A Cloud Never Dies

It takes time to dust three thousand books, and to clean the shelves, tables, and various perches they’re on — several days, in fact. Not that it couldn’t have all been done in one. But then it would have been a job. And so I admired the bindings, paged through many volumes, and did my best to remember when and where I’d found them and brought them home. Those that were gifts, I never forget. And then this morning I ordered another — Library of America’s collection of the work of Constance Fenimore Woolson, who occupied, as I think I mentioned recently while reading A Private Life of Henry James, a very special place in the life and mind of her gifted, far less popular contemporary.

What else is new? I’ve attended two of our youngest grandson’s basketball games. The team has played six games and is still undefeated. They have one more game in their short season, which, if they win, will earn them the chance to play for the “championship.” For their middle school age, they’re really quite good. They have no attitude problems, and their coach has them playing tenacious defense. There are no heroes, no posturing, no posing, no interviews, no talk of trade or discussion of contracts — very refreshing. And, most important, everyone plays. Substitutions are regular and taken for granted.

I’m reading two books at the moment: Shakespeare, by Peter Ackroyd; and the diary of John Quincy Adams. I’m about two hundred pages into each. Like his father, John Adams, what impresses me most about John Quincy Adams is his honesty, and his refusal to play along with party-politics. He is hard on himself, and holds to very high standards. He reads, he writes, he studies, he works, and he cares deeply for his family, all the while believing in the importance of living a life of public service. When called upon, he answers that call. Popularity is the least of his concerns — in fact, the idea frightens him. He would rather be hated than to be associated with a dishonest, self-serving cause.

We have a heavy apricot bloom this year. We have also had three consecutive days of temperatures at or a little below freezing. So fruit-wise, we shall see. There does appear to be some damage, but maybe in the end this will prove to be a good thing — a judicious thinning.

I’m still reading almost nothing online. As a community-minded blogger these days, I’m a poor investment — an inconsiderate bum. If you “like” something I’ve written, you’re assured of a grateful smile and nothing more, and that you have to imagine. It’s up to you whether or not you want to forgive me. I mean well, I really do, but my funny little life keeps changing, and this is where it has me at the moment.

Yesterday morning we walked part of the muddy path by Goose Lake, which is very high due to recent rains. On one stretch, there are ducks swimming where we used to walk. They seem quite pleased with themselves, and look as if they’ve always been there. Things are budding out. They’re beginning to bloom. Their perfume is in the air.

In closing, I ask you — is a cloud still a cloud, even when it’s no longer there? The answer is no, and yet it never dies.

[ 1941 ]