winter boots to flip flops. From winter coat to T-shirts. Oh, I like. I like it better than snow. But I look at clothing items in my closet. Some I would like to wear. But already too warm for them. Maybe next year? Mmmm, maybe not. I have lots of things to wear for in-between. They really never seem to make it out of the closet. Of course they don't wear out either. Maybe that's a bonus.

Was in the thrift shop in New Hamburg, Saturday. Wow, they have such good stuff, such good prices, and such a neat, friendly atmosphere. One could hang out there for hours. I think we did. Bought books of poetry, of old stories, looked at, and bought some of those great looking plants, donated by the community, planted by the thrift shop personal, lovingly, in recycled pots, artistically. Plants always fresh and cared for, to tantalize your green addiction.

And bought clothes. A change in summery things. I wear them today, proudly. Loose, light cotton pants. A great top that reminds you of a beautiful blue sky. Funny I do have quite a selection of shorts. But somehow I do not want them yet. From jeans to shorts doesn't work for me. I need transition. Don't feel like exposing white legs yet.

You may wonder what happened to all those in-between-fashion-items I was talking about that don't wear out. Well, somehow, especially pants, I always have a hard time finding anymore. I want simple. I want light. I want not to feel aware of what I am wearing. And that is hard to come by, unless, I guess you want to pay out-of-this-world prices. I don't. And the old cottonees have become beyond repairing.

This word program is so unpoetic. Doesn't recognize the word 'cottonees', doesn't like the word unpoetic... sigh! Hard to be original in the electronic world of conformity. But a great opportunity to be rebellious.

Well, time to get going. Have breakfast. Listen to bird songs coming in through wide open windows. Let the dog take me for a walk. Maybe have a sprint on my bike. It's waiting for me, aroused from hibernation.

Happy summer, all you blogger writers out there. Don't forget to smell the daffodils.

Wild Thing

Oh, I forgot, have a series of musquito bites on arms and legs. They are out allready!

ITCHY MATTER

Friend or Enemy?
A spider bit me on my butt while I was sitting on the throne. Suddenly I feel this lump rising, itchy like crazy. Now I am tolerant of spiders. Say 'hi' to them when they crawl by. Let them be. But when I rose from the toilet and saw this green culprit, I had murderous intentions. One swipe would have landed him (her? Naw I like to think it was male interest) in the toilet bowl swirled away with all that liquid. Would serve him right. But, although I am not Buddhist, I still think a life is a life. I couldn't bite him back on his butt, to teach him a lesson. But I didn't see him as a welcome guest in my house anymore either. I would never put a bug out in winter to freeze to death. Winter would have been a bigger dilemma. But hey, the snow bells and the crocuses are celebrating spring. Yesterday I enjoyed lunch and supper outdoors with friends at my picnic table. Under the umbrella for a bit of protection from that glorious sun. (This umbrella defuses light rather than blocking out the sun.) I brought a few plants out from inside, and a small pot with children-of-the-sun daffodils. I entertained some friends with lunch and with supper. What a day it was! But back to the spider. I picked him up, gave him a scolding, brought him outside, and told him to stay out and not come back with a whole spider family. Well, doesn't quite go with spiders that way, does it. Maybe there is a nest full of eggs somewhere in my house. I think I better check the toilet before I sit down, next time.

Wild Thing

A STORY OF SPRING

From under the piles of snow, even before it was all melted away, appeared those sweet, brave snow bells, in full bloom. Amazingly white, whiter than snow, reaching up to the sky. A patch of little beauties, in a mantle of healthy green, slender leaves. Around them still messy garden residue from last year, brownish, but with signs of green sprouts coming up, promising that crocuses, daffodown dillies, and tulips are not that far behind.
I had been afraid that that particular spring pleasure had been taken away from me. Late last spring, without my consent, while I was away, my flowerbeds had been dug up and over planted with things busy body neighbours thought would be more aesthetic to look at. But, o joy, the bulbs survived. Wild Thing happy now. In the wake of of robins and red winged blackbirds, my snow bells appeared again. I apologized to them for not having greater trust in their survival skills. They outsmarted human intervention.