I fetched Haitch from the airport this morning at 6:00. After a tummyful of IHOP buttermilk pancakes with perhaps a tad too much syrup, I took a while to wake up.

Reading: Margaret Drabble, The Radiant Way

Moving: enough yardwork this weekend to stun an ox, plus walks in the park

Watching: magpies and squirrels and plants growing

Listening: Cowboy Junkies. Natch.

28 May 2001: Birthday Weekend

(I added pictures to last Sunday). All birthdays should be like this. It started Thursday after work and won't end for nearly another 12 hours.

Thursday, RDC came along for the bike ride as I scampered down for a pre-birthday, outdoor swim at our old apartment complex. This entailed some considered dressing on my part, juggling biking and swimming garb. I opted for a bikini bottom instead of undies and packed the bikini top in my fanny pack; we stopped at Safeway so I could swap bras. Just the short distance between store and complex hurt with the lesser support. And then to add insult to injury, the pool was padlocked. Grr. Not that I'm allowed there, but still. So I added my athletic bra and subtracted the bikini bra from under it, and voilà, I was ready to ride again.

The bike ride was great, at least; a good first long ride of the year. I'm still debating which pool to swim in--Congress Park, near me, is bigger; but Cook Park, in my former neighborhood, is nevertheless less crowded, and would require a 10+-mile bike ride. I need to break in my butt; my sitting bones were sore. This I didn't notice until after a protracted dismount at Wild Oats, where we had sandwiches. Getting back on, that hurt. We took a spin through Cheesman Park--there's a short string of parks, Cheesman on the west, the not-park of the Botanic Gardens, and Congress--and looked for what was once a panorama of mountains like that in Cranmer Park before trees and apartment buildings impeded it. And felt out of place as a het couple--it's a huge gay meeting place. Lots of matronly-looking men, oh so subtly walking their dogs, scoping out the lithe young things who had eyes only for each other.

I doubt there's an actual city ordinance in Denver requiring parks' names to begin with C. It only seems so. Cranmer is more commonly called Sundial for its primary feature; and there're two parks for our sister cities in Japan and France. Amusingly, the latter park, City of Brest, is located cat-a-corner to a strip club. Hmm, that also begins with C, not B, but the Japanese one doesn't--no, of course it does, it's the City of Y-something. And Civic Center Park. And City Park. There is a Bible Park, named for a person not the book, I believe. Off the top of my head, that's one non-C.

RDC made us waffles for my birthday breakfast and I opened my presents. His mother sent me "The Fisher King," which she loves as well. My mother gave me direct fundage, with which I will buy some long-needed music. My father, as usual, sent me flowers at work, the most beautiful arrangement yet, with those yellow-streaked dark blue iris I love and three sunflowers and snapdragons and those things that aren't lilies in a shade of orange I actually like. My sister bought the Cowboy Junkies tickets, and Haitch brought me my presents Wednesday, and my stepfather-in-law found these two goofy cups for toddlers, with three spinning rings around the vessel that you coordinate in learning to count: the numerals 1, 2, 3; respective numbers of balls, and the cardinals. They have Tigger on them, which is what made him think of me. But somehow I think they'll wind up at a children's shelter.

RDC gave me the new Margaret Drabble, The Peppered Moth, though he was uncertain whether I wanted to read her. I had just borrowed The Radiant Way from the library and showed him. Also the "pear glacé" bath gel from Victoria's Secret that I love. Also, because he is a glutton for punishment, "Shakespeare in Love." I haven't watched it yet, three whole days later. Perhaps he's not a glutton for punishment. I still haven't watched "The Philadelphia Story," which he or his mother or my sister gave me for Christmas: since I own it, I don't have to watch it at every opportunity. By giving me my new favorite movie he probably spares himself repeated viewings.

