Friday night, Saturday in part
May. 5th, 2003 03:45 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pameladeanI had an unexpectedly nice time with Eric. I'd expected the low-key, let's-act-as-if-we-lived-together kind of time, since he had a lot of reading to do and we had to get up early. But it was more interactive than that. He did get lots of reading done, and showed me some wonderful old books that meant a lot to him.
I woke up at eight in the morning, revelled comfortably in the thought that I could sleep for two more hours, and then, as all to often happens these days, I started worrying. The worry in this instance began because I was thirsty. That was no great matter; I just got myself a drink of water. But then I realized that I had not checked the water supply of the cats who presently live in the back staircase and in the basement. The air was very dry earlier this week, with humidity of 22% or so. That bowl gets dirty fast anyway because there is so much traffic on the staircase. I often, even when attentive, find it empty or with a quarter-inch of furry water in it.
David was doing photography; Lydy was getting ready for a large new fish tank, with fish, that somebody who, I suspect, found the whole thing too overwhelming was giving her for free. I thought I would call and leave a message when it was not so early, and almost went back to sleep. Only I was still thirsty. I got so restless that Eric asked me if I was okay, and being apprised of the situation, suggested that I call later. This would probably have worked just fine, but I thought of going to the wedding and fretting about whether the cats had any water.
Eric kindly pointed out various time constraints on a plan to go home, and asked if he could do anything. I said he could give me food and coffee when I came back. I leapt up, dressed, grabbed my knapsack with the wedding clothes in it, and went out and got on a bus. It was a glorious morning, well supplied with the songs of finches, robins, bluejays, cardinals, and mourning doves, punctuated by the yelling of crows and the monotonous single chirp of the house sparrow.
I came in the back door so I could check the progress of plants. Red and yellow and red-and-yellow tulips looked nice, and the part of the back yard I had ruthlessly mowed too short was greening up already. I charged in the back door and looked at the water bowl. Empty. I rinsed and filled it, dumped some food in the food bowl for good measure, though it was half full already. Naomi, who was in her box on the shelf below the window, leapt down and began lapping the water in a very obliging fashion.
I ran upstairs and took a very fast shower, and then, in a marvellous show of self-discipline, put on exactly the clothes and necklace I had chosen; filled the cat bowls on the second floor just for the hell of it, and ran out again. I had left at about 9:45, an insanely early hour for me. I got back to Eric's at 10:45, my wet hair compressed under a straw hat I had grabbed from the hall closet at the last moment, because the spring sun was already very strong and the wedding was outdoors.
He fed me and gave me coffee and kindly told me that I looked fabulous. I didn't argue. We made much of the cat and got outselves out the door in time to make a very leisurely progress to Loring Park. We saw a house finch sitting in one of the little trees on 19th Street, silhoutted against the sky, and Eric pointed out that its tail was forked. This will be useful in trying to tell non-singing house finches from house sparrows, in the future.
We made an equally leisurely progress through Loring Park, admiring all the lovely weed species: Canada geese, pigeons, crows, house sparrows, people on park benches. There were red-winged blackbirds making their cell-phone noises in the cattails, which were just starting to green up. There were a lot of grackles around too, demonstrating their good opinion of themselves. We went through the memorial garden, remembering how when the little birch trees were more leafed out, last summer, we had seen a mysterious water bird perched in one. Not much was in bloom, but a great deal was getting ready, all in fresh green.
We were thinking of moving along to the Sculpture Garden when a dark-colored long-necked bird flashed across the narrow water connecting the large lake to the small one, and alighted in a willow tree. We went across the bridge and considered the bird for some time. Eric finally suggested that it might be a rail. It had considerately tipped its head and long bill straight up, which, as he pointed out, would have camoflauged it very nicely had it been in the reeds and cattails instead of in the willow. He told me that the phrase "as thin as a rail" came from this habit of this bird, and it is certainly a better origin than a fence rail, which is what I always connected the phrase to.
