Palm Sunday

Bless me, it's a week 'til Easter. Anniversaries abound, such as births and deaths: 1999, mother dies April - - 1918, father born -- the list goes on. Old friend Brent Jensen, of Cockette fame and then some, died 1989 on Wednesday before Easter, making that what? - Holy Wednesday? Holy Thursday we know - the following Friday, though, is called Good Friday, even with the images of a tortured redeemer at Golgotha, giving up the ghost - and then we come to Holy Saturday. It all sounds very Batman-ish, which could help explain some of the dressiness of the faith in charge of the festivities.
As kids, we always got the new drag for this one, and a new chapeau was always picked out and sent off to Nova Scotia to the Grannies. Millinery is a lost word like haberdasheries. Raiment. Sartorial splendour.
Shoes saved for best-dressed occasions.
Ah, Spring - Ferdinand the Bull goes all weak in the knees over the whole of it. Walking down from a far-off parking space this morning (love weekends for parking here - NO - the AT Center down at the end of my block must have some sort of major shindig for 12 Stepping on this holy of holy days every Sunday; it's been a constant since day one here... but I digress) - a couple of doors down is a garden hanging tight on the slope of a yard. Florabunda, baby. Lilies, roses, a flowering tree in full bloom - take me back to the Public Garden in downtown Boston when it does this same trick for the season. Yup, Ferdinand the Bull tip-toeing through the tulips: That's me. Can't get enough of this aspect of rebirth and all that.
Meanwhile, back in Jerusalem.... No. I am in the City of Angels - or should I be more correct and say the City of our Lady of the Angels. By the banks of the mighty Los Angeles River once was Mother Cabrini - why am I here/there? Just had to pass on this glimmer of knowing that she had a hold here long before becoming a known elsewhere, to say nothing of having a notorious association with the eponymous Cabrini Green of Chicago. Okay, where goest thou with this, Pilgrim? I have no clue.
Had a nice chat with Virginia McDowall - we had said that line as to suffering fools gladly, and I looked to find the origins of this Oscar Wildean sort of retort - but, NO, it is from II Corintheans, 11:19 - Paul. You go, Girl... no one need suffer a fool ever.
Ms. McD thinks she is ripe for being returned to the Motion Picture home out there in the hills, Woodland Hills. I hope she gets her wish.
I hope I get my wish too. "I wish Cotton was a monkey....." Calgon, take me away, but not too far away. I like the view from here.
As Jesus said to Peter after relentlessly trying to get him to come closer to the cross: "I can see your house from up here!"
It'll sound that much funnier in Hell.