Then we went to the Museum of Nature and Science. Several weeks ago, we went with friends who seemed not to enjoy the exhibit at all. After a half hour they wanted out out out. The stupid faux Viking song, which got re-implanted in my head after Friday but is now mercifully gone again, was pretty bad. But I wanted to finish the exhibit, look at every last thing and examine the boat and read all the maps, and RDC agreeably came with me on this last chance (it closed this weekend). Our membership is going to come in handy, especially in the summer when the museum is open Tuesday evenings and I can wander through the galleries of dead things at my leisure.

And then we went to the zoo, because there's a visiting baby Indian elephant named Amigo. He's two. He paints. He is visiting with his aunt Hope while one of Denver's own females goes elsewhere to be courted; the purpose of his visit is to acquaint the other two Denver residents with baby elephants in hopes of successful courtship. I rejumped the jumping thing we did with Jessie back in September, and I guess I'm stronger now, not that I remember what animal I was. I could jump farther than a flea, anyway. Not proportional to my size, though.

I have a predilection for black and white animals. Why I prefer Labrador Retrievers to Dalmations remains a mystery. But it might explain my thing for magpies. And I don't like all penguins; these Adelies are the prettiest.

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We strolled through City Park and along 17th to the Rhino Café, where we picked up Westword, The Onion, and a new Denver alternarag called Go-go. Its cover story was "Ten Things To Do in Denver after Ten." At least three of the things were eating:

1. at Pete's Diner, a greasy spoon on Colfax (no recommendation);
2. to make your stomach forget that insult, at a 7-11 (geting a hot dog); and
3. at Jerusalem (a cheap 24-hour place that's good despite bordering on a university).
4. midnight movies at the Mayan in case you never outgrew "Rocky Horror Picture Show" (which plays at midnight--weekend midnights, mind you--at the Mayan's sibling theatre, the Esquire).
5. Car-oake, which is driving and singing at the top of your lungs.
6. Smoking a cigarette, which was listed after
7. Having sex

I forget the others. I never understood why that movie was called "Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead," except that Denver's dearth of life after dark is well-known. And justified.

It was only 2:00 or so when we got home, so we got to work in the garden. Over the weekend, we

• Mowed the grass
• Weedwhacked the rest of the grass
• Trimmed some deadwood from the nectarine tree, the quantity of which makes me sad
• Plucked fruit off the nectarine tree, as much as I could reach. It's supposed to have one fruit per 30-40 leaves for the best quality fruit and, I hope, for the health of the tree. I did not count.
• Hoed out, removed stones posing as borders from, weeded, and mulched the two bits of garden on either side of the porch steps
• Trimmed some of the north plum tree so a tall person can walk underneath it (actually I did this several days ago, and not enough, but I like it to droop)
• Added some of the extra "planter's mix" soil I bought to the Russian olive stump; soaked and planted morning glory seeds (late)
• Added soil to the side garden in back, though it will have no plants for a while
• Sowed some sunflower seeds, just in case there is enough sun, just in case the squirrels let them be.
• Weeded and mulched the small plot that holds two flourishing raspberry bushes, what I believe is a hackberry bush, and some assorted Other Stuff
• Weeded the entire back brick patio and brick walk
• Turned the compost pile
• Threaded the seep hose through the raised vegetable bed, sowed zucchini and bean seeds, and transplanted tomato and eggplant seedlings (possibly late, except that it snowed last Sunday)
• Removed the pertinent slat, wrenched free two lengths of fence, dug out the broken fence post (which has been roped to the Russian olive stump, about seven feet up, for nearly a year), dug out most of the depth of the cement footing for the post, and hauled out, straight up, that 120-pound column of cement. This was in the end accomplished by pick-axing a rough surface into the exposed smooth column such that a rope would have gription, and RDC hauling upward on the rope (twisted around the hammer for leverage) while I pulled upward (somehow using my hamstrings as much as my shoulders). That cement footing was a breach birth, but we got it out
• Set the new post in concrete and nailed the fence back together, which ended our dealings with our neighbor on that side (whom we don't speak to much).
• Got the entertainment cabinet off the porch, Haitch. It had been there since we moved in, lending the perfect white-trash je ne sais quoi to the house. We didn't need it, with the television shrine built into the basement, and I kept not calling to find out if any charity could use it, and it kept not raining last summer. As late as fall it was still in great shape. After a winter of snow, it's a little haggard. If it doesn't become handy shelving in the garage, it'll go to large-item trash pickup
• Received a schedule of large-item pick-up dates.

