Rendered Fat Content


"Shouldn't satisfaction come in such thin slices?"

Last week seemed too cold. Next week might turn unseasonably warm. One blessed week during the unresolved season, the world finally comes into focus, probably for no more than that week. The week arrives without notice, a veritable thief in the night, for no amount of anticipation or heart-felt wishing could have brought it around. It comes as a surprise, a form of grace, seemingly unbidden. I might spend a day or two before I come to realize just where I happen to find myself, then a sluggish recognition kicks in. The early morning air somehow lost her bite. The lengthening evenings hesitate before passing into night. I could leave the window open 24/7 if The Muse didn't complain of the chill only she can feel. I lose the socks.

The garden's satisfied, roots exploring through freshly-turned soil, another few handfuls of rocks tossed toward the rough yard edge.
Lupin grows a seeming few inches per day, overtopping the leftover tall stalks remaining from last year's bloom. The deer which were babies this time last year, return with velvety spikes to find the rhubarb better defended this time, the plants extending a single flower head I heartlessly remove. Last week's rain showers left the hardpan soft and moist and the backyard so lush I cannot bear to mow it. Maybe I'll allow it to be the mountain meadow it aspires to be without me. So far, the damned deer have not ravaged the hop vine, which stretches ever higher as I sit and watch it growing from beneath the front porch overhang. The first blossoms appear in the wildflower garden self seeded from last year. Time to prune back the chokecherry suckers again.

The poppies, ground huggers just a month ago, stand three feet tall and profuse with wide orange blooms. I can no longer see the soil within the wine box planters filled with fresh wildflower seed, they've gone completely green and heading toward downright bushy. I'm expecting morning glory to start her sprint toward the eves any morning now. The place seems surrounded with the serenity I always associate with Spring. Summer's a scant two weeks away and Winter slinked over the ridge just week before last. The altitude offers only narrow glimpses of the one season I wish would last longest. The Muse swears that she hears baby birds peeping from inside the backyard bird house.

The town has had time to comb her unruly hair. A thunderstorm dropped a few cottonwood limbs last week, a common occurrence, and enough time's already past that anyone concerned already hauled away the trash. The light finally pervades. The air smells almost too sweet, with iris and chokecherry and a hundred other blossoms competing for bees' and my attention. Bears saunter around the neighborhood, hungry after their long winter's nap. The usual dogs bark into an atmosphere finally thick enough to muffle their thunder. I drive with the windows down and the sunroof open, finally no need for either heat or air conditioning. What can I possibly do except revel in this mellow majesty? Whatever preparation I might have thought necessary, SweetWeek renders into enough whatever's done and whatever's unfinished as never really needing completing. Shouldn't satisfaction come in such thin slices?

©2019 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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