The Door into Summer

WP_20140729_11_07_43_Pro    This week I had hoped to post on “Procrastination in Old Age” but, of course, the enterprise was doomed.  Last night’s experience is an explanation that has nothing to say about  Age except that it can be very pleasant.

One nice thing about the Hutch is a rear kitchen with a flat roof that would overlook the garden of a Russian Orthodox Church and Nunnery if dense tree tops and a garage roof were not in the way. We once used this  as a place to dry laundry but this involved getting out and back through the bathroom window.  Passing years and age made this impractical so we built a door to open from our bedroom to the roof and bought a finger-trapping laundry-hanging thing. More time passed and there is now little space left to sit and have a summer evening gin between potted roses, fire-bamboo, petunias, geraniums, snap-dragons and dahlias. When the weather is as wonderful as it has been we squeeze between the plants to watch bees clumsily open snapdragon flowers, disappear inside them and bustle out backwards and we realise that things are still  pretty good.




Yesterday evening things got even better because the Orthodox began an all-night garden party celebrating an exceptionally white night of High Summer with alcohol, conversation and a balalaika that no one seemed able to properly play. Jangled chords and conversation rumbling like tidal shingle blended marvellously with gin and bees and a blue-white sky.

The Orthodox continually surprise us. In early Spring by celebrating an Easter not on our calendar with loud singing and wild bells. In late Spring their garden seems full of womens’ laughter all night long. A neighbour claims that these are giggling nuns who, every year, take the first chance they get to sleep outdoors. Apparently the excitement wears off because by June things are quiet. I do not know, and do not mind in the least who they are or why or how this happens. Going to sleep to quiet girlish laughter is a privilege. Anyway I am pretty deaf.

This morning they were still at it, the long byelli noch seen through, murmuring voices and scents of grilled bacon and toast, the balalaika abandoned. Tonight will probably be quiet, but I hope that they will do it again soon.

I shall get around to a post on elderly procrastination any day now.



About Gray Rabbitt

Grumpy gerontologist
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