As my collaborator on the blog, my friend Anna reports under the heading, In the Courtyard, from her frequent forays to the village, where she observes, eavesdrops, and never fails in describing the creative window dressing, often seasonal, at the local optician’s shop. We often meet in the village, which offers a French bakery. She and I favor the croissants and hazelnut coffee. These we enjoy in the nearby courtyard, come rain or shine. In winter snow or summer heat, the courtyard is the perfect place to observe the many strange and wonderful aspects of one’s fellow man. Read below her weekly reports:
On a pleasant late summer morning, I am in the courtyard where five young women are having coffee. They are joined by three more, and the loud, indecipherable chatter reminds me of birds. On the other hand, no sparrows are in sight. Two of the women leave, but the six remaining are louder than ever, outdoing whole flocks of birds. Work has begun inside the vacant restaurant for its remake into Duke’s Grocery. At the same time there is a rumor that the remaining eatery, a popular Italian place, will close at the end of the month for extensive renovations by the new owner. The restaurant business has become so unstable that now when calling for a reservation I feel compelled to ask if they will still be open.
The dread here is that with so much reconstruction going on at once the courtyard will become uninhabitable. But it survived a remodel of the whole shopping center some years ago that lasted so long I was on a first name basis with the foreman before they finished. Of course, that was then. Heaven only knows where we are now. Ah, here comes Grey, waving his cane at me on his way to the bakery!
I find myself at Corner Bakery this morning, where I enjoy a cozy booth inside. The day is mild but overcast, the trees outside showing the early tinge of color. Ismenia, a clerk who has worked here forever, waxes chatty about her love of fall, her favorite season in fact, to which I respond with full accord. The portable cooling units are gone, and it feels like air-conditioning is finally restored, shortly before it will no longer be needed.
There is one lone woman on the patio, whom I observe through the window struggling mightily to open a small plastic container of orange juice. I can identify with equal might as she tries and tries, and tries again, to pull up that little seal. At last she succeeds. When she starts feeding the sparrows - and talking to them - I recognize a woman after may own heart.
None of the cafés I continue to frequent has returned to the bustling traffic enjoyed before the pandemic. Still adequate for morning coffee and a pastry, but forget about lunch. Grey and I hold high hopes for Duke’s Grocery opening at the courtyard. After all, it is British!
The cool weather is continuing in September, only fluctuating at times to touch low eighties of an afternoon. Dry weather has some trees changing early as well, while aspirational forecasts of rain evaporate before leaving a drop. Naturally there are a good many people in the courtyard this morning, enjoying the weather and their coffee. An animated Indian woman talks at, not with, a man with a big white dog. Two men discuss business, one a builder, the other a contractor. The builder’s shirt has the name duFief, an old one in this county. I am tempted to inquire if they are still known for the stained glass windows they put in their bathrooms, but the lad books too young to know ancient history, unless he is family.
From atop a nearby tree, sparrows surveil for crumbs, and spotting me, swoop down, each claiming a piece of my croissant as I throw it. By now I must have a reputation with the flock. Grey will likely be back in his Panama today. He swears the heat is holding back ready to pounce on him when he tries to escape to the mountains!
It is most unusual anymore for the month of September to begin with autumnal weather; so after our long, long, very hot summer, this chill northeast wind in the courtyard is welcome, and the trend is forecast to continue next week. How to adjust to such vagaries! I took a table in the dappled shade of the courtyard trees, but as the wind comes up, I consider moving to the shelter of the optician’s side. There are more people here than commonly, and a group of Asians, four women and one man, were having a photo-op before leaving. A family, I deduce, visiting from China perhaps.
Surely Grey will be coming this morning, perhaps in his Borsalino. With fall in the air, he is already feeling haunted. So many early memories are associated with this change of season, and they involve loved ones now passed, making the freshness of such a memory bittersweet. Still he and I share a bias toward the colder, darker months, unfortunately, since climate change is bringing the exact opposite. Heat in parts of the world this year, I read, has been “unsurvivable.” Puts one in mind of Grey's post, Boiling Frogs. Ah! I was right, here comes Grey in that famous fedora of Belgian rabbit fur.
A week long preview of comfortable autumn temperatures is giving way to more heat, when lows will not go below seventy. It is the last week of August, but any hope of an early end to summer is naive in these times. Last year the first week of September was the hottest of the season. I am at Panera this morning, following the chiropractor appointment. Lots of people sit on the patio which has morning shade, a good thing in summer, though inopportune in winter when one would prefer to sit away from people. Today I am sitting inside where it is quiet, at my favorite table by the door.
