I got up early this morning. In need of a pee. Eager to read further into my “The Hidden Life of Trees” by Peter Wohlleben. Wow. What a wonderful read. Exclamation points and punchy, anthropomorphic phrases like “Ouch!” punctuate the text. But Wohlleben conveyed an infectious earnestness that was easy to surrender to, reconsidering just how it was giant trees, that can live many time our own life spans, communicate and socialize. Growing out in a field, all by themselves, wasn't necessarily the boon I assumed it was.
I lie in bed this morning and read one-hundred-and-fifty pages or so. This book has given me pause, as I consider all the trees which I'd been planning to experiment with here in New Paltz. First of all, that copper beach I'd hoped to cultivate up at the head of the driveway, will absolutely not go in by himself. Beech trees thrive when they can chat it up with other beech trees. Better, it would seem to plant one and then another tree not too far apart, so they could grow in concert and assist one another along the way.
My nephew seemed to have had a good birthday last evening. I got him some chimes for his drum kit, my daughter's ordered him a discrete ‘Borat’ shirt that doesn’t reveal itself easily, a replacement charger and a copy of “The Apprenticeship of Duddy Kravitz,” by Mordecai Richler. “Oh yes. Don’t worry. There’s a movie too!” I have been trying to pepper him with “funny” examples from classic fiction. In this case I sat him down and read the first ten or eleven pages, where Duddy is introduced as a smart-ass class clown up in Montreal, with a warped sense of honor and a convincing snowball pitch.
It is Sunday night. This would be fine but for the fact that it is already 7:00AM in China. It will only be a matter of time before this guy and that lady will want to reach out. I’ve got a a call in two hours. I’d much prefer to be able to recline. Tired. I’m resigned to go out and finish of tall the leftovers from this weekend’s party. Slim pickin’s. She must have dumped it all during the clean-up. On your knees. Scour the fridge.