Cheese, please

"They can tell you about torment. They can describe long, frustrating hours sitting in dark, stinky basements and caves, pen in hand, trying to get the flow of the words just right.

"They can tell you, too, about how it feels to be engulfed in a blaze of inspiration. They’ll describe the delirium of bliss when the right lines come. Like all writers, they are keenly aware of the competition, and envy eats away at them when they detect, in one of their comrades, a candle-flicker of genius.

"We speak, naturally, of cheesemongers."

Intrigued?  Check out this NY TImes article on cheese mongers...or should they be called cheese muse?   cheese prosers? poets of the washed rind?  writers of the ripe?   And when you're done I'll meet you at the cheese shop...I'm hungry now too.

Bamboo

Paula opened the back hatch of her Prius, and it was stuffed with beat-up wine cases.  And no, we don't have a drinking problem, they were full of carefully wrapped bamboo segments.  Ceramic.  The only kind you want to let loose in your garden (and I speak from experience).

Edward and Wally unwrapped them and laid them on the outdoor dining table by color (on its last legs,  that table, but that's another story).  

Paula told me where to pound in the rebar.  I moved the ladder into position, said a silent prayer that I wouldn't hit a sprinkler line, and whammed away.  Over and over.  Then Paula handed me segment after segment, and we gently slid them into place over the rebar.  From the top of the ladder I handled the top - Paula lowered them into place and twisted them to make sure they were seated.

I can see them from my bed.  You could see them from the guest room if you were here.  They shine in the low winter light.  They sparkled in the summer, partly hidden by leaves.  Every time I look at them I smile, and think of Paula and her incredible strength and creativity.  And all the years we've known each other, all the stories we have shared.  Lucky me.