To my surprise, Panera has a new cherry pastry. It turns out to be just what one would expect from a Mexican cook, a stale shell spread with cherry jam, and striped with icing - colorful not tasty - and the almond milk has curdled in the coffee. At least this is still the place for sartorial fancy: Here come two women in long, flowing cotton dresses, very summery and feminine, harking back to the Pilgrims. Heaven save us! It’s all about the women, always has been.
An autumn preview in August has become unusual in this new century of accelerating weather extremes, but heavens bless us, we are having one this year. It is halcyon weather this morning in the courtyard, and a lone cricket can be heard, harbinger of fall. Carmen is here today, our representative from property management, with her staff, likely discussing the new eatery, Duke’s Grocery, to open soon. Now I wonder if the new establishment might be taking additional space from the optician, which would account for the absence of window dressing. I greet Carmen, but refrain from interrupting their discussion. The new tenant is a coupe for management.
The swarthy young smoker is not here today, and I notice a “No Smoking” sign has gone up under one of the cameras. Problem solved, and no terrorism today! Grey and I are meeting soon. He is distraught over his morning paper, The Washington Post, of which he has been a subscriber for decades. He tells me the editorial writers, and one cartoonist in particular, are unaccountably leaning rightward, now of all times when the nation has a good chance to elect a woman president. He fears that men will never stand for it. We’ll see.
It is an overcast morning in the courtyard, and sparrows await atop a courtyard tree, surveilling for handouts. The tables are wet with rain, to which I apply napkins. As I am putting sweetener in my coffee, another disaster: the table wobbles, and I am splashed. At least I did not lose the whole cup this time - live and learn. Two blonde women sit by the optician’s, one with a ponytail, the other a polka dot hairband and dark glasses. The latter is heard to exclaim, “No, no, Terry!” Apparently, Terry’s companion is of the opinion that Terry has had some misapprehension concerning an interaction with a mutual relation.
As for the optician’s window dressing, once and for years a delight of seasonal themes, I must presume it is never more to change. The strongest suspicion would have to be economic: rising rent and costs, slackening business. After all, most people cannot afford designer prices, and those who can go to tonier sources. Or is it a cultural reason? Perhaps today there is no seasonal theme that is not offensive, alas! I scatter some crumbs and move on to shopping.
Heat persists in the courtyard, albeit with some relief from a late afternoon monsoon. The swarthy young smoker is here again talking on his phone. Is he becoming a regular, or might he be staking out the place for terrorism? At another table a young man talks to an old woman about the development of senior housing in the area, comparing communities on either side of the river. His voice is so impressively sonorous that I cannot possibly concentrate on writing. Then a woman approaches with three young sons - stair steps. Did she keep trying for a girl?
Grey and I often express our amazement at the inferences one may draw about strangers crossing our path, and how these days thoughts may come to be colored by the tribal mindset. We blame the media, and crowding, yet tribal violence is real, in fact the world over. Our hope is that Nature will prevail in this arena, while those who escape the bardo of rebirth will know the bliss of oneness, if you believe that sort of thing.
Here comes my old friend now, in his Panama, already with coffee!
In summer, once a week I stop at Corner Bakery for coffee because it is on the way to Roger’s farm market, the best in the area. Roger’s grandson Andrew now runs it, and the produce is topnotch. At the Corner this morning the flower pots hanging on the rails around the patio have been nicely planted with trailing vines, pink geraniums, and ornamental grass. A good sign, offsetting the fact that decay progresses. A railing by steps from the parking is loose, and inside the air conditioning is off for a second week. Two large cooling units have been hooked up to ceiling vents. Yet there still is hazelnut coffee and free oat milk; they even have a decent strawberry croissant, surpassing Panera, where Tex Mex has prevailed over pastry of any sort.
The unique aspect of Panera, in the age of franchises, was in the past its quality control. That has disappeared since the pandemic, and Rapid Pickup, so popular during the great contagion, is not so rapid anymore. Jeremiah to my Cassandra, Grey and I will bemoan the spreading degradation tomorrow in the courtyard.
