It’s a line from the RomCom Forget Paris about a couple who fall in love and then suffer a series of (eventually fatal) hardships—each time after they start something that looks like a “piece of cake” aka “easy.” That’s called tempting fate.
Gary believes in fate; I do not. Both of us are probably average in terms of superstition. We step on cracks. We laugh about Friday the 13th. But when we are beach-combing we have our superstitions. If Gary announces he’s going off to check out something a hundred feet or a hundred yards away, I will find glass. [Yeah, right, Gary walking away brings me luck finding glass.] It’s happened just often enough that we smile when it does.
The raven parents have their three children out on the sand each morning. We met Tom’s parents. I am still running a mile every other day, and the pine tree in our front yard has enjoyed just enough rainfall (so far) that the candles have mostly stayed green. Hummingbirds are back! The lacecap hydrangea that grows up through that pine is enormous, close to twenty feet across. Lucifer and the naturalized Montbrecia (both crocosmias) are blooming, I made my 6th batch of rhubarb cordial yesterday, and we discovered bat guano on the window ledge. That last is important because we love our bat, and have missed the nightly “drop” of the insect-hunting flier. It has been something we watched for—that first swoop of a bat—each dusk. We still have not seen the bat in a long time, but we hope it’s doing okay.
We go out before 6am, but lately have seen people even then. We managed to walk five miles in a hair under one and a half hours without searching Neverland. This morning, we searched the diminishing Neverland, found no glass at all, and were home in no time.
There were six people sleeping on the sand in front of our house the other day. We think they were staying next door, but there were so many people in that house, it was difficult to tell. Seventeen at one count.
Construction continues indoors on the house on the other side of ours. Walnut trim.
There are only a few rows of the second cuff left on the sweater I am knitting, then reblocking and sewing up the sides. The red velvet dress I’ve hoarded for years now fits through shoulders and hips, but it’s snug across the chest. I put on more earrings the other day—wearing five again. I am not sure that’s significant of anything.
My 50-year high school reunion has been rescheduled from last summer to next month. We had the largest graduating class of 500-600 people, but only a few dozen have registered on the site (including me), and fewer have purchased tickets (not me yet). Some of those biographical postings are . . . rambling, not to say incoherent. So far, only one person I knew well has bought a ticket to the actual reunion, and the only new photo is of the Nile Golf and Country Club banquet room, where the event is supposed to take place, which is not appealing. I keep hoping for postings on the page “In Memory of…” but nothing so far.
Though I went with Gary to his 50th, I have missed most of my own reunions. I am still not sure if we will attend this one.
Today is Alice Munro’s 90th birthday.
I am not tempting fate nor even tempted by fate, but I do feel lucky.
Nothing is easy in this life, but it’s not all hard. The thing I struggle to remember is to notice it all—hard and tender, bitter and sweet—every moment dear.