We turned reluctantly from the park and went across the blue-and-yellow bridge that spans Lyndale/Hennepin/Whatever. I had earlier referred to the streets we had to cross as "that mess," which I think works fine. The bridge is pleasant and interesting, but I wish they had put in risers for the steps. The traffic below rushes by at an appalling rate and the geometry of all the still and moving straight lines made my inner ear unhappy. It was better up on top, though the noise of the traffic was pretty bad. I'd probably prefer the entire affair at four in the morning.
We noticed belatedly the lines of John Ashberry's poetry that are spelled out along the horizontal beams of the bridge, and read them.
I had not been to the Sculpture Garden for a very long time. It's divided into outdoor rooms by handsome hedges of arbor vitae. We found the wedding party readily enough. I ascertained that we were not on the very end of the bell curve for not being fancily dressed, and Eric observed that he did have the loudest shirt. I pointed out that many of the dresses were louder. That taken care of, we stood uneasily in the sun, looking at the crowd.
The relatives and the bride and groom were having photographs taken. Aside from a few people who were presumably parents, most of the crowd was in its thirties somewhere, and fairly dapper. The photographer was dressed in a way that made me feel more comfortable, and there was one nice plump woman in black, with a vest sparely embroidered in bright colors, two of which, the teal and purple, matched the patches in her hair. Another woman in the same conversational group, was very thin, but had completely improbable orange hair and a dress to match. They were less intimidating than the more conventional sorts, but I found them intimidating enough anyway.
The groom came over and said hello; Eric introduced us. The groom pointed out that Eric was not the only man there with a full beard, and asked if he had spoken to anybody he didn't know yet. (This is a running joke of theirs, I believe.) This caused Eric to spot some people he had met at this couple's previous wedding -- the previous wedding was the legal one, this was the one for the families and the partying -- and we went over to them.
Pamela
I woke up at eight in the morning, revelled comfortably in the thought that I could sleep for two more hours, and then, as all to often happens these days, I started worrying. The worry in this instance began because I was thirsty. That was no great matter; I just got myself a drink of water. But then I realized that I had not checked the water supply of the cats who presently live in the back staircase and in the basement. The air was very dry earlier this week, with humidity of 22% or so. That bowl gets dirty fast anyway because there is so much traffic on the staircase. I often, even when attentive, find it empty or with a quarter-inch of furry water in it.
David was doing photography; Lydy was getting ready for a large new fish tank, with fish, that somebody who, I suspect, found the whole thing too overwhelming was giving her for free. I thought I would call and leave a message when it was not so early, and almost went back to sleep. Only I was still thirsty. I got so restless that Eric asked me if I was okay, and being apprised of the situation, suggested that I call later. This would probably have worked just fine, but I thought of going to the wedding and fretting about whether the cats had any water.
Eric kindly pointed out various time constraints on a plan to go home, and asked if he could do anything. I said he could give me food and coffee when I came back. I leapt up, dressed, grabbed my knapsack with the wedding clothes in it, and went out and got on a bus. It was a glorious morning, well supplied with the songs of finches, robins, bluejays, cardinals, and mourning doves, punctuated by the yelling of crows and the monotonous single chirp of the house sparrow.
I came in the back door so I could check the progress of plants. Red and yellow and red-and-yellow tulips looked nice, and the part of the back yard I had ruthlessly mowed too short was greening up already. I charged in the back door and looked at the water bowl. Empty. I rinsed and filled it, dumped some food in the food bowl for good measure, though it was half full already. Naomi, who was in her box on the shelf below the window, leapt down and began lapping the water in a very obliging fashion.
I ran upstairs and took a very fast shower, and then, in a marvellous show of self-discipline, put on exactly the clothes and necklace I had chosen; filled the cat bowls on the second floor just for the hell of it, and ran out again. I had left at about 9:45, an insanely early hour for me. I got back to Eric's at 10:45, my wet hair compressed under a straw hat I had grabbed from the hall closet at the last moment, because the spring sun was already very strong and the wedding was outdoors.
He fed me and gave me coffee and kindly told me that I looked fabulous. I didn't argue. We made much of the cat and got outselves out the door in time to make a very leisurely progress to Loring Park. We saw a house finch sitting in one of the little trees on 19th Street, silhoutted against the sky, and Eric pointed out that its tail was forked. This will be useful in trying to tell non-singing house finches from house sparrows, in the future.
