Dead Letter Department #64

weather report (good things, early summer edition)

the avocado seed, with one long root, in the green glass on the windowsill

bags of apricots, of dark cherries, of Rainiers. the first of the peaches, too firm but perfectly sweet. french radishes, white and red & sharp in salad. tomatoes going slowly from round & red & flavorless to bursts of flavor as the weeks go on. the shallots starts my friend gave me growing taller in their patio pot. artichokes have been cheap & plentiful (give them a gentle squeeze, & if the leaves squeak they’re fresh), so I’ve been steaming them & dipping the leaves into butter melted into blue cheese.

roses over the fence, gallantly regrowing after the heavy pruning I gave them last year, the flowers from the local plant sale blooming in the tall grass I have yet to pull, last year’s Costco bulk bulbs coming up in the front. three of the four ferns made it, unfurling new fronds every time I look at them. in the winter I miss the leaves, wonder if I’ll remember when I come back how bare the landscape looks without them—now the avenues near the park are covered in shade, and the fruit trees, well past flowering, are full and green.

the indoor plants are thriving too. I had to give away another jade, too big for the windowsill, but they get snapped up fast when I offer, & the pothos start I want to train up an indoor trellis is thriving. Even one of the succulents, which has been demurely spiking up a corner for years, sent up a new shoot, an eight inch tall spike of green adorned with little white flowers. I didn’t even know it bloomed.

the water’s warmer, but not warm enough to go in all the way, only up to the thigh so far. I stood at the shore yesterday & scooped up sea glass, saw the roly-poly black labs, like little bear cubs, that tend to be there when I am, and one of them splashed all the way out to greet me, looking up at me so happily, waiting for a butt scratch, before tromping off again.

I like the long evenings, the pink in the sky when I’m lighting the night’s candle (linen-scented, this time, which basically smells like fancy detergent). There was a crescent moon out the kitchen window, and a bright planet caught in the neighbor’s pine tree.

After the party last week, we sat in the museum bar & drank wine spritzers, something it only occurs to me to drink in summer, and split a truffle grilled cheese my friend said was upsettingly good. The neighborhood kids had a lemonade stand, and looked so thrilled when we arrive. “What kind do you want?” they asked, & I said, “Definitely pink for me.”

I have a whole list of things to do, so when I can’t think what’s next I can check the fridge: parks & restaurants & meals. Weenie roast, it says, and s’mores, & all the things summer is made of, so I don’t forget. It’s my own cheat code. We’ll see how many I check off this year.

The big neighborhood garage sale was this weekend, probably twenty-five sales scattered in little hearts all over the Google map, & I went to about six. One guy makes things out of FOG wood—“Found on Ground,” he explains, if you ask—& I’m accumulating quite the collection of little bowls: for keys, for change, the masks by the door. A ceramicist was selling too, & I bought a tiny white pitcher for the espresso machine, since the one that came with it was broken months ago. There was a stout, slightly lopsided bowl with four small feet on the free table & now it sits on my windowsill with the good rocks my agent sent me, & the ones I find myself. We saw a teapot collection for sale, and heard how to make pie crust out of rendered lard. “I miss the farm,” my neighbor said. “Even after all this time, I miss it.”

The artist’s husband was trying to convince everyone to buy the stuff at his sale by telling them they could make their own inevitable estate sale a lot cooler by including all of his stuff. The house with the immaculate lawn was selling a huge dictionary, and this print. He’d had it since he was a child. “When I was a kid,” he told me, “I thought she was painting the painting we’re looking at, and so we were watching her paint herself, & reality just bent around me.”

The neighbors who know me by name mostly know my new name now. It’s the first summer I’ll get without sports bras, and bandanas tucked into them to catch the sweat.

Baby deer are everywhere, spotty and wobbly, trotting along behind their mothers while traffic waits for them to cross. It hasn’t gotten properly hot yet, so I’m enjoying these last couple weeks where there’s not a slick of sweat on my back & behind my knees, but we still get sunshine & bright blue skies. After dinner I sit outside & read & drink ginger iced tea with brown sugar syrup to sweeten it. Maybe I’ll make some progress on the frankly embarrassing to read pile tottering next to my desk (I won’t, I just keep adding to it).

Next month I’ll get to visit Portland, & go on a mystery trip my friend is planning for us, & the lake as many times as I can squish into my schedule. I’ll write to you from there too.

Thank you for reading. If you like the newsletter, please share it with a friend, consider subscribing to the secret edition, where I’m writing my way through transition, or write to me at departmentofdeadletters@gmail.com & tell me what you want to read next.

I hope to see you here at the Dead Letter Department again soon, & in the meantime, may all of your apricots be perfectly ripe at the exact moment you want to eat them.