Saturday Snapshot ... This I Believe

It's Saturday morning and it's starting to feel like summertime. The gardens are coming on. While the comfrey draws hoards of fat bumbling bees and the chive plants draw me out to cut long spears for snipping over mashed taters or tearing and adding to the garden green salads that are plentiful now, the finest of early June flowers fade in the porch bouquet. The white bleeding heart has crisped its hearts on the stem and the deep purple columbine has dropped its delicate petals in a perfect circle beneath the flowers. Their time was glorious, but gone and it reminds me that time is fleeting.

Our time is short in the scheme of things and we'd best chew the chives, enjoy the greens, dig in the soil to set the basil and move on to other good garden deeds. Sharing the strawberries with the neighbors and the chipmunks, dividing the perennials and passing some on to friends, scrubbing the watering can and sprinkling the rose bushes with some insecticidal soap so they come to bloom, rising in a sweat from weeding chores to wave a neighbor on their way down the dirt road, making time to sit in the garden and sip coffee on sunny mornings, and marveling at the seasonal splendor seems crucial these days. These flowers, these berries, these opportunities for connection, this sunrise will never be again. They're to be appreciated now and wondered on ...

Indeed, time is fleeting. It's never too early to realize that we are a speck in the grander scheme of things. We have very little chance of making a difference in the grand scheme of God's plan, but we can surely make great things happen in our little 'back yard'. So my thought is to care for plants, animals, and friends - new, old, and unknown. If I can live this premise, I can't go wrong.

This, I believe.

shared at Saturday Snapshot

The Black Tower - Louis Bayard

I grew up in the extreme northern reaches of New York State. That being said, there was this lovely but decrepit chalet-type home that sat on the outer border of of small town called Fort Covington (near Massena, my hometown) that had the legend of the lost Dauphin attached to it. I was always intrigued by the legend that Louis-Charles, the son of Marie Antoinette and Louis the XVI was somehow spirited away from the Jacobin prison in which he and his sister were held. The story goes that royalists helped him flee prison, cross the Atlantic and settle in anonymity in a rural backwater in order to keep him from forces that would see him dead. I wondered and built fantastic stories in my mind how a prince might be guarded by faithful and monied allies and sent to safety to live out his life away from the horror that he'd surely witnessed during the Reign of Terror.

Finding Louis Bayard's rollicking story about the legend of the lost Dauphin, a rowdy, raucous French detective called Eugene Vidocq that has a penchant for outlandishly accurate disguises, a young doctor who is pioneering the study venereal disease at a time when it was ravaging the French elite, and a young French gardener who is mysteriously innocent for one his age was such a fun experience! This mystery/historical thriller is masterfully written and even more masterfully narrated. It was wonderful!

I'll not spoil the storyline by giving away plot, but just know that there is murder, subterfuge, hidden relics of the Reign of Terror and the following Napoleonic era, royals and gentry who are less than honest about their past, bawdy humor, and wonderful characters that are endearing. Great read, even better listen. Simon Vance is a professional reader for the Royal National Institute for the Blind as well as a radio announcer for the BBC radio ... he does an incredible job developing the character of Vidocq. His command at reading and interpreting the story is just stellar!

Okay .. have I gushed enough ? If you're doing a road trip, working at home at a sit-down project or puttering in the kitchen this would be a worthy audio experience. I'm off to return the 'book' to the library and check out another by Louis Bayard.