Tuesday, April 12, 2016

Peach Blossom Bionicles

When we adopted J-son, the judge had to ask us:  "Does he have any assets to his name?"  (I guess the state needed to know we weren't adopting him just to get at his money.)  My husband explained that J-son owned more than his share of bionicles, which led to a playful conversation between the judge and J-son when it was my son's turn to be sworn in at the stand. And J-son still, at age 17, finds time to assemble and create intricate battles with his creatures.  They are a constant decoration on our windowsills and fire place mantels.  We didn't adopt him just to acquire his bionicles, but they are indeed a constant presence in our home now.

And then, on a completely different topic . . . A few years back, I bought and planted a few fruit trees to make friends with the pear tree in our back yard.  The fig tree struggled valiantly before dying, but the peach tree, cherry tree, and apple trees have surprised me with their hardiness and . . . appropriately . . . with their fruitfulness.  As in, there's actually fruit on the trees come July, August, September.  Go figure!  And not all of it gets eaten by the squirrels.

But perhaps one of the best accidents of geography is that the sunny spot I chose for the peach tree is right outside our living room window.  The green leaves, in the summer, help to shade the window from the worst of the sun.  The bare branches, in the winter, let the sun right through to make pools of warmth that Miser Dog follows throughout the day.   And perhaps best of all is now, early spring.  Because as A.E. Housman wrote,
Loveliest of trees, the cherry [or peach] now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands along the woodland ride [or the living-room side],
Wearing white [or pink] for Eastertide.

And so the view out my living room window is peach blossom bionicle joy.  


  1. I love your personalization of that poem!

    1. It's one of my favorite poems, really. And lots of people's favorite poems, for that matter! another poet, Wendy Cope, wrote

      I think I am in love with A.E. Housman,
      Which puts me in a worse-than-usual-fix.
      No woman ever stood a chance with Housman,
      *And* he’s been dead since 1936.