One of the small pleasures in life is smooshing down the crinkly pillows of air in mossed-up grass into mysterious crop circles on a frosty morning while waiting for the
big yellow school bus to appear like an apparition out of the big green of the Arboretum but as the stop is down in the valley where the sun barely don’t shine (by two o’clock in the afternoon those sunbeams promptly disappear someplace like the west slope of snooty Queen Anne Hill) Adam and I often resort to huddling like shivering, scared pups baffled by each other’s wispy dragon breathpuffs.
At lunchtime on my way home from the acquisition of the Darth Vadery solar panels which will be hung on a rusty hook next to the hummingbird feeder on the backyard lean-to in the event of a
not-too-unlikely catastrophic earthquake which will perhaps flatten our rickety old house (never mind less-appealing Plan B wherein everything’s relocated to the bottom of the liquefied hill) an over-height box truck had become tightly wedged beneath that cute stone footbridge on Lake Washington Boulevard which most visitors to Washington Park Arboretum will regard with so much casual admiration such little inkling do they have about the longstanding (1911) utility of the invisible aqueduct which if you must know is listed by the National Register of Historic Places quite possibly making it one of the most distinguished sewer pipes around. As you can imagine, neither the embarrassed, distressed driver of the box truck nor the annoyed police officer (directing one lane of traffic) had need of such information. Poop, poop, poop!
postscript: This was that quite cold, brilliant sunshine-filled week early in December the day after I fell on the stairs and you will see I wasn’t so awfully hurt as to not be walking around like a dadnabbed fool making crop circles. Regarding the Arboretum Sewer Trestle (the wondrously inelegant official name which nobody has ever heard of) let me tell you it was the third time I’ve witnessed decapitated automotive wreckage underneath that historic aqueduct. The first occasion featured a super-crumpled fifteen-foot moving truck while the second instance involved a frighteningly sheared-off tour bus. Now maybe these witnessings don’t exactly fall into the category of darnedest things but sort of they do, I believe. Speaking of which, I find myself
real tickled at the spelling of “darnedest”. The unexpected extra “e”, I love it. I had no idea.