I have spent most of my outdoor time recently uprooting maple seedlings. I have the world’s most virile maple tree in my yard. It has not yet crushed my house in revenge for my killing all of its babies ruthlessly every year. I do have allergies though, hm. The irises are in bloom and I see the disgustingly pretty rose trellis is about to explode in peach-colored roses.
What does this have to do with editorial ire? Very little. However [is she going to be able to connect it, is she?], I’ve been pacing around the house, unable to settle down and focus on my work, and every view from my window is pretty. My head is woozy (which has everything to do with allergies, and nothing to do with the gin-and–St. Germain cocktail I had last night). Somehow it is June, and still spring.
I remember reading Anne of Green Gables gushing over flowers of June, and scratching my head. In [hometown redacted] June was a hellacious month of heat and humidity, and you were never quite ready for it. You had forgotten how bad it was the year before. At least by August, you were used to it.
But now I live in a much more Anne-like setting. June is beautiful and woozy, and all I want to do is uproot saplings and run some dogs in the park. What would you rather be doing today?