The monsoon season is welcome this year bringing some respite from the long spells of killer heat. Today is one such random pleasant day, yet I keep to the tall, shady tables by Starbucks here in the courtyard. Sparrows are keen for crumb of my almond croissant - once discovered. Might they be nearsighted? A tall, dark haired woman comes with a small fluffy dog, whom she leaves at the table in front of me before going into that famous coffee shop. I have seen her here before; in fact, she was wearing the same clothes.
There are a good number of people here today enjoying the weather: a woman in a red dress sitting with a man wearing a yarmulke; two women deep in conversation, one with those unnatural eyebrows that appear to be drawn using a stencil. The owner of the fluffy dog returns and is soon busy on her phone. Our village knows no crime, aside from the elderly bank robber who was apprehended years ago. Still I wonder if it is unwary to leave a dog unattended. As I leave, I comment on the lovely pup and ask his name: it is Chai-chai, his coat being the color of a chai latte.
Heat waves began in June and just keep coming one upon another, interrupted only by a random day that dips into the eighties. The courtyard is hot and humid this morning, and drought is worsening, making me wonder how the air can be so humid without bringing rain. I never will fathom the concept of “dew point.” An old woman comes with a cane, wearing a dress with black stripes. She is joined by a young man and woman, and they retreat into Starbucks. At a table in the shade, four teenage boys are identified by their shirts as “staff” of Capital Camps. An old man is here conversing with a young woman who is some kind of adviser. He tells her about a patient age 90, who still works out and is very fit. So he is a doctor, and confesses to being 85.
I am being very mindful of my coffee cup today, since just yesterday, fishing for the Moleskine in my small tote bag, a careless swing of my arm knocked the coffee onto the pavement. A very kind you woman rushed over with extra napkins and words of sympathy, but the coffee was gone. A keen sense of deprivation set in, unassuaged by the fact that it was too hot for coffee anyway!
A hot summer morning in the courtyard sees ample denizens, mostly in the shade, on their phones and laptops. One table of two young women has a pretty blonde dog. Upwind of me, smoking a cigarette, sits a swarthy young man with a black beard longer than his cropped hair. He is on his phone conversing in a Middle Eastern language, possibly Arabic. Vying with Panera for sartorial novelty is a woman in a short dress striped in four shades of aqua, with long hair dyed red, and wearing an elaborate white necklace. She is on the phone trying to reach a person she came to meet. Finding that she has come to the wrong place, she gets an address and leaves.
Readers, did you notice that the July Fourth holiday has passed without mention of the optician’s window dressing? Well, I was too depressed to make the observation, but will make it now. The Grecian pillars still prevail, and there was no recognition of the day - no flags, no bunting, no glittery firecrackers standing in flower pots. Grey finds it ominous - no remembrance of the nation’s birth as a free democracy at a moment when it stands ready to choose the alpha baboon, sacrificing that unique gift for no good reason, alas. Too hot to linger, I move on to the grocery.
It is early summer in the courtyard on a pleasant morning borrowed from spring, before summer weather pounced on us precipitately. Of the few people here enjoying the quiet is a man in a “Colorado” tee shirt, a backwards cap, sitting splay legged. Another man emerges from Starbucks in a motorized wheelchair. He is not with the first man, instead being adroit at maneuvering his vehicle, pulls it up to another table where he sits with his coffee. Shortly, the Colorado man is joined by a woman also with Starbucks.
A sign has appeared, hung on the vacant restaurant, announcing that a Duke’s Grocery will be opening there in the fall. I hear it is a British operation with several establishments already popular hangouts in the city. While I worry it may prove a harbinger of urban encroachment on our quiet town, I hope that perhaps it will fill the bill for post pandemic eateries, as a formal restaurant experience fades into oblivion. Apparently Duke’s has a bar and serves food, but the “grocery” aspect has eluded me. We shall see. Our traffic on weekends already burgeons with urban refugees. Stay tuned!
As a long and dangerous heat wave begins, the shady side of the courtyard is favored. Clerks are sullen, even at the bakery. Lost foreigners, presumably tourists, puzzle over the shuttered restaurant and end up in the fish market. Meanwhile an old grey haired man wearing black pant and a coral shirt sits with his coffee reading the morning paper. At another table is an Asian woman with her young son, who tells her he is the worst player on the team. When she refutes the assertion, he asks who is the worst, to which she responds, she is not interested. That peculiar exchange inspires reflection. A Chinese mother would have been very interested, and excoriated him for not practicing enough. Barring that, I deduce Korean heritage.
