March 26: I knew the morning mishaps (a shattered pickle jar, a soiled shoe) were building to something wonderful. Indeed. In a day absolutely shimmering of summer, a dear friend and I traveled coastward. Saluting our good fortune, we savored drinks and rocking chairs in a charming 19th century town. A walk took us past marshes and a distant egret glowing white against the winter-brown reeds. And then, despite a promised hour-long wait for an outdoor table (more cocktails were certainly an option!), we zipped into a perfect parking spot and were escorted to a perfect table (all views and breezes). From our table, we admired the fishing boats returning home from their day — and the seafood disappearing before us.
March 27: The sky domed deep blue and slid to the horizon in a half-dozen shades. Contrails tattooed the cloudless sky as we walked along the beach. We’d already passed a cluster of tiny ducks swimming sleekly below the surface of the neighboring bay. And we spied a nest perched atop a sign saying Do Not Stop. We stopped: at a picnic table in the field of a farm brewery. There we enjoyed refreshing beer, a talented two-woman band, and the company of fifty other people just so happy to be spread out together in the warmth and sunshine.
March 28: I awakened to the hard beat of rain on the rooftop, more drum than water. Then the wind instruments pushed past the timpani and conga; the treble of a dozen bird songs complemented the rainy percussion in such a pleasing way.
March 29: Pink maple blossoms carpeted my neighbor’s sunny driveway, softening the asphalt into a fuzzy shag perfect for rolling. Or perfect for scooping handfuls into the air like confetti. I did neither. Flying down the highway minutes later, I threw open my sunroof. A shower of blossoms fell on my shoulders and eyelashes. The parade had come to me!
March 30: I was working late, well into the gloaming. In front of my window, a doe sauntered by. I ran to the next window to watch her pass again. She was followed by another doe, and then by a fawn, each 12 feet from the one before. I made a noise; the fawn turned to gaze at me and strolled on. The caravan of deer ended at last as another doe hurried by, chewing vigorously. Did she help herself at my Daffodil Blossom Cafe?
March 31: The producers of a large event coached the speakers just before our mics went live. We were told, Wait to speak until you see the red box around your screen. Tilt your laptop camera a bit farther back. And please silence your phones. The keynote speaker wondered aloud, “What should I do with my rooster?”
April 1: The beer was cold, and we were colder. The wind whipped our coats and scarves, and my ungloved fingers could barely write. We had no blankets; we had no seat cushions. But we and 4,996 other loud, masked and well-spaced fans had baseball. We joyously salute you, the 2019 World Series Champion Washington Nationals on Opening Day! JUST KIDDING. Opening Day was cancelled because of COVID. I console myself with spicy Thai food and a warm fire. And many baseball games to come, in warmer weather and not on April Fool’s Day.
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