The Little Words Mean the Most

Brainstorming a mano

Speak for yourself, Mrs. Alden, but I find solo brainstorming -- brainstorming sans company -- flows better with mild substance abuse. Substances vary. My esteemed brother-in-law, Alain, abuses Diet Coke. Whatever takes your fancy. Operative adjective: mild. It's spring. Substance abuse includes rock moving. Simone has a shiny ring. I have a blister.

Lunch hour yard massage

Field-frost nights. Sun-baked days. Clap a magnetic timer to my car and do an hour of yard maintenance at noon. How do I know my trunk is metal and my bumper is not? The timer won't stick to the bumper. Goal: sweeten and fertilize our despised large lawn. Once every 20 years is my average as of today. Yesterday I emptied and screened bin #3 of the composter. That's not snow. That's lime, to cut the acid of oak leaves and pine needles.

Nova Scotia: Land of my maternal forebears

"And his grandmother came from Nova Scotia, so he's really one of us." The exciting conclusion of my introduction by Anne (Coyle) Melanson, partner in Canadian super-shop Red Letter (philanthropy counsel). True: my Gramma McKay. Common variant: Mackai (as pronounced). Beyond-gracious reception from the AFP Nova Scotia chapter, Maritime Fundraising Conference, April 15-16. "Special guest speaker": me/moi. It's printed right there on the cover. L-r: Logan airport gives green vehicles preferred parking; Nova Scotia from the sky - lots of ponds, all shaped like animals (can you see the leaping rabbit?); under three flags; AFP chapter chief, Bill Pratt, opens the conference; petite baggallini rolling tote takes its first trip (the computer pocket makes a great clothes press); and all that jazz.

Lost midlines

Everyone I know is losing weight. Simone is down to her high school waistline. Narrow hips ahoy. Clothing she bought in Paris two decades ago fits again, much to her unsecret joy.

This national weight shed might present an opportunity to keep one step ahead of global warming's gift of rising seas. If we lose weight across America, the dumped poundage multiplied by 300 million citizens, obese nation become reasonable eaters again, will our beaches lift a few inches in stature? Mr. Obama, policy opinion please.

The rock walk

Exercise again this spring is rock moving. Rolling, dragging, rarely one light enough to lift, transporting the orphans and stone wall runaways to the front of the house, to make a rock walk like a lawn jetty I can prance across, well above the ticks and biting ants. The black rocks are made of 250-million-year-old gabbro (yes, Jim). The lighter ones are mostly granite as near as I can tell.

Thick rain

It's the day before Easter. Pouring rain. Carpets of it. And snowing at the same time, big clots the size of lightbulbs hit the skylight with the descending thud of lightly battered badminton shuttlecocks. I'm writing direct mail. Simone calls it "thick rain."

Roadents

Brought the car in for routine maintenance. Mechanic found a night visitor: a mouse nest in my air conditioning vent. Now, you wonder: Do they like all the trips? I'm jetting off somewhere a couple of times a month, parking at different airports. Are mice along for the ride and hitting the bars until I return? "Woo-hoo!" Do they miss me? "Hey, he's back." Eeeky little voices. "Good. 'Cause this town ain't nothing but stale cheese."

Night gardening

My ears are cold. The rind of my body, nothing else. Even my nose is remarkably warm, like the last tepid bites of a Baconator, Wendy's most succulent offering. 45 minutes spent ushering in night outside, moving small stones into rock wall interstices, rehanging worn-out yard gloves to mark paths. This year I am opening up the cliffs for public viewing.

How to move a heavy rock

Wrap it in something strong like jumper cables. And put your strongest muscles, the legs, to work. Now drag, ye bluster.

Hillary attends my garage spring cleaning summit