Our olive orchard has been in since early July and the trees have settled into their ordered lives. The newly installed pressure valve assures the olive farmer that his new 50 babies will be hydrated three times a week, religiously, and without fail.
The yellow jackets have returned to bother me with their aggressive pester as they always do in August. My leisurely summer salads of heirloom tomatoes and fresh basil, savored slowly out on the back deck, have deteriorated into no-man’s land, that space relegated to trench warfare. Fork in hand, I sit on one side; stinger in thorax, the wasp sits on the other. The wasp wins. I take my salad inside.
The little creek with all of its reassuring constancy continues to flow down the hill on its way to the San Francisco Bay.
The hummingbirds zoom in and out with predictable regularity.
Down at Merrill Gardens, where Queen Joan continues to live, a resident dies off and his small apartment is quickly rented to another old person whose body or mind or both has entered the final stages.
Now I understand why Gloria dressed the way she did in her older age.
Now I understand why Seiji hiked to a Tibetan base camp at age 70.
Now I understand why Hugh bought a Harley Davidson before he died.
It’s all about exuberance.
And a little luck.