Pansy - Not such a Lightweight

Why do they call a wimpy person and/or effeminate man a Pansy? Slang dictionaries say that inference is first recorded in 1929. Don’t know who coined the term. It could not have been a gardener, nor does anyone who uses the term thus, know anything about a 'Real Pansy'.

On my morning walk a few days ago, the weather was a balmy 30-something, and I noticed that the landscapers had been out replacing summer plantings with Pansies.

The Pansy is deceptive in its fragile beauty. It is the choice of gardeners when the temperatures head toward freezing. I’ve dusted snow from the beauties more winters than I can count, and so have many a northern gardener. The blizzard of ’93, I carefully shoveled 3 feet of snow from the beauties in my front yard.

So, if anyone ever calls you a Pansy, say “Thank you. That is one beautiful and sturdy flower, and I’m thrilled you think of me so.”

Baby It’s Cold Outside

Jasmine feels betrayed, and lets me know it. The morning started as always. She dashed down the hall ahead of me and sat on the sill waiting for me to open her little door to our balcony. It’s early morning and my first tasks are all cat-related: put food in one bowl, pour fresh water in the other, and open the door to the balcony.

Moments later, she is back inside, and staring at me as only a cat can - it's 35 outside. The odd ‘meorrow’ seems to ask accusingly, ‘what have you done to the weather’. She stares out the window and ventures out once or twice more before walking haughtily down the hall to lie on the leopard comforter at the foot of my bed. I keep a heating pad on low there beginning with the first day that dips under 40, just for her between the covers. I never run the central heat, so the bed is pretty cold when I first get in it around midnight. I put my feet under the spot with the heating pad just long enough to take the chill off and allow the down comforter to return my heat to me. Jasmine curls up on top of it for most of the night. She’ll visit it throughout the day as she determinedly goes out to see if things have changed. This afternoon, she'll be rewarded, as 70 is the predicted high, but soon winter will settle in in earnest and I'll be in for some seriously disdainful looks.

© Perle Champion

Sunrise

Brrr – 30-something this morning, but I walked my 5 just the same. Had to wear my shorts over leggings though for the pockets. Left pocket holds a small tablet with pen clipped to it - It’s a given that wonderful thoughts and ideas come unbidden when we walk or shower or drive. The thoughts are so fleeting that if I don’t capture them in the moment, they’re gone leaving only a yearning behind for what I cannot quite define. I’ve learned the hard way, to stop what I’m doing and get it down on paper then and there.

The same holds true for pictures, so the other pocket carries my small digital camera. This morning it was the sunrise on 17^th Street that took my breath away. The streetlights were still on, as the clouds lit to brilliant gilt-edged pinks heralding the sun. The picture does not do it justice, but I think you get the idea.

Another Easter: Journal Entry

It’s Easter Sunday, and I sit here on my balcony, my aerie. It’s just me, the cat and the Sunday paper with our view of Barnett Street and Ponce de Leon Street in the distance. The sun arrived at noon and Sabrina, being a cat preens her star white fur in its warm brilliance. I sip the last of my morning coffee, take a bite of rye toast spread with Brie and read “Peanuts” first.

A young couple and their three little girls are walking down the street. Their clothing says church: suits, hats, ruffles, and bows. Across the way, an elderly couple gets out of their car. A young woman runs out of the apartment house, camera in hand calling out, “Mom, Dad, wait. Let me get a picture by the car.” She snaps them, then Dad snaps one of Mom and her, then Mom snaps one of her and Dad. They all go into the apartment. Her neighbor is watching from his front porch. He takes another drag on his cigarette, stretches in the sun and returns to his paper.

My sister is preparing ham and all the trimmings for her mother-in-law. This will be the last year she does that. The old lady is dying.

Last night at John and Judy’s house, we cooked out and ate and drank and talked and Judy dyed eggs. They have no children, but Judy always dyes eggs. It takes her back she defends, “Because, that’s what you do at Easter, isn’t it?” Today, she’ll be taking her husband, John, and the eggs to her Mom’s and Dad’s in Birmingham.

My Mom is in Birmingham, too, but she works today and my sister will spend the day with her husband and his dying mother. One of my brothers is in the Bahamas with his wife and her family, the navy brother is stationed in the Philippines and the oldest works nights, so I am sure he is sleeping as I sit here.

I used to dye eggs, too, and go to church and fix the Sunday ham, but the child is gone now. I have no obligations now, except a few phone calls. I take another bite of Brie on toast, sip my first Mimosa and read “Parade Magazine” next.

© Perle Champion