baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Springtime It feels like spring. And for the first time in months, I can turn off the heater and leave the front door open to the wandering cats, june bugs and chattering neighbors just beyond the small porch of my home. I suppose my affinity for warm weather is merely the logical outcome of a tropical childhood--I spent the first six or so years of my life in the Philippines--I grew up eating mangoes, rice and shredded coconuts. And, when I consider all the places my father could have chosen to build the family castle, I'm overcome with gratitude that he had to foresight and good sense to choose the almost perpetually sunny and warm confines of Southern California. I just don't do well in cold climates. Like zinnias, I need my home to be bathed in warm weather and sun to flourish. My home has the sweet distinction of having an attic fan. With a simple pull of the skinny chain dangling in the hallway, it comes to life and sucks all the stale air out of the crevices of the house and into the attic. If the windows and front and back doors are open, the stagnant smell of the afternoon is replaced with the sweet coolness of a spring night-complete with the scents of the nearby orange grove and night blooming jasmine. There's a certain comfort that comes with these smells. I relish these moments of comfort when I can light a candle, sit on the checkered sofa in the living room, and simply *be*--the hum of the attic fan coming from the hallway, and those wonderful springtime scents floating in and through my nose-awakening it from the sleep of wintertime. Springtime also awakens the gardener in my girl. This past weekend, I saw her wandering through our backyard; sporting a deliberate pace and gaze that betrays the garden in her thoughts. She's planning a bridge over here, and a new flower bed over there. Maybe, if she has the time, she'd also like to eliminate some of the remaining hard angles defining the edges of the lawn. Before too long, I'm sure she'll spend almost every free moment she has out there shaping the backyard of our castle into whatever curved vision she has visualized in her mind. She took about 20 minutes of last weekend painting her gardening vision to me. She always asks for my opinion and, honestly, I have no problem with any of her plans. She can do whatever she likes as far as I'm concerned. It's not that I'm apathetic about the yard-it's just that I know how important it is to her. I'm more interested in the way her voice rises in pitch when she talks about the new flower bed. I'm more interested in the enthusiasm that emanates from her eyes whenever she imagines how something or other will look in the corner by the shed. I love it when she shares her vision with me. She's happiest when she gardens-and, by the same cheesy token, I'm happiest when she's happiest. Springtime is here. And the chill of recent months will soon evaporate. Maybe, I can stop shivering now. 09:32 p.m. - 2001-03-20 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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