It is spring, and the attic is a good place to be, when it's raining. Or anytime, that's not a super-sunny summertime, because then it's just like getting into my black Honda Accord that's been baking in a parking lot in July.
I have a pure beeswax candle burning, in hopes that it would impart delicious beeswax smell. Not so far - but it's got a lot of space to cover. Maybe I should light it in a teeny-tiny room. Maybe I should take it camping.
The semester is wrapping up. Because of that - and the flowering trees - I've been thinking about the spring I got in my Ford Escort with my grandma and drove to Indiana, to join my aunt and two cousins on a tour of the Mitchell-Lilly relations, in Kentucky, Ohio, and North Carolina. I was 18. We were all in one Lincoln Towncar, but that didn't matter, because I was the largest one of the group, and not particularly large, at that. It was still rather bare back in Illinois, but as we got further into the south, there were a lot of what my grandma would call "redbud" trees. I knew this, because she essentially pointed out every single one she saw, saying "look at that redbud!" in her light drawl, and then bask in its beauty, this tiny happy woman in the front seat. She had good company in my aunt, who was just as exclamatory. I don't think I was particularly put-out about these exclamations, but the repetition amused me; each tree was basically THE FIRST REDBUD THEY'D EVER SEEN. But, repetition was the way. I made the mistake of passing one of my mixtapes to the front, which included "Rocky Mountain High" by John Denver, which my grandma wanted to listen to three times. Kinda funny to me, now, as she lived then and lives now in close range of the Rockies, but is straight-up from West Virginia - yet we didn't listen to THAT song three times, or at all.
I've taken a few walks recently. And somewhere on probably the dozenth tree or bed of flowers, I realized I was pointing to all of them and exclaiming. "GRAPE HYACINTH! I'VE NEVER SEEN A BIGGER BED OF GRAPE HYACINTH!" "LOOK AT THAT CRAPAPPLE TREE!" "THE TULIPS ARE OUT THE TULIPS ARE OUT!"
Granted, I wasn't shouting. But that's how I felt about them. Um, exclamatory.
I live in the city. So country roads won't exactly take me home.
Unless I'm remembering epic roadtrips with Helen Lilly Mitchell, whom I miss. Grandma: I see redbuds.