As always, news headlines (these from today’s Washington Post) trouble me:
- White House wants CDC to revise guidelines to reopen U.S.
- Top Republican fundraiser and Trump ally named postmaster general, giving president new influence over Postal Service
Politicizing science. Tearing down another American institution. It’s always something.
To my additional dismay, I’ve watched the very last episode ever of The Good Place. I’ll miss that cast of characters, the clever writing, and the diversion.
On the bright side, here’s Merriam-Webster’s Word of the Day: truckle. New to me, but you probably know it. If not, make something up before the end of the post, when I’ll give you the official definition.
I play a little game with myself called What’s the Time? This morning, for example, as I was carbonating a bottle of water with my Sodastream machine, I hazarded a guess at the hour and then looked: It was 10:00 and I’d estimated 10:10. What seemed like a couple hours later, I decided it was now 12:15. Turned out it was only 10:30. I’ve never experienced time moving so dreadfully sluggishly for so many weeks.
Lulu’s jigsaw puzzle challenge begins anew, this time with installment one of six. I’ve added a little inset so you can see detail better. There are several books along the bottom edge. Doesn’t it sort of look like a Beatrix Potter drawing?
Out on my deck I’ve been watching my favorite plant as it prepares to come into bloom, which should happen any day now. It’s a quirky kind of carnation called Dianthus caryophyllus “Chomley Farran”* that has petals of dark purple streaked with magenta and crimson, like an early evening sky. This time last year, I had one flower and one about-to-burst bud. They were my pride and joy, until I went out one morning to find that squirrels had beheaded both. I’m hoping the jerks don’t get to this year’s crop. If they do, I’m dropping my olive branch for my rifle, by which I mean I’m swapping my camera for my squirt gun. Just in case it helps to deter them, I put more peppermint oil on the cotton ball in the planter.
*Of course I searched the Internet for the flower’s namesake, Chomley Farran. Who was he, and what is it with the Chomley? And what did he do about marauding squirrels who eviscerated his prize blossoms? All I found is that he was a late-20th-century English plant breeder. I shouldn’t have looked him up. It would have been much more fun to make up a story for a name like that.
One of these is correct:
Truckle, noun. The inner core of a plant’s stem; pith.
Truckle, verb. To act in a subservient manner.
Finally, I would like to say goodbye to my 97-year-old friend, Lucille. I learned that she departed this planet this afternoon. Lucille: I will always “love every hair on your head,” as you said to me. Thanks for the laughs. A peaceful journey to you. Love, Ginna
Darn it! I was thinking Chomley Farrah was one of Mabs’ paramours…the name has a Mabistic familiar ring to it, don’t you think? My guess (not cheating here, just opening myself up to easy humiliation) is that truckle is the verb choice? Somehow related to the phrase about not taking any (much?) truck…?
I was thinking of Toesly Clyde as I wrote this entry. I wish Mabs read this stuff, but she doesn’t. You nailed “truckle,” of course.
Well, you could always go back and rewatch The Good Place from the start. I’m glad you liked it so. It is excellent.
What a lovely mysterious jigsaw.
I wish MY name were Chomley Farran.
Very sad about Lucille. She was a wonderful one.
As before, the puzzle has me puzzled! And, who is “Mabs”?
I agree with Molly — watch it again!
I knew “truckle”. so couldn’t play the game.