The sounds of spring

 

I am beset with the noise of high-school athletics. In the house behind me (and my cottage, grandfathered in, sits on the property line), a young man bounces a basketball incessantly. In my own driveway, my grandson whacks golf balls against a new target. I find these sounds comforting—those boys are at home where they belong on a school night. Now dusk has faded into dark, and the neighbor’s dog is barking incessantly (I like that word), the bark of a lonely dog who wants attention and wants to be let in. I wonder if they’ve gone out because the dog doesn’t often bark like that. I’m comforted though that it is not Sophie whose barking is upsetting the neighborhood. Sophie saves her barks for those pesky squirrels who invade her yard, though today she roused herself from a nap long enough to tell the yard guys exactly what she thinks of them.

For all its isolated location, the cottage is a noisy place. All day long, I hear birds singing. Too often, I hear planes and helicopters--we are in the flight path for the city's municipal airport and close to the hospital, so we get air ambulances overhead. And in a strange twist, I often think in the mornings that I hear voices—no, no, it’s not my mind slipping. Today I realized that there were workmen at the house directly behind me (the basketball house) and one of them must have had a radio. They are sometimes just barely outside my back wall, so it’s no wonder it sounds as if they are in the cottage with me. I keep thinking they will finish that major project—building a cabana, pool, and new back porch. But they seem to come back frequently.

It finally seems to be spring in North Texas—but don’t count on it. We’ve had several false starts this spring. Last night we had a good, old-fashioned thunderstorm with heavy rain which we much needed. It soaked the new sod we’d just had put down in the front and back yards, and the herbs in my portable garden got a good watering.  Things are greening up—the pecan that shades my patio is showing it’s first few leaves, and so is the unknown tree by the side of the main house. Every year I think it’s dead, but I’ve learned that if I am patient, it will leaf out.

This spring has apparently brought a full-blown allergy season. The vet tells me that it is at level five, whatever that means. Sophie has been plagued with long, drawn-out, hard coughing spells. She sounds like she’s trying to clear her throat and can’t. This morning, Jordan came to the cottage for something in the midst of one of those spells and said, “Call the vet.” Tonight Sophie has had a shot that is supposed to last twelve weeks, which should she us out of the season. She is still coughing but not as long and hard, and she slept most of the afternoon. At least she’s stopped eating grass. Christian tells me his allergies have been off the charts.

Today was a nice, at-home day for me. The days this week have been marked by distractions—an interview on Monday which didn’t distract much but still was there on my calendar; a dental appointment Tuesday, which I dreaded and which turned out to be much easier than anticipated. Tomorrow, a big chunk of the morning will be taken up when I go with friends to get our second boosters. We have appointments half an hour apart, but I cannot imagine it will take all that time. Still, it breaks up the morning. Friday I am looking forward to fixing a light supper for friends, and Saturday will be taken up with cooking for Easter—I am to make potato salad and a marinated vegetable salad. Both easy, but the chopping requires time. Oh, and I’m making matzoh crack for dessert.

The reason all these small distractions matter to me is that I can’t settle down to work on my novel unless I have a chunk of time. Granted, sometimes I surprise myself and write more in a half hour than I would in three hours. But I always feel I need that block of time set aside. And now I am so near the end of the first draft that I can practically recite from memory what I intend to write—of course, it never works out that way.

Tonight was dinner on my own. Jordan and Christian are at a meeting—plans for Cowtown Ball are gearing up already, months ahead of the event, and Jacob, I was told, had his own dinner. I always translate that as “Jacob doesn’t really want what you cook.” And tonight he would not have. I scrambled a couple of eggs with butter, sliced green onion, diced tomato, and chopped smoked salmon—an old favorite of mine. Makes me wonder why I don’t keep smoked salmon in the fridge all the time.

Too sleepy to work on those last pages of Finding Irene, so I think I’ll spend the evening reading Cynthia Kuhn’s How to Book a Murder, which I am thoroughly enjoying.

Sweet dreams, y’all.