It's May, the lusty month of May
That darling month when everyone throws self-control away
It's time to do a wretched thing or two
And try to make each precious day, one you'll always rue
--Camelot

Greetings Dear Ones!

Tra la, it's May, the lusty month of May! And plenty is going blissfully astray here at the land of Lost Plots. Prom season rolls on. This Friday is when almost everything in the shop is due, even if it arrived in the shop yesterday. (Some is arriving tomorrow (aagh!) thanks to a Senior who could not miss a sporting event in order to attend her fitting Monday. She blew it off and assumed that 24 hours was plenty for me to remake her bodice. She’ll be in Thursday afternoon.) Though “tons of wicked little thoughts merrily appear”—thoughts that involve changing my phone number and moving to Bora Bora. I keep repeating the Serenity Prayer and vacuuming glitter three times a day until the thoughts pass. There ARE things to celebrate: I managed to clean a large ink blot out of a garment, after leaving an uncapped pen on the cutting table by mistake. Luckily, it was not a Sharpie. Luckily, it was water based. Luckily you cannot tell at all. Prayers DO work.

A customer came in recently and commented “You don’t look like the picture on your blog.”

“It’s true,” I chirp. “It’s May, it’s May--I’ve thrown self control away. And…That photo was taken six years ago. I need to update it!” I pause to look in the mirror. I’m gray and fuzzy now, like something left too long at the back of the fridge.

“Yes,” says Prudence sniffily, “You might have been A Tasty Dish once upon a time but you look a little past your “sell by” date—funky, possibly dangerous, definitely Bitter. You smell like you belong on the compost pile.”

“Well, that’s either armpit stress sweat from dealing with the ink blob, or I need to stop eating emotional support cabbage for lunch,” I say.

“It’s not like you had any self-control in April either,” mutters Prudence.

I DO look (and smell) different these days. I should! Six years ago, I wasn’t running my own sheep farm or owning my business. Hell, I wasn’t even minding my own business. There was plenty to laugh at and the whole rich buffet of human foibles to add piquant relish to my rather bland cheesiness. I had three times as many dogs, my children lived at home, I had a series of rent-free lodgers with severe emotional problems, and I had twice as many vehicles breaking down by the side of the road. Now I have to supply all that chaos myself. If it weren’t for things like prom season, septic systems, jumping worms, and social media, I actually might have “spare” time, not that I would waste it on combing or coloring my hair. In my current pastoral setting, I might be an enigmatic hermitess, reading nineteenth century poetry in flowing calico, dabbling half-heartedly in needle work and gentle local gossip. I might write with a fountain pen (at home only! Not in the shop!!) I might nap.

But No…

It’s time to do a wretched thing or two

Instead, I discover to my horror that more than fifty percent of the worms I wrote about last week are in fact the dreaded jumping worms. This entire area of Vermont is being ravaged by these hideous wee beasties. This is the first I have seen them on my farm, though a neighbor complained of them last year. As juveniles, they look quite similar to normal European earthworms, hence my brief joy. (Yes, like most of us, even our earthworms are descended from immigrants!) But when you hold them in your palm, they writhe and squirm like fifth-graders who’ve been told there is no recess (the worms that is, not the immigrants). They twitch and twist themselves into a blur of numerals—sixes, eights, sevens, and zeros. As adults, they resemble small, irritable snakes. They destroy soil. No one seems to know what to do about them yet. Research teams are researching but so far the results are not encouraging. They are an invasive species that is threatening our entire forest ecosystem (the worms that is, not the researchers). They reproduce like crazy, not much wants to eat them, and any poison that might kill them will also kill all that’s Good in this world and pollute the waterways. The suggested method of destruction is to drag them one by one to the nearest gravel pit and shoot them, which is how strong, rural women solve all their problems apparently. Just kidding. We’ve been instructed to put our hyperactive problem species into plastic bags and leave them to die in the sun. Talk about wretched things to do! As someone who finds it nauseating to harm any living thing, I’m not sure how I will manage this. I look at the trees and just feel like weeping. None of this is doing any good for the smell of my armpits or my need for emotional support cabbage.

It's May, it's May, the month of yes you may
The time for every frivolous whim, proper or im-
It's wild, it's gay, a blot in every way

The birds and bees with all of their vast amorous past
Gaze at the human race aghast.

I know how the birds and bees feel. I too gaze aghast at the human race. In my own small ways, I am responsible for my share of the chaos and destruction. But we are here to focus on Mending, Dear Ones, so here are some things that might gladden your heart:

A few weeks ago, a young woman came into the shop with a torn gown she had bought at a thrift store. It needed a lot of alterations and she needed them done by the next day so that she could compete in a beauty pageant. The dress turned out beautifully and she is now officially Miss Vermont!

Also…

The rhubarb is up in the garden. Friends are making pies and jams. The daffodils look like a silent brass section in the Orchestra of the bulbs. The peach trees are in full blossom. There is a robin nesting in the old wreath on the back door. The way the sun paints everything with gold at the end of the day takes my breath away. One by one, the stars come out and show us our place in this vast, amazing, complex, aching world. There is beauty both where we expect and least expect it. Maybe with a little rest, we can get up tomorrow and keep doing All That Needs To Be Done.

Peace, Dear Ones! I love you sew much!

Yours aye,

Nancy