Father And Son

I find I'm thinking a lot about my father. Nothing deep, just picturing him, cap on head, as he was at weekends, Doing the things I'm now beginning to do- like digging and edging and pruning. It's how he spent so much of his free time.

I suppose that- like most of his generation- he came out of the war thinking, "That's enough excitement for one lifetime." It helps explains why the 1950s were so dull and drab- and why when the postwar generations started thinking, "Hey a little excitement would actually be rather nice," he and his lot opposed us so resolutely.

So, he'd be out in the garden, doing careful, peaceful things- and I'd be up in my bedroom- keeping out of his way- reading something like The Three Musketeers or Beau Geste or Alan Quartermain.

Have I had excitement in my life? Oh, yes. Plenty, thank you. But, unlike my father, who got more than he probably wanted in a brief four-year period, I've spread mine out over the decades...

Bee Bombs And Similar

We bought two batches: one batch was marketed as bee bombs and the other- less sensationally- as seed pellets- and what they are is little nuggets of dried mud containing wildflower seeds and appropriate nutrients. You scatter them on the ground and sun and rain do the rest. I did the scattering this morning- and we'll see what comes up. All the varieties I've planted are supposed to be particularly attractive to bees.