On Friday, when I returned to the front with a barrow-load of mulch, we had visitors. A couple had sometimes heard a strange noise, probably a bird, and this time when they walked by, there was RDC beavering away according to taskmaster Blake's instructions. I liked them for reasons additional to their wanting a cockatiel, though of course their admiration for Blake and desire for one of their own and a dog helped. They are by far the most interesting family I have thus far met in Denver. Their names were Ethan and Sarah, good New England names, and their daughter, nearly two, was quiet (a plus) though clear about her desires (bird, down, leaf, hat on, flower) and inquisitive. From nearish Santa Barbara and Manhattan, they now live just around the corner. They spoke well, were personable and obviously well-educated, a little older than us, and I immediately wanted to know them better. As we chatted, the truth came out: yes they're well-educated, because Ethan is about to take a new job as a college professor. In Amhert, Massachusetts, and they're moving month after next. I hope my dismay didn't show--although if they were my kind of people they'd understand my falling in love with them so quickly--as I enthused about Amherst and its environs.

Damn.

Another damn: somehow or other the plastic bottle of massage oil got dropped, whereupon it burst. I figure it was mostly mineral oil (it was the five-oil blend from Escentuals) and buffing it into the furniture and wood floors would be fine. We didn't notice that it had spattered the closet door and part of the wall until the following morning.

We still haven't painted the closet door in RDC's study, since that door has been stacked with the study and bedroom doors we intended never to rehang and therefore has been forgotten. Now we have more closet doors to paint; luckily we have plenty of lavender left.

Saturday was the Day of the Fencepost, plus a run to Home Despot, Wild Oats, and to Belcaro Paints, which, unlike the Despot, sells Benjamin Moore. Public Service Announcement: Behr has great color but doesn't cover well. Digging out the fencepost in two feet of clay was about all we did Saturday afternoon, but now I can have a clothesline. This is going to be another rope between fencepost and Russian olive stump, but retractable, like a measuring tape, and attached to a solid post.

With the concrete curing, we turned, battered and blistered, for the house. I was on the patio and RDC in the yard when I called his attention to a squirrel making its way along the top of the neighbor's fence. Their back fence meets our side fence in a T, and by craning his head up, RDC could see the squirrel and presumably it could see him. They're all used to us not being a threat. Usually. RDC crept up to the fence and just as the squirrel made the leap in its perpindicular path, RDC sprang up with a shriek. This shriek the squirrel mirrored physically, spastically; RDC nearly got a faceful of squirrel as it executed a 180-degree turn in mid-air. I'm glad the little thing didn't collase of heart failure, but its own shriek and subsequent swearing at us (squirrels cuss thoroughly) and panic-induced acrobatics were just what was needed after the fence ordeal.

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When we decided to forego a camping trip to South Dakota (Crazy Horse, Mt. Rushmore, perhaps Wind Cave and Jewel Cave, perhaps Wounded Knee Historic Site, maybe Devil's Tower in Wyoming) because of fundage, I wanted to work on the house all weekend. The living room is still unfinished, but we worked on the yard and it looks much better. It's true that Sunday we mostly recuperated from the fencepost and today we lollygagged at one thing or another, but it was a beautiful, relaxing, and productive four-day weekend, and I am content.

Today I got up at my usual work time to fetch Haitch from the airport. I tried to go back to sleep when I got home, but even with a bellyful of pancakes that was a vain endeavor. I made neater piles of stuff in the garage and discovered nails in the rafters from which to hang rakes and things, which makes it look tidier. Also the pile of mulch is smaller, the bag of potting soil empty, and two more pots are gone. These were two pots I couldn't find and had considered lost or broken in the move; with them and with soil in them, I transplanted some more annuals.

