Egg Moon

Easter weekend.

It used to be important, back in the day. An Event. Cherished friends from far away would come to visit, bringing food and dogs and photography and conversation and laughter. We'd spend hours decorating eggs, not just dipping them into a cup for a couple minutes but crafting works of art, batiks and watercolors and cartoons and song cycles and poetry, masterpieces and oddities, dreams and disappointments, arguments and afterthoughts. Not just a dozen or even two, but loads of them. (Buttloads, even: twelve dozen, one year.) Sunday morning, Dads rose early to hide all in the thin light of morning, in places we might or might not imagine--an egg tucked inside a tulip or resting in the cow skull on the old chicken coop; baskets on rooftops or high in the trees, hidden behind riddles. The heavy-sweet smell of pipe smoke at dawn. Jelly beans before breakfast. Who will find your favorite one, the best one? For hours we ran, wandered, puzzled, grabbed, waited, hinted and traded until each had been accounted for and the thrill of the chase had begun to fade, like a pastel stain on April snow. Moms prepared brunch which, at least in the early days, was accompanied for adults by Bloody Marys, with just a drop of irony perhaps. The dogs always got a few--eggs, that is--and occasionally one or two would remain mysteriously unfound, artfully escaping our childlike lust and our parents' memories, only to rot away and turn to skunk food in the weeks to follow.

We never talked about Jesus.

Every year around this time someone starts in about what a rabbit has to do with eggs and what either of them has to do with Easter. If you are over the age of eleven and still don't know a little something about fertility and resurrection myths, I suggest you do some reading up. Or spend a little more time without your clothes on. Or plant a garden. Which brings me back to the task at hand, which is to record our progress over the past weekend...

The weather was beautiful--sunny, warm, breezy and dry. I spent a chunk of Saturday afternoon playing Brahms and writing down a telling dream I'd had the night before, while C Monkey set to work clearing the infrastructure (fences, stakes, trellises, etc.) out of the front and back gardens.

Later we cut off the dead stuff, pulled old roots, and burned what was left.

broccoli skeleton

(fire)

Saturday evening we gathered with some folks down the road for food and drink, a few poems and one song. We stayed for a fire and good company under starry skies, hunting for new constellations with new friends and new nicknames. (And thank you, my dear A, for your many hugs and good ideas and reminding me that not only can I still hold a solid headstand but I'm not as old as all that... "You look like you're twenty."--sweet, that, especially from a radiant beauty aged ten.) On the drive home we were met by the egg-shaped moon, having just risen to greet us. While others slept, I walked the grounds and lay on the grass, alone. A good day.

Sunday we were busy:
- cut out the Birdbush (aka Red Elderberry) at the back of the pole barn, where it had grown through the axle of great-grandpa's wagon (which is now all but destroyed by time and neglect, sadly, although the wood-spoked wheels are still in good shape)
- planted some sunchokes I'd unearthed the day before (the rest to eat, in a gratin tonight. yum.)
- pruned the raspberries
- split (with great effort) the old rhubarb that's been rooted in the center of the garden for decades, planted some at the north end of the garden and the back of the pole barn, gave some to sis
- excavated an old tarp (also with great effort)
- kicked hack
- drank some beers
- walked around in the woods, hacky on the Big Hill
- burned the front garden again
- dinner, games, etc.


Big box of Fedco seeds arrived Monday, minus a few out-of stock items including my early sweet corn--a small disappointment. Started several more varities of peppers and replanted last week's empty spots.

Taxes are now done and I'm spent. Later dudes.