hear the mushrooms

“You don’t hear the mushrooms?” We hear what the brain sorts out of the sounds that come through the ears. With the faulty hearing that comes with age, the brain sorts sounds into words even if they don’t combine to make an intelligible thought. I stuck my head outside and reported to Linda that it’s not windy anymore. “No,” she said, “I don’t hear the mushrooms.” 

“You don’t hear the mushrooms?”

“I don’t hear the windchimes. You need to put on your ears.”

We hear what we will just as we see what we will. And we understand what we will. Sometimes earphones help. Hearing aids. Sometimes we need a commentary. But it’s likely to be a scholar we agree with, I’m not into literalist, fundamentalist writers or "scholars" who waltz around what is obvious and rationalize what they "know." I like some Americans. Some Canadian scholars. Some British. Most Germans, but not Goethe and not all of Luther. At LTSG I learned to like a couple of French commentators, Bible scholars. 

After the music Tuesday evening we came out into the loveliest December evening imaginable. An evening of blissful music with friends and then coming out into the clear, cold night told my wonderful frame of mind that Christmas was coming and the Christmas tree would be waiting all lit up when we arrived home. Why we are having December evenings the end of March beats the hell out of me. Make that heliotrope, there’s no call to be profane. Beats the heliotrope out of me, oops, now people know what heliotrope stands in for. And the walk this morning. Chilly. Not raw, but dank for sure. As I said, no wind, but still chilly here on the Bay. 

For the early walk, I slipped on bluejeans over my pj pants, and a flannel shirt, a heavier shirt over that. And one of my hats that went to Cleveland, which one -- the tan one Tass made that matches my scarf, the red one that Gina and the twins made for me, or the black one that Tass knitted? Wear the black one today: a man looks much younger with a black head than with a white head. I once read in a Dear Abby column, a letter from a girl who was getting married, who was upset and embarrassed about her father even though she loved him dearly. He was going to walk her down the aisle. For years he had been getting bald. To cover the bald spots, he had started touching up with black shoepolish on his scalp. Now he was almost totally bald, his head covered mostly with black shoepolish and he resembled a clown. He was going to walk her down the aisle on the day that she wanted to be the main attraction and the main one people talked about on their way home from the wedding. My suggestion: get him to wear a black cap like the one I wore on my walk this morning, and hope that when the minister asks, “Who presents this woman to be married to this man?” her father says, “I do,” and promptly sits down out of sight. If bozos can wear a hat in a restaurant these days, her dad can dee well wear a hat in church is what I say.   

A nice walk today. For a mid-December morning on the Florida gulf coast. Hoped a car would drive by with someone's radio blaring carols. I know it’s not windy. Linda can’t hear the mushrooms. Speaking of which, if my weight is satisfactory at my cardiologist appointment next Tuesday, I'm going to cook steaks outside on the grill, and mushrooms. 

W