At this point I spot Grey’s Panama as he approaches from the parking lot. In spite of the heat, there is a spring in his step, which I attribute to the heel lift recommended by his orthopedist. He still carries a walking stick - as self defense against stray dogs at least, if not muggers. I must get his reaction to the anti-Malthusian editorial in the Post last week.
Often when I am at Corner Bakery I take a booth, where I can pen this report undisturbed. Even today, though umbrellas are up on the patio, I opt to stay inside, with but one lone man in the booth behind. The nearby mall is still a destination, but with many shops empty. Long gone are Gloria Jean’s Coffee shop, the Godiva store, J. Crew - and replacements soon follow in their wake, drawn under by online shopping. Macy’s stays open, albeit with precious few of their own employees. Now it is more like a bazaar of high end stalls, where designer goods rake in obscene profit to support the namesakes’ celebrity. Of course you can go to the website and “pick up in store.” All such sites are now clones of Amazon. This mall is well situated and plans have long been underway to convert it into a multi-use development.
The man seated behind me is joined by a colleague. They are businessmen. The new arrival begins an instructional soliloquy in a monotonous voice, ironically coaching the other man on salesmanship. As he is disturbing my peace, I move outside despite summer heat!
I am at Panera again, on perhaps the last day before summer heat kicks in. I come this way for massage therapy as well as the chiropractor. The latter office no longer has a masseuse, but there is a group of women, all licensed, nearby. Here inside are but few customers though it is nearly lunchtime; so much for their “new era” at Panera. They do have a chocolate croissant, stale of course. Here’s a failure in market research! But all the bakeries now trend toward cookies - easy, cheap, toddler food.
Outside, the begonias are in - pink, red and white - another example of the drift toward low maintenance. At least we still have flower beds. Grey’s post today is about being happy with what we have, the point being that preserving a modicum of civilized life may depend on it. He will cite that famously happy nation, Finland. Still it seems to me humans are uniquely greedy among the social species. Predators, like wolves, attune to the size of herds on which they prey, can restrict or modulate their own numbers in response. Omnivores that we are, we insist upon more of everything, until in the end we may be baking cookies over a tribal bonfire - outside the cave!
It is a glorious late spring morning in the courtyard; humidity is on the rise but as yet not oppressive. Sparrows are after me for crumbs, and I suspect they have nestlings. Soon a crow joins in, sounding like a quacking duck as he passes the word to the flock. In the windows at the optician’s, meanwhile, Greek columns outstay their interest. Gone is creativity! Given the changing demographics, one might understand an avoidance of Easter, even July Fourth, what with civil war seeming likely. But there may be other themes: the beach; summer camp, or summer books. Surely not every subject is off limits.
A man with a big dog comes in and looks embarrassed when the dog’s low bark draws attention. Two young women are debating yesterday’s epic traffic jam here at the crossroads. Apparently they have failed to observe that the phenomenon only happens on a Wednesday. One traffic reporter I heard explained that people who have been working from home, now required to come to the office one day a week, have unanimously chosen Wednesday. Going westward in the morning these commuters must work across the river - Pentagon? A hive mind there!
After a stormy night, the morning is lovely, with blue skies and gusts from the south. I am on the patio at Panera after the chiropractor appointment, sharing a croissant with hungry sparrows and enjoying birdsong, mostly robins, though there is a resident mocking bird. The conclave of rabbis has an umbrella table, and while I cannot understand a word they are saying, the topic is easily surmised from the daily news.
Birdsong this time of year is equally as territorial as our news, though most people simply like its musicality. In my yard the catbird returns every spring to the redbud tree, sharing any new songs he has picked up in the south. He is one of the mimics, like the mocking bird. Another is the Brown Thrasher, who looks like a wood thrush but is easily identified by his song, in which short motifs are repeated. We get migratory birds passing through in spring, giving the chance to see species we otherwise might never. This year a Swainson’s thrush was heard, keeping its distance from a hungry flock of Cedar Waxwings. Now home before I am blown away!
It is yet another rainy spring day in the courtyard, but awnings are up at the bakery. I am joined under them by a woman of Indian descent, and when I open my Moleskine to write this, she comments that I am “making good use of my time.” Such a plucky overture is so uncommon hereabouts, a conversation is sparked. She is the first to get one of Grey’s cards, after I tell her of my activities in the courtyard. I learn that she grew up in India before the partition, and she has an old friend who is a successful writer. She is here this morning to meet a relative and prefers the bakery to Starbucks. Before she leaves to join her companion, I have learned a good deal about her and her family.
