lindens
I went out in the backyard the other morning. It was around six and the first thing to hit me was the scent of the linden trees from the neighbourhood. Their intoxicating smell was so thick I think I could have poured it from a pitcher. There were two huge lindens in the front yard of my childhood home. I remember constantly climbing one of them with my brother. What is it about summer and childhood? Give me a warm day and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with nostalgia, throw in a linden tree and I’m lost for the day.
Baked cookies last evening for Monica’s bake sale at her school. As I was letting them cool on the table the dogs got in and started wrestling on the kitchen floor, sending up small clouds of dog hair. I shooed them out and inspected the cookies and not thinking I wondered out loud, “I hope none of that dog hair landed on the cookies.”
“I’m not bringing those if there is dog hair on them.” Monica said.
“No, they're fine.” I said after my inspection.
“MOM, what if someone finds a dog hair on one?”
“Relax Monica, you simply have to say to them – that’s just a little cinnamon.”
And the other night Greg sat down in one of the holes the dogs dug in the back yard. I swear all you could see was his head and shoulders and I started laughing.
And so straight faced he said, “Now let me just get this straight – so this is perfectly fine with you.”
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