Ernest

This lily, which I bought on impulse at Waitrose last year, is blooming once again. I have no idea what kind it is, but it's pretty, isn't it? It lives on the dining room windowsill with the orchids, and for some reason it is beset with a persistent case of aphids. I've showered it with water, sprayed it with bug spray, washed down the sticky windowsill and nearby surfaces, and still they return. But I'm getting flowers, so I'm winning.

(I would never use bug spray outdoors, but since this is an indoor plant living where there are no pollinators, I'm not as concerned. When it dies back in the fall the pot goes into the shed, and all I do is keep it mildly damp over winter.)

Dave and I finally watched the new Burns/Novick documentary about Hemingway. I really enjoyed it -- for a long time I called Hemingway my favorite writer and I've read most of his books, so it was interesting to hear how they came to be. His simple, minimalist, journalistic approach to writing always appealed to me. I think a lot of young people like his work because, after parsing Shakespeare and Milton and Dickens all the way through school, they find that he's a breath of fresh air.

Of course, there's also his bullying, his tolerance of animal suffering and his misogyny, among other negatives. The man's personal life was a train wreck. He seems the embodiment of a rather immature tendency to always be grasping for the next best thing, a sort of constant, debilitating hunger. Maybe that hunger helped drive his genius as much as it eventually killed him. I don't know how his wives tolerated him. Some of them didn't, and rightly so -- Martha Gellhorn, his third wife, emerges as a sort of hero in the Hemingway saga for remaining true to herself.

Still, "The Sun Also Rises" remains one of my favorite books. That interwar world of café-hopping expatriates in sun-drenched Spain seems so mythically beautiful -- a reminder that the world is out there, with all its joys and pains, to be lived in and experienced. I never read his nonfiction, though. Hunting in Africa and bullfighting are two topics that do not interest me at all. I couldn't even begin to fake it.

Watching the documentary proved to be a challenge. As far as I can tell it's not streaming here in the UK. We've been meaning for ages to buy a VPN, which basically routes our Internet through any foreign country we choose, and that way we can get access to American streaming services. I finally took the plunge and that's how we watched it. Now I don't have to deal with the frustration of reading reviews of productions that are streaming on American Netflix, for example, but are inaccessible here.

I took Olga to the cemetery in the afternoon. They've finally started removing that dead tree near the chapel. I don't know if this trunk is going to stay or if they just haven't taken it out yet -- I guess it will be good for woodpeckers if it remains.

On the way home we passed a real estate office, and I spotted these throw pillows on their couch -- do you recognize that pattern? It's honesty, which I'm always trying to grow in our garden. I was pretty proud of myself for getting a picture of the pillows and working Olga into the shot!

Dave went to get his second Covid vaccination yesterday afternoon. The doctor's office texted him on schedule to book the appointment. I asked him if he wanted me to go with him, and he said, "I think I can handle it, and besides, they wouldn't let you in anyway." So while he did that I took care of things here at home, and when he came back he was feeling invincible, proclaiming, "I am fucking bullet-proof!" (A very Hemingway attitude.)