I do not often just relate events as they happen to me. I am less interested, usually, in what has happened than in what these happenings mean. I do not write to capture the events in my life. I write to relate the meanings of my life. This is even one of the ways that I would define the function of writing.
However, I offer the following events without any analysis or commentary. Let them be what they are.
The Mayapple that I planted last year has sprouted. It was a gift from Bob Brown, and I planted it immediately before leaving on vacation last summer. It was crisply brown by the time I returned, and I thought that I had killed it, but it has emerged as healthy as when it was first planted.
The Trilliums that I was forced to transplant last fall are also up and blooming. They have even multiplied. They are an exception to my edible principle, because they are native to this area, and because they are my provincial flower, and because they are beautiful in my memory.
Andrew Teale has given me a large Elderberry cutting, and it is now planted beneath my Walnut trees, which it is supposed to tolerate. It is growing well.
Paul Wismer has given me some Strawberry plants, and they will be planted in the sideyard beside the Peonies that Willie loved so much.
My neighbour down the road has given me a currant bush. It has not yet flowered, so we are not sure what kind it is yet, but any sort of currant will be welcome.
I discovered a bee hive in the rocky area that lies between the backyards of the neighbouring houses, and the bees are busy at the just opening blossoms of my Apple trees.
I do not think that these things would benefit from anything that I might say about them.