I have 150 escort cards to prepare, which means that it's time for planting. Anything to avoid the relentlessness of DIY.
My bare root roses arrived yesterday, marking the beginning of planting season. Now that the monsoon seems to have subsided, it's safe to make like a pack mule and lug fifty pounds of potting soil, terracotta pots and compost up five flights of stairs. It's time to feed the clematis coffee grounds, plant the kitchen herbs, fill in the spaces with pansies, nepeta, salvia. Things are still looking pretty bare, but I'm excited. Easter Sunday seemed like a good day to celebrate life and growth and the blessing of new shoots.
Easter is also a good time to:
- Get re-baptized, which Fauxhawk had to do because the Greek church is fussy about things like the Father, Son and Holy Spigot. I'm grateful that he's a good sport and flew home to Maine to get sprinkled at the wharf with salt water so we could get married in my tradition.
- Bite the bishop. On the knuckle. What what supposed to be a customary peck on the hand turned into an inadvertent savaging as my front teeth collided with His Grace's outstretched hand. I didn't stick around long enough to see if it broke the skin - I was too busy imagining the designated place in hell for people like Mike Tyson, Hannibal Lechter, and slightly awkward, graceless, twice-a-year Greeks.
Hope you have a wonderful Easter, if you do that sort of thing.
xoxo,
P.
