The Ides of March

The were days this winter when I thought it would never end. I’m not one for sentimentality, but I was delighted yesterday to see the first bluebird of the year at the feeder outside my living room window. Today I saw some forsythia starting to bloom and lots of daffodils in two different yards as I went into town. What else? There’s a sudden, stark difference between the grass that is and the grass that isn’t in our yard, and I’m going to have to take a serious look at my rosemary plants near the house to see if they are salvageable near their roots. I don’t think they made it this year. Even when I don’t have much else going on in the garden, I love to see herbs. There’s something so comforting about plants that offer so much: fragrant leaves, flavoring, blooms.

The Ides of March is this weekend. (Happy Birthday, Tandy!) March–so often bleak and gray–seems particularly suited to such a grim anniversary as Julius Caesar’s assassination. Of course, I expect that the Ides of March was probably quite as lovely and temperate in Caesar’s Rome as it is in our time. The coin in the picture was struck by Brutus and Cassius to commemorate their dirty deed. Jerks.

The next few days I’ll be wrapping up spring break, corralling nephews, and helping Bengal start the soccer season. (I’ll be doing concessions tomorrow all morning–Coffee and Snickers Bars, anyone?) The new novel is well under way and I plan to have it finished and out the door before summer begins. If I seem distracted, it’s because I’m trying hard not to be distracted. I’m at that wonderful point where I have enough of the story to start manipulating it and asking myself questions about where it’s going. I could write all day and night, but that wouldn’t be good for anyone, I fear!