LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth |
CAMP Stories |
by Rich Barnett |
Springtime Comes Like an Idiot, Babbling and Strewing Flowers
Can there be a more perfect description of spring than this? The title, the words, they belong to Edna St. Vincent Millay, a bohemian poet and a favorite of my grandmother. I've inherited several old volumes of Millay's poems, two of which were signed back in the 1920s. It was in one that I discovered this line. Between you and me, I've never been a "poetry guy." I don't know the difference between a sonnet and an ode and I've no idea what the heck iambic refers to. Poems have always seemed to me somewhat unapproachable. More work than pleasure, sort of like picking crabs. Too often I just flat out don't understand them. Edna, however, I get. I see the silliness in the pink cherry blossoms littering Rehoboth's streets like confetti tossed by a parade of drag queens. I recognize the irrationality of the two fat carpenter bees that follow me around the yard like puppy dogs. And, you don't have to tell me that purchasing eight packs of zinnia seeds for a 5x8 flower garden is absolutely ridiculous. In case you're wondering, that works out to be approximately 400 seeds. I was powerless to resist the lure of the "Giant Fantasy," "State Fair Mix," "Cut and Come Again," and especially "Envy," which promises attention-getting chartreuse color in my garden. When it comes to gardening, for years I've been planting all types of daffodils around my cottage. Hundreds now bloom in orchestrated waves of yellows throughout the season. A flamboyant display for sure. The fact that I'm highly allergic to them and spend weeks with red eyes and a scratchy throat, sneezing and mopping up the river of mucus running from my nose does not deter me. Still I plant. That's not fabulous; that's absurd. And while we're on the subject, the other day I was seriously thinking about renting the cottage to eight college baseball players from New Jersey. They assured me they were merely looking for a quiet spring weekend at the beach. Just as I was about to ask them to send me a couple of team photosto help me decide, of courseI snapped out of it and deleted the email inquiry. Fantasy baseball aside, all I had to do was think back to my own college days to realize just how absurd a proposition this was. My first visit to Rehoboth Beach, coincidentally, occurred when I was in college. It was one of those idyllic springtime days when the temperatures soared into the 70s and the shirtless fraternity boys were out in front of their houses passing the lacrosse ball. Nobody went to class and everyone was drinking beer. The next thing I know I'm waking up in the back seat of a car on Rehoboth Avenue. Yes, I knew the driver. It was the first time I'd ever seen a boardwalk or eaten French fries with vinegar. We sat on the beach all day drinking more beer and getting that first spring sunburn. You know the one. Later that evening in a local motel, a lamp got broken and someone threw up. A quiet spring weekend... Most certainly it's nonsensical to spend fifteen dollars on white paper cocktail napkins adorned with black and yellow spiders. It's not the motif in question, but the fact that I have an entire kitchen drawer full of cocktail napkins. Two hundred, I counted the other night, made of paper and cloth. If I don't use them for a spring garden party perhaps I'll save them for the outrageous cocktail party I'm going to throw the day I turn all these stories into a book. Yes indeed, the babbling nonsensicality that is spring is most definitely behind our decision to paint the house this month, despite the clouds of pine pollen swirling up and down Columbia Avenue like a scene out of dust bowl Oklahoma. At least we picked a shade of white with a little gold in it. And, the little yellow flecks won't appear too noticeable on the freshly painted orange front porch. Yes, you read that correctly: orange. In closing, all I can say is that Edna sure knew a fool when she saw one. And so, as does Spring, I continue to babble and strew forth. Rich Barnett, an unabashed gay, liberal, tree-hugging, whiskey-drinking, Rehoboth cottage-owning story-teller, is working on a book and can be reached at Greenbarn@aol.com. |
LETTERS From CAMP Rehoboth, Vol. 18, No. 04 May 02, 2008 |