The kind of rain we are getting is insubstantial, no flash floods yet, scarcely enough to soak the trees and shrubs. But it is persistent, having a miasmal influence, especially as it tends to come on the weekends, even as Memorial Day approaches ending the month of May. Still there are the flowers to cheer us. A favorite of mine is the Siberian iris; the white ones bring to mind that “flight of angels” from Shakespeare. With that thought, I spot Grey arriving, who will tell me all about that particular quote!
Personally, I cannot recall such an extended period of spring rain and coolish, blazer weather, and I have lived here a long time. The groundhog came out of hibernation in February, and the uncertainty persists into mid-May. Here in the courtyard, nature carries on nonetheless; sparrows are hungry, and the trees shed their tiny blossoms. This morning there is a group of eight youngsters and a man from the German School; six are girls in pigtails. They have two tables, and when two more girls arrive, haul over a third. The young people are having a discussion and the man is quiet. Is he a teacher? Another boy comes and sits next to him. They bear a striking resemblance; but not a German speaker, I am in the dark.
Grey hails me from the parking lot with his walking stick as he heads for the bakery. Evidence of the prolonged spring weather, he has yet to take out his Panama. Drizzle on the genuine Carludovica palmata would not do! That is the problem with these middling conditions: which hat, which blazer, how many layers? Umbrella, hoodie? Horrors! Here he comes now; perhaps he may draw more inferences from this German group.
The courtyard has the air of summer this morning, hot and damp. A young man with a cast on his right leg is sitting by Starbucks, mumbling, singing, and calling to passersby. He appears to be somewhat neurodiverse, albeit creative. When I greet Jorge, a waiter at our remaining restaurant, commenting that summer is here, the young man cries, “Verrano!” demonstrating his command of the language. Jorge, who is setting up tables and umbrellas for outdoor dining, apparently knows the young man and they talk.
Since I am here as a rule only in the mornings, I would not know anyone who might be a regular in the afternoon. Before the pandemic, there were certain people who often came to the courtyard, meeting with friends and chatting. There were the two old New Yorkers whom I dubbed the village jesters - comedy straight from the borscht belt! And another old fellow who once ran a burger joint long ago in that same restaurant space now vacant. All gone now, but for myself and Grey. Of course, on the weekends the place draws crowds, but where they come from and why remains a mystery. Even if I came on Saturday to observe, there would be no place to sit, alas!
Sparrows are eager beggars today; no fledglings yet.
Suddenly summer in the courtyard, not just above average but waaay above. Nature is as confused as we are. The courtyard trees have barely enough leaf for sufficient shade, so this morning I am on the Starbucks side. There is a group of six men and two women at a table in front of the vacant restaurant. Might they represent new tenants for the space? One man, who leads the conversation speaks of “management,” and “leadership,” but then another, in a cap and shirt bearing the letters ACA, takes over. Apparently ACA is a charity, and the meeting is to recruit volunteers. It is a diverse group: one Asian, one Black, two gray heads, one young man with a ring in his nose.
Despite the confusion perpetrated by nature, the plants and animals do their best to carry on. As I drove here, a fox leaped out in front of my car and caught a bird flying over the road. He was mobbed by other birds, but held on to his catch and squeezed back through the fence. I suspect there are already hungry fox kits. Good to note though that the foxes are still here, notwithstanding the demolition of that empty house they nested in for years. With that inspiration, I shall do my best to carry on!
Following a chiropractor appointment this morning, I discover “A new era at Panera!” Since I still order Rapid Pickup, I came upon these alterations on my phone app: Gone is the cranberry muffin, and (of all things) the Napa Valley chicken salad sandwich. I settle for coffee and a Bear Claw, beginning to suspect my Courtyard post is becoming a chronicle of decline. Who remembers, years before the pandemic, the Cheese Brittany: a small, round pastry filled with sweet cream cheese? There is a confluence of factors here, not alone pandemic fallout: inflation, staff shortages, supply chain issues.
Being close in age, Grey and I see the overarching problem to be population. We thought the influx of postwar babies would abate, but of course generations later it has instead burgeoned. Consider the super-max cargo ships needed to bring supplies, the enormously long trucks and trains upon which to unload and deliver them, the climate crisis forcing migration from stricken areas.
Sadly it seems we must accept the stale marzapan Bear Claw, suppressing any memory of the Cheese Brittany. But today the weather is pleasant enough to sit on the patio as the sun comes round the corner, and enjoy the hearty violas, diverse in colors, as they tremble in a north wind!
