Whew, close call. I pulled in this morning on the bright pink gravel bike right in front of the construction crew replacing our deck. One kindly said it was more visible. I told them I didn’t know if I could pull it off, but figured I would probably be okay since hipsters have taken over gravel. Then they astutely said if I want to go full hipster, I need a fixed gear bike. Then we joked about beards and man buns so I didn’t just survive the dicey interaction, I flourished.
These are strange days. The Good Wife kicks off most with an early morning walk through the hood, visiting assorted animals, and then stopping at Jim’s at the end to pick wild flowers.
We never met Jim, who lived two houses away, he died before we moved in, but his story lives. He was generous to a fault, much more committed to caring for others than himself, which explains his dilapidated home that’s now owned by some bank. Like Jim, his yard keeps giving even in its natural state, especially in its natural state—apples, pears, and amazing flowers.
The GalPal should’ve been a florist because she is a natural at arranging flowers. And they bring her incredible joy. She just beams at them. I’ve tried talking her into setting up a table out front where she could sell her bouquets to passersby so that I could buy more raspberry chocolate gelato as the weather warms, but she has no interest in homegrown laissez faire capitalism.
Probably because she studied abroad in Sweden in college. Whatever the reason, do not look to her to jumpstart our moribund economy. But by all means, do look to her for natural beauty.