Having shopped on Friday I had no occasion to leave home all day, but I must admit that despite the free time I accomplished little. I blame the television, which presented me with a string of irresistible movies on which I squandered much of the day. I'll make up for it tonight, as the local PBS affiliates are not displaying any shows in which English people slaughter one another. That will give me a chance to deal with the e-mail I haven't yet gotten around to, but which I now know how to send— as long as I'm willing to let Thudderbird clog up the computer for an hour or two.
To my delight, the frog population has rebounded quite nicely and the gloaming rang with their croaks. The sound of them brings the woods and fields alive, and the music will probably last for hours on this improbably mild evening. Even this late there is barely a hint of chill in the air. I'm no longer wondering why the geese and other waterfowl departed in such large numbers so early this year. They must indeed have known what was coming.
While I surely regret the loss of our winter (and will doubtlessly regret it even more when the water restrictions are put in place, and yet more when I get the bills for what little water I'll be able to use) I must admit to enjoying this mildness. The windows are open most of the day, the house airs out, both day and night smell of growing things, and I don't have to put the thermostat up to avoid a chill when I take a shower. The premature spring could be much improved by an occasional rain storm, and it would be nice if this mildness could last through May, but I fear that summer will arrive early bringing torrid days and sultry nights, and month after month of drought. Well, one can't have everything, and this something is better than what we're apt to get as the year advances. I'll enjoy it while I may.
Sunday Verse
Filling Station
by Elizabeth Bishop
Oh, but it is dirty!
—this little filling station,
oil-soaked, oil-permeated
to a disturbing, over-all
black translucency.
Be careful with that match!
Father wears a dirty,
oil-soaked monkey suit
that cuts him under the arms,
and several quick and saucy
and greasy sons assist him
(it's a family filling station),
all quite thoroughly dirty.
Do they live in the station?
It has a cement porch
behind the pumps, and on it
a set of crushed and grease-
impregnated wickerwork;
on the wicker sofa
a dirty dog, quite comfy.
Some comic books provide
the only note of color—
of certain color. They lie
upon a big dim doily
draping a taboret
(part of the set), beside
a big hirsute begonia.
Why the extraneous plant?
Why the taboret?
Why, oh why, the doily?
(Embroidered in daisy stitch
with marguerites, I think,
and heavy with gray crochet.)
Somebody embroidered the doily.
Somebody waters the plant,
or oils it, maybe. Somebody
arranges the rows of cans
so that they softly say:
ESSO–SO–SO–SO
to high-strung automobiles.
Somebody loves us all.
