I told O’en on our walk the other night that I thought winter was finally over, but he was too preoccupied with the evening’s effluvia to give the matter much thought.
Unlike us, it seems all the same to him whether the weather is fair or foul. He is just as happy to roll splayed out on the snow as he is upon the leaves or grass. He is the most temperate soul in our menage, an avatar of amity, a friend to all, regardless of race, class, creed, gender, age, or political affiliation. We who tend to compare and contrast would do well to learn from him.
He and I have been together in my office this week for the first time in virtually a year, painting and sanding at home having occasioned our evacuation. Russell, who, with Jane, has been minding the store, as it were, these many months, remarked on seeing O’en and me that things seemed almost normal again.
The painting — repainting, rather, of the dark red trim I once applied with much care around the ground floor win dows and doors, and up the stairs — was undertaken at the behest of our eldest daughter, a teacher with a bent for interior design who says that the Classic Burgundy trim stopped the eye, effectively shrinking the room, and that, moreover, the color red is known to stir the emotions and, because it does, is banned from classrooms.
O’en can’t see red, so it’s all the same to him, but now that it’s been neatly done all in white, I see what she means. One does feel calmer, the eye no longer stops at red. The room has opened up, it’s brighter, more cheerful, Mary says, and winter, if it isn’t over, is almost done.