A country row. A furious guy behind a farm machine, obviously too slow. Impatient, he tries to overtake it three times by crossing the central yellow line – it is allowed, but only if overtaking can be done safely – to see the other side, and we say to ourselves that this is how face-offs happen. On the fourth attempt, he succeeded. Two wheels in the garnotte. And it is a scene that happens often.
I spent a summer far from civilization. Only good and beautiful. North Shore, middle of the river, Labrador, Far North, Gulf, Anticosti. Magnificent country that we live in. A healthy distance from the infinite neuroses of the great free world.
On the way back, I was given a useful survival summary: apparently the CH didn’t win the cup, that Paul Arcand no longer does radio, that Céline can sing again (our daily prayers have served), and that the groundhog Joe Biden hasn’t seen his shadow, because his vision is failing and everything else too. Everything is almost fine. They even predict that there will be rate cuts. How can you not get better, seriously?
It seems that there were an Olympic Games because while doing a load of laundry at one point I saw beach volleyball on TV (heh… heh…), or as they say in France: du beach volleyball. This reminding me of that, I also suddenly (!) learned from a firefighter friend that several municipalities in Quebec prohibit clotheslines (while in childhood, I used them as nets for badminton, volleyball, tennis, with or without hanging laundry). Notice to all columnists who tear their shirts, or who take them off out of desire, on human rights and social injustices AND on the essential-immensity-of-the-American-elections-that-we-try-to-cover-adrenaline-to-pretend-that-the-future-of-humanity-depends-on-it-when-it-often-resembles-summer-theater, it seems to me that this is a real subject, no, clothes drying outside? Instead of rolling the “chesseuses” because we don’t want this visual pollution in the square courtyards of the houses of wealthy cities; we would put our words into action by saving electricity, and incidentally save the planet by charging our tablets and phones even more and for less money and thus stay on the lookout for apocalyptic threats and everything that is not going well in Kamala’s world and which will be resolved on November 5; we all know that on November 6 the future will be happy with happiness, justice and infinite goodness.
I have also been told, corroborated by several serious articles and essays, even in the prestigious New York Times (hum… hum… we’re not mentioning a community radio station or a brother-in-law here), that art is reheated and that we’ve been repeating old stuff for a few years now — reassuring in its flaws — who knows why? And that concerns all forms of art. We’re a bit bored with the risks of creation these days. Where are the artists and thinkers who think outside of a dull, beige median?
Well, some good news in this summer summary. The vegetable garden has given like never before. Abundance in everything. It’s rare. Once every 20 years. No complaints to make, except for bickering with bugs and a squirrel that eats my corn the morning of picking. The hay too, large harvest and quantity, but average to good quality. Everything ripened a little early. Early maturity, the agronomist said. The tomato plants are already almost bare, stripped of leaves. Everything is perfect without being so. As usual.
The guy in a hurry hit the left shoulder. So far, nothing too serious, even if he scared a whistler, but he crushed some wild flowers and that doesn’t go down well. Asters, wild chicory, musk mallow, sweet clover, rudbeckia, thistle, tansy… Honestly!
Wildflowers are allies, especially when the air is more or less happy and when reading and hearing complaints everywhere, it is a disaster every day, every hour and every minute. Brief seconds of beauty that grow free and without expectation, snatched here and there from the atmosphere, are welcome.
The tractor and trailer that the car overtook with the gas at the bottom were carrying onions. The tractor swerved to the right. I was afraid that the cargo would end up in the ditch. Come onfriends; there are people who work their asses off working our fields for endless hours to feed us. A little patience, please. It doesn’t matter if you’re a minute late, you’re not saving the world like our politicians and another COP (oops, bad example, sorry). And onions are useful, they’re good, but they’re also a great excuse for tears and feelings: “No, no, everything’s fine, it’s the onions.” Have a good start to the school year. I’m going to can some tomatoes.
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