There is a drizzle this morning, and I have taken shelter under the Starbucks overhang. Surprised that the bakery did not have its awnings unfurled, I enjoined the manager, an old hand I’ve known for years. I was twice surprised when she said they are instructed not to put them out in the rain. What? No, no, I responded forcefully. Shelter! Shelter! So the overhangs are a last resort, and it is only a drizzle.
A man and his young son emerge from Starbucks with their beverages, the lad wearing an orange cap. His dad seems rather boyish himself. A male sparrow is chirping loudly, raising my suspicion of a nest in the eaves. The boy says to his father, “That bird is annoying and it’s raining!” I mention that there might a nest with baby birds, upon which suggestion they walk away. "Nice amiable people," as Sherlock muses sardonically to himself concerning natives of the Andaman Islands in “The Sign of Four.” Maybe it’s the weather, which has been persistently glum, though some hints of summer are forecast by optimistic weather reporters. Meanwhile, we struggle in a limbo of cold mornings and hot afternoons. Personally, I do not look forward to baking in extreme summer!
The weather has a way of setting into weekly patterns, a lunar influence perhaps. It has been raining here nearly every Saturday, only rarely missing and bringing rain on Sunday. This spring has been especially wet, with rain clouds hugging the eastern seaboard, from which the capital is not far distant. On a rainy day I often favor Corner Bakery, where I can sit inside with their hazelnut coffee and oat milk to write this report. That was my intention this week despite heavy rain, but even before I passed the village culverts were rushing rivers overflowing the road. Under such conditions, forecast to continue all day, there could be the risk of flash floods, and neither would the awning at Vie deFrance be protection.
When that cafe took over additional space years ago, I told them they ought to have used it for indoor seating, and was sorely disappointed that they did not, especially when it rains. Nevertheless, thus thwarted by extreme weather, I stopped there for coffee and pastry and returned home with them, where I write this in comfort, warm and dry!
I am at Panera this morning after massage therapy, on yet another chilly, misty day, and only the second of April. The place is empty even as lunchtime nears - only two of the rabbis on the banquette joined by a younger friend. They might be discussing Israel’s recent attack in Damascus, as I catch some words amid the Hebrew: mission, Abdullah. I hate to see patronage drop off, since so many other places have closed; but the advantage is I almost always get my little table by the door.
I am given cause to reflect on how much history I have lived to witness, and how drastically things have changed. I recall, for example, years ago when this Panera was being contemplated, some predicted it would never have enough business. But it was built, and it thrived for many years, summer, winter, holiday season. Then came the pandemic, curbside pickup. People who were already aging, like myself, are now older and still more vulnerable, and I still get Rapid Pickup. But I don’t mask, having decided that the way the world is going I have lived long enough!
After the woodchuck’s promise of early spring has been fulfilled, bringing all the flowers into bloom, some of these last days of March feel like January - cold, clear, and dry. Thus the courtyard is a lonely place, notwithstanding the sun’s warmth in the shelter of the western wall. One old man is here with his Starbucks and a fluffy old lab. Presently, a young woman with long, brown hair, wearing a long, olive green coat over jeans, takes a table. She is on her phone complaining about her daughter Emma, who keeps losing an assigned book, and never gets homework done on time. The woman is met by another, and they enter the Italian restaurant, the last one surviving in the village, except for one across the street.
There is a new wrinkle in the garden beds, where amid the late winter violas, tulips have been planted. How very thrifty! I have not heard the sparrow nestlings, which I detected last week in the eaves, causing me to worry that perhaps the parents were precipitate in the unseasonal spring-like weather. They would not be the only ones confused!
We had April weather in March, so as April approaches the tide is turning, though a better metaphor is a rollercoaster. March is predicted to go out like a lion, which today in the courtyard seems likely, as biting winds whip around the corner of the optician’s shop to challenge the warm morning sun. All manner of spring flowers are already blooming, not alone the hardy daffodil but even our storied and delicate cherry trees. The latter are so popular it seems that every person who has their own square of garden insists upon planting one, with the result that the air hereabout when they bloom chokes with pollen.
Of course, I worry about the poor sparrows, one of which I already discovered had built a nest in the eaves; and when I was last here nestlings were heard chirruping. These house sparrows are not natives; yet as hardy as the daffodils, they thrive here year after year. I daresay they will withstand the March lion, unlike those dainty cherry blossoms, which I fear will yield to the gusty winds before March is over.
