Jurassic Park

Bernie’s papers, so many files and file holders and boxes with papers in them that I have to get rid of. And so many need shredding. My daughter is right: I have to get a bigger shredder. Loads of papers, some of them mine.

But instead of shredding papers, I sit in my living room with the window open and feel the soft breeze come in. The birds–robins, young Cardinals and Catbirds–flit¬† past. They get bird seed at my neighbor’s feeder and come eat the seed in my dogwood. Well, not mine exactly. It is just in front of my cottage. The twitsy birds jump around the branches of the tree. I believe they knocked off all the buds of the dogwood. There were no blossoms. I doubt if they ate the buds–no nourishment there.

Behind my house is a swamp. I can’t see it any more because the vines have taken over. Some grasses and wild roses support the vines. They have stopped growing upward and lean over. A day later I saw new fronds of the vine go out sideways, always reaching for something to climb. Jurassic Park. I don’t like it.

It’s due to all the rain we got in the Spring. Too many leaves on the trees. The charming country roads we have, shaded by the trees are now all but closed over with massive amounts of leaves on all the branches. When I notice them, I perceive them as somewhat threatening.

Rain is falling softly now. I won’t have to water my garden tomorrow! But more vines will grow and wave in tomorrow’s breezes.

I think I’ll take my papers to Staples and let them shred them.



Thinking of Bernie tonight. He died last week. It’s already last week and not tonight, or yesterday or Wednesday night. Soon it will be two weeks. Then on July 13, I go to Prince Edward Island, Canada. I’ll be thinking of him all the while I’m there. It’s his home, his place that he and his late brother inherited from their mother, Sara, who got it from her brother, Pius, who inherited it from their father, Angie Ban Mac Donald. Light-haired Angus.

Bernie missed going the last two years. Last year I decided to go with our son and daughter-in-law. I had to tell him I was going. He said, “When do I go?” It broke my heart. I had to tell him he couldn’t go: he was in a wheelchair, there was no way to get him into the house, etc, etc. It broke my heart and I felt it broke his. No wonder I didn’t enjoy myself. This year there is no one to tell. Is that better?

I talk about his death as though I had something to do with it, as though was in charge. All ego.

No, he died because he was ready for it. He’d stopped eating or drinking. Whether he chose to stop or not didn’t matter. It happened.

The night he died, he quietly  bid his aide good night, gave him a slight wave of his hand, closed his eyes and was gone. Peaceful and simple. When I arrived thirty minutes later, he was there but had left us. Cold hands, face silent. Released into peace