The first week of daylight savings is under our belt and I am about to collapse in a puddle of my own sweat, grime, and drool. Spring is beautiful, I get that. Everyone is raving about the warm weather and marveling at the blooming flowers, but what I see are plants that need water and grass that needs cutting. Frankly, I think we were cheated out of winter. I’d take another six months of the gray and the rain. If this keeps up I might consider moving up to Portland.
Speaking of Portland, I just got off the phone with the guys from the band Ape Machine. They are a four-piece band out of the great Northwest that specializes in delivering driving, old-school metal; the good stuff, unfiltered. The band will be rocking Café Coda this Thursday – check out the interview for more.
Cool, Cool Water…
We envy Portland for their water; they envy us for our burritos, and the sunlight. The sunshine for six to eight months out of the year means we have to pump our water out of the ground and send it through ditches and tubes until it gets where we need it to go. I’m telling you, I hit the score of the year with all the ¾-inch tubing I’ve been picking up the last couple of weeks. So far I’ve hauled three pick-up truck loads of the stuff – three more and I think I’ll just about have it all. A couple hundred bucks worth of fittings and I will have water flowing to every nook and cranny of this property. This has always been part of “the plan,” but the early score of the irrigation line means the timeline has been moved up, considerably.
Anyway, in spite of the early onset of yard-work, it is an admittedly gorgeous time of year. Around sunset, the frogs breeding in the neighbor’s swimming pool cover generate an incredible cacophony – a high-pitched, tweeting symphony. Daylight reveals the fruit trees braking dormancy, leaves and blossoms bursting forth from wood. Seedlings are pushing through the rich, dark soil; the grass is green, lush, and seems to grow about an inch an hour.
The End of Sobriety As We Know It
Hey, speaking of green, if you’re reading this, it means you’ve survived Saint Patrick’s Day! Congratulations! That’s no small feat. That being said, your reading this column doesn’t necessarily mean I survived it, deadline was last week. If I am around, it means I made it through not only SPD, but also another year on this crazy, spinning ball of molten metals. The whole thing is so unlikely it makes my head wobble and my ears ring. Thank God, gods, or no God that I’m drinking again; it might get confusing without the occasional snort of strong hooch.