From Florida to Montana
Another lovely spring morning, we slept with the door open. 65F outside and 84%, fair and not foggy, the flashing light directly across the Bay from Calhoun Avenue is clear. Facebook is not one of my things, but most days while posting a link to my nonsense I scroll down six inches or so to see what’s going on beyond my daze. There yesterday, a picture of John’s boat at Shell Island, with a note “it’s that time again” but beneath it a note from a cousin, “not in Montana,” so I check her weather: 23F at the moment.
April is often our best month, spring weather with azaleas and dogwood in bloom, citrus casting their fragrance all around. Azaleas are done for the season and the dogwood has gone from white flowers to full green leaves, but lemon and grapefruit trees are aromatic. There’s one citrus tree way down front that has never bloomed or given fruit, and it’s in line of sight between the kitchen window and the Bay, I may cut it down this year, if it doesn’t have a bird’s nest, which it sometimes does. It reminds me of the fig tree Jesus cursed. What happened to the fig tree? Depends on which gospel you’re reading, here it wilts instantly from fiery wrath of the Word, there it’s wilted when he comes back by a day or so later. And the parable fig tree where the owner says cut the damn thing down but the gardener says let me put some manure around it and give it special care and see if it produces fruit, otherwise cut it down this time next year. OK, anonymous citrus, you get a reprieve.
All my girls are here this weekend, ten people at the dining room table for steak yesterday noon. Ray, who chefs at fancy restaurants, cooks the most perfect steak, beautifully criss-crossed, it’s an art he has, I cannot do it. SEARING HOT grill, tenderloin this time, psssst psssst flip it psssst psssssst, take mine off, spoon of homemade mac&cheese, spoon of green beans, glass of Argentinean Malbec, look around the table at those I love and give thanks for them and this moment. Fifty years ago my father was sitting at this very place at table in this very room, a hundred years ago my grandfather was sitting in this very spot. Next? My state of mind looks like a day to day weather map, when my girls are here it’s Florida Gulf Coast where life is perfect; by two o’clock this afternoon it’ll be April in Montana.
Palm Sunday, Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem according to Matthew 21. A literalist, Matthew somewhat ludicrously visualizes Jesus riding into town astride two animals, a colt and its mother to make sure Zechariah 9 is fulfilled. In real life, Matthew must have been either a brick mason or a diesel mechanic, he sure as heck was no poet. And he doesn’t read the Hebrew Bible, he’s reading the Greek language Septuagint, “Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Sion; proclaim it aloud, O daughter of Jerusalem; behold, the King is coming to thee, just, and a Saviour; he is meek and riding on an ass, and a young foal.” If Matthew had read the NRSV he’d have got it:
Rejoice greatly, O daughter Zion!
Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem!
Lo, your king comes to you;
triumphant and victorious is he,
humble and riding on a donkey,
on a colt, the foal of a donkey.
Shout aloud, O daughter Jerusalem!
Lo, your king comes to you;
triumphant and victorious is he,
humble and riding on a donkey,
on a colt, the foal of a donkey.
After the joyful entry of hosanna, hosanna, we descend into the horror of the Passion Gospel and, the Savior sealed in a tomb, leave in despair.
Bubba understands the transition.
The Sunday of the Passion: Palm Sunday.
W+