I have officially hauled recycling to a whole new level.
Both my composters are full, so when I finished gardening on Thursday I took the weeds to the one at the municipal yard. As I heaved basketsful of dead grass and dandelions onto the room-size heap of greenery, I noticed a smell. No, a fragrance. I sniffed again. I looked down.
I was standing in front of hip-high piles of lavender.
I have always fondly imagined that when our town gardeners deadhead the lavender shrubs in our boulevards and parks, they take the clippings home and dry them, filling bowls with soothing potpourri and closets with bags of fragrant dried blossoms.
I was wrong.
It was all here on the communal compost pile, so freshly cut it hadn’t even begun to wilt.
The lavender was the third thing. You know how something piques your attention and then there are two more examples of it? Well, the chain began last weekend when I saw an article about books by Emily Cotler in the Huffington Post in which she said, “…I am not saying that popularity equates to good, quality reading. Sometimes the books that do well are not all that worthwhile.…” and I wondered what exactly did make a book – or anything else – worthwhile. I ran with the idea for a while but, just like when I jog at the gym, got exactly nowhere.
Then I had lunch with a bunch of writers.
“I loved the old Bond movies,” said one woman when we reached the cake-and-Nanaimo bar stage.
“I prefer the new ones,” I said, sipping my coffee.
“Waste of time.” She waved her fork dismissively. “None of those fabulous gadgets like the old ones had.”
“That’s what makes them better!” I cried, setting down my cup. “There’s an actual story.”
“And that chase scene near the beginning of Casino Royale?” said someone else.
“Yes!” I jumped in, ready to extol its virtues: fast, twisty, breathtaking and a perfect illustration of the new Bond’s bulldozer personality. “Wasn’t it wonderful?”
She looked at me like I was speaking in tongues. “It was pointless,” she explained.
Others around the table agreed. They prefer the earlier 007 movies, complete with outrageous escapades, over-the-top spy tools and Bonds as slick as condoms.
Casino Royale, on the other hand, has a story arc. Bond is affected by events and every scene in the movie drives the change in him. To half a dozen of my friends, it isn’t worth watching again. To me, it is.
So on Friday evening I hit the video store, and my husband and I settled in the living room. As the rented DVD spun the fabulous red and black graphics and then the noir opening onto the screen, I happily slouched further into my favourite chair. When Daniel Craig’s gimlet gaze skewered the bad guy, I gasped and got a full-body hit of…lavender.
I have basketsful of the stuff drying in the next room.