Mimosa trees and Sir Walter Scott

At the Orange County Social Club, Iris said in a French accent, gesticulating: Her ass was incredible, it was like two dogs fighting, like rwaff, rwaff!

My friends think I stole the Jesus fan from the church in Charlotte, but it only read Please return to box after service. “Please” implies you have a choice.

It’s not even summer yet!–summer solstice is  7:28 am on June 21st this year. I love the end of spring because the mimosa trees are blooming like crazy. It’s like they’re all having drinks together. Apex is like a concentrated mecca of mimosas. (Mecca of mimosas; one of those chance phrases you wonder if you’ll ever read again– Nabokov wrote of his love affair with the English language and my heart goes bamph alamph.)

Look at the fretful porpentine quills on these beauties. Like sea anemones that got stuck up on trees.

I’ve been reading G.K. Chesterton’s Father Brown Stories, delectable mysteries. They remind me of Switzerland because my parents sent me  to Lucerne for a vacation when I was in middle school and my dad gave me the collected stories to take along.

Speaking of the printed word, these lines from Sir Walter Scott’s Marmion are shivery:

My castles are my king’s alone,

From turret to foundation-stone –

The hand of Douglas is his own;

And never shall in friendly grasp

The hand of such as Marmion clasp.

That’s it; prehistoric bugs are attacking the screen and my legs. I can’t take it any longer. Ha! That reminds me of last night when Iris was startled by a moth and I told her soothingly it was only a nighttime butterfly. What a good mommy I will make.


  • Briana wrote:

    My dear, what business brings you to Apex?

  • Seeking the ghost of the Porch-Dweller. sigh.
    And visiting Heather in the strangest, sweetest farmhouse which has a scuppernong grape vine behind and an old shack which may be haunted. You’ll like her. You’ll like her a lot.

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