We made an equally leisurely progress through Loring Park, admiring all the lovely weed species: Canada geese, pigeons, crows, house sparrows, people on park benches. There were red-winged blackbirds making their cell-phone noises in the cattails, which were just starting to green up. There were a lot of grackles around too, demonstrating their good opinion of themselves. We went through the memorial garden, remembering how when the little birch trees were more leafed out, last summer, we had seen a mysterious water bird perched in one. Not much was in bloom, but a great deal was getting ready, all in fresh green.
We were thinking of moving along to the Sculpture Garden when a dark-colored long-necked bird flashed across the narrow water connecting the large lake to the small one, and alighted in a willow tree. We went across the bridge and considered the bird for some time. Eric finally suggested that it might be a rail. It had considerately tipped its head and long bill straight up, which, as he pointed out, would have camoflauged it very nicely had it been in the reeds and cattails instead of in the willow. He told me that the phrase "as thin as a rail" came from this habit of this bird, and it is certainly a better origin than a fence rail, which is what I always connected the phrase to.
We turned reluctantly from the park and went across the blue-and-yellow bridge that spans Lyndale/Hennepin/Whatever. I had earlier referred to the streets we had to cross as "that mess," which I think works fine. The bridge is pleasant and interesting, but I wish they had put in risers for the steps. The traffic below rushes by at an appalling rate and the geometry of all the still and moving straight lines made my inner ear unhappy. It was better up on top, though the noise of the traffic was pretty bad. I'd probably prefer the entire affair at four in the morning.
We noticed belatedly the lines of John Ashberry's poetry that are spelled out along the horizontal beams of the bridge, and read them.
I had not been to the Sculpture Garden for a very long time. It's divided into outdoor rooms by handsome hedges of arbor vitae. We found the wedding party readily enough. I ascertained that we were not on the very end of the bell curve for not being fancily dressed, and Eric observed that he did have the loudest shirt. I pointed out that many of the dresses were louder. That taken care of, we stood uneasily in the sun, looking at the crowd.
The relatives and the bride and groom were having photographs taken. Aside from a few people who were presumably parents, most of the crowd was in its thirties somewhere, and fairly dapper. The photographer was dressed in a way that made me feel more comfortable, and there was one nice plump woman in black, with a vest sparely embroidered in bright colors, two of which, the teal and purple, matched the patches in her hair. Another woman in the same conversational group, was very thin, but had completely improbable orange hair and a dress to match. They were less intimidating than the more conventional sorts, but I found them intimidating enough anyway.
The groom came over and said hello; Eric introduced us. The groom pointed out that Eric was not the only man there with a full beard, and asked if he had spoken to anybody he didn't know yet. (This is a running joke of theirs, I believe.) This caused Eric to spot some people he had met at this couple's previous wedding -- the previous wedding was the legal one, this was the one for the families and the partying -- and we went over to them.
Pamela
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Date: 2003-05-06 08:49 am (UTC)Once I find a place where lines of poetry or great prose serve as the environ's indigenous graffiti, I'll know I'm home *wistful grin* How lucky you are.
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Date: 2003-05-06 09:28 am (UTC)Pamela
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Date: 2003-05-06 09:49 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2003-05-06 11:01 am (UTC)--Quill
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Date: 2003-05-06 11:07 am (UTC)I believe I know what you're talking about--the once city that I've visited that I can honestly say had some gorgeous graffiti--at least that I had the privelege of seeing--is Austin, TX. Come to think of it, there were a few rather creative pieces on the overpasses coming into Amherst, MA, too. It all depends on what the individual eye finds aesthetically pleasing, I suppose. My passion is for words, so my eye tends to be more drawn to words. And the majority of the graffiti that I've seen in my short lifetime that involves words has been, well, lamentable. With the exception of the writing that covers the walls of the Hoop Cafe at Wellesley College, to which I'm transferring in the fall: I added to it with some of my own favorite verses and quotes when I was there in November for my interview and tour, and I'm looking forward to being an educated delinquent on a more regular basis *g*
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Date: 2003-05-06 11:26 am (UTC)My college had great graffiti, though, some of it in Greek.
Pamela
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