April 16: Friends walked their dog Bear past our house. Suddenly, Bear squared himself to our front walk and began to whimper. Resisting my friends’ tugs, he planted himself implacably. I knew what to do. A few minutes later, Jeremiah — also known as the Bear Whisperer — trotted out the door to run and play with his old chum.
April 17: The young waiter greeted us warmly. Our usual table was waiting. But today, Jeremiah and I ate our pizza from real plates. Our limbs and laps were free of blankets. And we were not alone, shuddering, on the wind-swept patio. At last, sun fell warmly on our weekly appointment with the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle and each other.
April 18: Currituck Sound lay placidly before us, framed by the treetops and the setting sun. The quiet was tangible and warm, almost a third companion for my friend and me. We thought we could hear the ocean. Then: a leaf blower, a hammer, and other random noises of determined people. At last, we heard the plink, plink, plink of a banjo softly threading through it all, one careful note at a time, each weaving a raft to carry me back to quiet.
April 19: Seen from the car: Scores of thumb-sized leaves, crisp from winter and brown as nuts, skittered down the sidewalk. Pushed by a wind that we knew brought rain, the leaves reminded me of picnickers fleeing before a storm.
April 20: A fish the size of a rolled newspaper leapt once, twice, from the pond gracing the Pea Island Wildlife Refuge. A pair of snowy egrets strode through the marsh nearby and the beautiful Atlantic Ocean offered a curling surf. Why, then, was I most delighted by the tiny parking lot, where 13 cars representing ten of the Thirteen Colonies — missing only Connecticut, Rhode Island and New Jersey — clustered together in an improbable Continental Convention.
April 21: In a sunset we never saw coming, my camera captured an egg yoke sun nestled in rose petals. Without the camera, though, all we saw were the petals.
April 22: An irregular stream of ordinary cars moved along the express lane next to me. But they might have been a championship baseball team or floats and marching bands, for they were led by nearly three dozen motorcycles, paired like Clydesdales with blue and white and red lights twirling. Is this the Department of Transportation’s invitation to commuters at last to go home?
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