Saturday, December 8, 2007

Willow Oak.

Sixty-eight degrees today. Windows down on the way in for a set of Saturday conferences, which was almost enough to mitigate the set of Saturday conferences.

The weather changes plenty of late — it snowed last week, however briefly — but how we get no rain out of what will soon enough be a 50-degree swing, I don't know. I fully and completely understand why Mayans and Incans and Druids and Easter Islanders would have decided the gods were pissed off at them, would have built entire cities oriented toward the solstices, would have dragged enormous rocks from here to there to say, By the way, we stopped by, but you weren't home. Just wanted to say howdy, were wondering if you could maybe make it rain. Here's a giant head we carved.

Spent all day outside, though, with the Willow Oak leaves blowing back and forth across the quad. When I was in elementary school, we'd stand outside at lunchtime in the deep fall and try to catch Willow Oak leaves as they got blown free from a stand of trees I remember being seven thousand feet tall. Their shape — basically an index finger — made them sort of helicopter down in great crisp clouds. Catch the most leaves: you are the champion of Mrs. Swaim's second grade class.

Later that year, Mrs. Swaim fell at Sparkles, the skating rink, and broke her ankle. The ambulance came. We all got to see them load Mrs. Swaim onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. That day was as least as good as the day there was a possum with her babies outside in the trash can, and we all got to see animal control come and get them. At the time, I know they told us they would be released into the forest. Now I feel like maybe that did not happen.

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