This week has been unlike April! Temperatures in the high seventies. Blue skies. Mild, mild breezes. All week every window is open, creating a notable current of that air in every room.
If I were outdoors, I'd throw myself to the grass and succumb to the soporific effect. It's like my first spring in college, falling on the green like all those other bodies, and giving way to...spring.
But I'm indoors, and certainly not near any patch of grass, from which I could not rise unaided, in any event. I will not throw myself on the bed; I surely would not rise until someone said it was time for dinner. Dinner, alas, from my own hand.
So I give over weaving and retreat to my easy chair, between two open windows, to watch the news for a bit and then back to the loom. And when I open my eyes, and again make words of the voice of news, it's two hours later. I make a late lunch and return to the easy chair, feeling spring air on all my exposed skin.
I've moved the tiny Gerbera daisy to the porch. It fascinates the cat. I brought in a Gerbera to overwinter a couple of years ago, and flowers and all, it had no attraction for the cat. Not so this Gerbera, the identical color as the overwintered plant. No mind they are not toxic, dear Mr. Cat's stomach finds them intolerable.
I find cleaning the morning mess intolerable, especially as Toby does not appreciate he could help by selecting tile over carpet. The Gerbera is out, but cannot take its appointed place in front of Pig until I put it in a heavy clay pot. So, the Gerbera is tucked in a safe corner (barring a big storm).
The smell of gardening is in the air. Laura brought my bag of potting soil and trowel from the shed on her last visit. I didn't think to include the watering jug. I just added it to my running list of light bulbs that need replaced, and other things I cannot reach.
Back inside, I'm still following the progress of the second declining amaryllis leaf. Less and less chlorophyll in that leaf, but still resistance to my finger, so it remains on the job.
I've spent my afternoons, on awakening, with Netflix. My algorithm has enough building blocks now to hold my interest in the row of suggestions along the bottom of the screen. I've watched some amusing trash, and have left as much dangling. I did watch Philomena with great interest.
Well, Judy Dench and Steve Coogan and why would I not watch it!
Over the last very few years I've followed the unfolding of the Irish mother and baby hospitals scandal (for want of a better word), always hoping for a clue to the marriage of my Irish paternal grandparents and the fate of five orphan children abandoned by the church of their mother.
Of course, my story of interest unfolded in this country, but, The Church remains The Church for much of its time in this world. Its solution to mothers and children it found improper was living as penance for unworthiness of existing. My grandmother, it also advised to sue her husband for child support, a radical idea in 1914.
She did so, and at once her Presbyterian husband jumped bail and went west, where he died, under an assumed name, without paying any support. His family and hers made little or no effort to assist the mother and five children, though some effort was made toward the three girls. And The Church did nothing. Involuntary penance.
The breeze through the window is light and sweet. I have two paperwork problems to work through, and then I will see what Netflix has on offer this afternoon.