Actually, the music I’m hearing right now is from Trout Fishing in America:
“All roads lead to my house
Even those I’ve never known!
And when I turn out of my driveway
Taking the scenic route home!”
The viburnum blossoms were shimmering along the mountain roadways as we headed back to Elsinore earlier this week. When I looked out into the garden today, yes, ours were blooming too: the fragrant Korean one in the front yard, and the lace-cap hydrangea-like native in the shady area. Near to that was the fringe tree, which has settled in nicely, and below both were mountain phlox. I got a few sage and other ornamentals into the big planter retrieved from the old family homestead, and I’m trying not to think about the heavy metal gravesite gate my grandfather had retrieved from the family plot, set up on a hillside, and then, well, I don’t think we’re going to move it ever again, whether or not any of our folks remain on that mountain. Maybe it will be a mystery for other people’s children and grandchildren to wonder about? Why have an elaborate gate near a giant, useless radar dish? What does the name on the gate mean? Where where they from? How on earth did it get here?