Nature's Creatures
That's all of us, of course: nature's creatures. Rarely, however, do we consider ourselves included in that realm of nature's creatures. Rather, we think of nature's creatures as those animals, birds, reptiles, insects that co-habit the planet with us. We being of superior manufacture in every conceivable manner. Perhaps the thing that really unites us is that we are all creatures of habit. Call it habit, call it culture, call it evolutionary design.It is in our nature to enjoy breakfast, then to stroll about our garden in the backyard, to appreciate the Eden we have perfected for ourselves over the years. Correction: perfection is elusive and will never be attained, making constant striving a requirement for a committed gardener. We pluck off spent blossoms, stake up waywardly floppy stems, cut back awkward branches, and shape shrubs to our liking. Irving sits on the deck, reading the newspaper. Button and Riley sniff about and lay sprawled in the sun, soaking up its life-affirming warmth.
Soon afterward we took our daily stroll in the ravine. Button eager and anticipatory, Riley not all that willingly, but tepidly obliging. Truth is, it was a lovely day, not nearly as hot as the 30-degrees we've been wilting under of late, with high humidity levels. And there was a very much appreciated breeze, and sufficient clouds in the sky to veil the sun from time to time. And since when we're walking in the ravine there's always a good canopy from the overhead trees, even in hotter weather it becomes a pleasant pasttime.
We came across only one other person; a young man bicycling furiously through the clouds of mosquitoes, headphone entertaining him, oblivious to everything around him, determined to stay the course. He missed, among other things, the Monarch butterflies recently appearing in the ravine. He missed the sight, on the angled slope of the first ascent we take, a truly giant thistle, towering well above our height and replete with large "flowers" of a most agreeable purple.
He missed the high shrieking call of hawks circling above the pine trees. A pair of hawks which appear to have established themselves as new residents of the ravine, for we've heard them over the space of a week, and today saw them flapping in the wind above us, for the first time. They are, Irving thinks, either sharpshinned or Cooper's hawks.
When we do our usual ravine trek, a monologue begins. Non-stop. Either his impressions of what he has read in the morning newspapers and how he has interpreted events, with which I do not necessarily agree but find myself unable, despite attempting, to interrupt his flow. Or a long, involved explanation of a movel he has just completed or is about to (he reads omniverously at a rate I cannot possibly, nor would wish to, match) finish, in complete empathy with the protagonists' characters and admiration for the plots in which they are engaged.
Not this day, though: Instead I'm treated to a one-way discussion (I'd have nothing to add to it, in any event) about the art and times of Constable, Turner, Claude Lorraine. Constable who was so unappreciated in his time, and had to reach the age of 60 before he was admitted to membership in the Royal Academy. Turner who was so inordinately jealous of the reputation and art of Lorraine who had preceded him by centuries but whose success just stuck in Turner's craw. Turner, born of a mad mother, with his sad childhood and supportive father, that sadly socially dysfunctional egotist whose interpretive brilliance and artistic genius housed in an awkwardly introverted psyche was the toast of the British art world. And Woburn Abbey, I had to learn about it too, as an antique centre, a centre for art. I do listen.
Finally, we've completed that daily circuit and climb up to a street hotter than when we'd left it to plunge into the ravine. The mailbox divulges three missives; one a large envelope containing a catalogue for antique clock parts, (another of his many and varied interests) the second a municipal property tax bill, and the third, a letter from our granddaughter. The last one is a surprise: she had already informed me she would no longer write back so I need not write to her, enclosing a self-addressed stamped envelope to encourage her to respond. We do, after all, see one another at least once a week.
Her letter is neatly written, but spare. In her lovely, classical printing style which she inherited from her mother who uses it on the blueprints she puts together in industrial design. She has used a red pen. She has completed the letter with the drawn head of a smiling child with short, curly hair: herself. The letter reads, volubly:
Prolix it is not.
Hi this is the very last letter. don't send one to me please. I had some time to send one and I was looking at a letter for a long time and you did not know I was sending it so I might as well send it.
Hope You Like It
Bye Bye Love
Angie, Mom, Bunnies,
Dogs, Cat
posted by Pieface @ Wednesday, July 19, 2006
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