It is cool in the courtyard this morning, but recent winds have died away, and a wan sun strives through the overcast. Sparrows are back to share my croissant; they are all males. Another augur of spring is heard as a pair of bluebirds fly over, their soft chortle being unmistakable. Only one other person is here: a hirsute young man in an orange jacket, huddling by Starbucks with his white dog.
The Bentley enters the parking lot, and Grey waves with his walking stick as he heads for the bakery. He is warmly swathed in one of this many woolen mufflers, gloves, and of course the hat. He is relieved to be past the disruptive muddle of cataract surgery and delighted with the results, but being Grey he could not help observing the degradation of the health care system, describing the surgical center as an assembly line. Doubtless that will be a blog post soon to come! And here is the man himself; the muffler is green for St. Patrick’s Day.
Even in the courtyard with its relative shelter from the infamous arctic winds of March, I am bundled up against the renegade gust that sneaks around a corner, unlike two young women chatting over their Starbucks. I say chatting, but typically just one is holding forth, complaining about her unhelpful mother and clueless brother. Neither woman is warmly dressed, though that is also typical: exploiting the invigorating paradox of cold, biting winds with the warm sun of March.
At the optician’s, window decor has reverted to classic Greek Ionian pillars standing on shelves lined in black and white, either striped or a diamond pattern. It appears the Valentines of last month were but a nod to the old guys formerly employed. For that matter, I have never seen St. Patrick’s Day acknowledged. A grudge against the Irish? Speaking of Irish, Grey is undergoing cataract surgery on the second eye today with much less anxiety than the first. It has been a prolonged ordeal, but has gone well so far. He feels fortunate in having had it done before the health care system collapses entirely. Doubtless he will be back in the courtyard soon, still in his fedora and one of his many woolen mufflers!
While our village buzzes like a beehive on weekends, this winter the courtyard on weekdays has often felt like the “village outpost” across the street where I wrote dispatches in the first months of the pandemic. Today, however, with spring weather vindicating the local woodchuck in his decision to emerge from hibernation on Candlemas, people are meeting one another here or stopping awhile with their Starbucks. There are two women chatting in one of the Slavic tongues, and an Asian couple with a toddler. No dogs, and sparrows still oddly scarce.
With March approaching come winds, and typically even a slight gust this time of year stirs up the dust and rouses cough, which these days translates as “deadly virus” to anyone within earshot. For the cough that accelerates, I keep a packet of Fisherman’s Friend in my pocket at all times. Godawful tasting, it is a gift of the Brits, who should know a thing or two about fishing! But I choose the better part of valor, and retreat before I need that remedy.
I do not often stop at the Corner, unless I have an errand, but this morning I am taking refuge from pouring rain with high winds expected. I am disappointed to find no oat milk, and the cranberry muffin is half baked - literally. My favorite stall being taken, I sit at the window counter watching the rain.
The Corner Bakery chain, I venture to observe, does not have good quality control. A patron’s experience rests heavily on the manager on duty. The best one here is a tall African named Solomon, who unfortunately spends half the year back in Sierra Leone. The best one of all in the past was Rida, a Tunisian, who left for a branch in town. He was either promoted, or perhaps had given too much free coffee to the regulars.
Grey is having his cataract surgery this week, but hopes nevertheless to be able to post the blog. As I note the rain letting up, I gather my coat, umbrella, coffee, muffin and thus encumbered make a dash for the car. Forget the umbrella - here comes the wind!
(32)As Valentine’s Day nears, it is cold but sunny in the courtyard, and I am pleased to note that the windows of the optician’s are decorated in the old sentimental way: hanging in the center of each, a large wreath of spring flowers, beneath which stand vertical pillars of sparkling red hearts; on either side are cups holding small, red velvet heart pillows edged in white ball fringe. The shelves are lined in red and pink satin, and the bottom shelves hold heart shaped boxes covered in red satin. Looks like the old window dressers are back!
Grey will also be pleased. He has survived his exasperating run-in with bureaucracy, and looks forward to spring. I spot him approaching and he waves, headed first for the bakery. I must ask him about his trees. In my neck of the woods the maples are already budding, in vindication of the local woodchuck’s prognostication. While spring weather may be delightful, its early commencement only prolongs the hot season, which is quickly becoming deadly dangerous. What do you say, Grey? Here he is!
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