And last but not least, it was time for the Cowboy Junkies at Twist & Shout.

• Dragging Hooks
• Where Are You Tonight?
• This Street, That Man, This Life
• Small Swift Birds
• Open
• Anniversary Song
• First Recollection
• Close My Eyes
• Lay It Down

I wonder, if Margo could remember her lyrics, whether they would need a set list. She talked self-deprecatingly about dropping lines or substituting words then started singing "Where Are You Tonight?" in which she began a clause ("and the myth will grow") without finishing it ("about the two who refused to surrender"). They did nothing from Miles From Our Home, which along with Whites Off Earth Now is the most droppable album. Otherwise, Open, Caution Horses, Black-Eyed Man, Pale Sun Crescent Moon, and Lay It Down were represented.

Margo talked about hair at Kinetics, and she talked about hair here. On their site is a section called Margo's photo album, and there is a subsection entirely dedicated to their evolving hair. Almost as soon as she mounted the stage, she grinned at someone I assumed she knew. After the first song, she exclaimed, "I love your hair!" She also spoke about how odd it is to do shows in record stores, because usually she can't see the audience but in stores she can, and also because of posters. She was in one store, she said, when she felt like Richard Pryor was laughing at her throughout. Now, though, she looked fondly up at a large poster of Lyle Lovett and said happily that she used to have hair that bad. This is true. I myself started out with my hair down, but the air in Twist & Shout grew extremely warm and close and I twisted my hair into a self-holding bun pronto. I'm glad it's long enough to do that.

It was a great set with the best sound I've heard from them. At Lilith Fair their sound was unbelievably bad and they barely could be heard, which made me very sad.

Afterward, they all lined up at the counter to sign whatever you wished signed. I brought two copies of Open, one bought from their indie shop, Maple Music, and the other bought the very day the album came out from evil monolith Media Play, because waiting ten whole days for the album to arrive would have been way too long (one copy is for my sister). Also Caution Horses and Lay It Down. Choosing the reasonable number of four pained me; I chose the two non-Open ones because the one got me through an extremely rough year and the other has "Speaking Confidentially" on it. I left Trinity Session; Whites Off Earth Now; Black-Eyed Man; Pale Sun Crescent Moon; Miles from Our Home; Rarities, B-Sides, and Slow, Sad Waltzes; and Waltz Across America, and 200 More Miles (the latter two live) in the car. Restraint, I say. I didn't know how the assembly line of signing would happen, and I had thought that as I went from member to member, I would turn the pages of the liner notes of Lay It Down and get everyone's signature near his photograph. This didn't happen. Alan Anton was first in line, I opened the notes to his page, and so it went down the line with everyone signing that page. Oh well; I do now have all their signatures, all their touches on my CDs. I told Michael (the guitarist, in the white t-shirt), who writes most of the music and lyrics, that The Caution Horses got me through the worst year of my entire life and thanked him. He thanked me, saying that was good to hear, he was glad to know it.

I think Peter (the drummer, in black with sweat) is the Quiet Junkie. Michael would be John, and Alan Ringo, and Margo Paul, if Peter is George. Except that doesn't work because Margo is my favorite Junkie while George has always been my favorite Beatle. I told Margo I had an online journal that I named Speaking Confidentially. Who knows if that made any sense to her, but I am nothing if not a blurter. I forgot again to tell her we--RDC and me, I'm not that obsessed with Margo Timmins--were married with "Anniversary Song." Mostly we were talking about the River Song Trilogy. So I came home and looked for Rarities, which has the first part, but either I didn't scoop it from under the seat where I shoved the discs not to be signed or it is somewhere unfound in this house. Grr.

I haven't gone to the car to look for it because it has been hailing on and off this evening, interspersed with rain. This wonderful, wet spring of clear sunny mornings and cool rainy afternoons has been great, but my tender little offspring are in the ground now, and I do not appreciate hail. That is all.