I caught the full moon on my way back from a fun hour at the Martha Stewart Living offices, doing a Sirius radio show with Kevin Sharkey and Stephen Orr--in honor of their March garden issue. In defiance of all good horticultural hygiene, I refused to put my garden down last winter; I was just too tired and lazy, and instead I let it fall into desuetude. Naturally I had to write about all the fascinatingly gross beauty that resulted--Martha Stewart Living published the essay in their March issue. And, naturally, I have a huge spring cleaning on my hands. On my way down to the beautiful MSL offices, I lingered along the High Line and admired the crocuses. More on those soon enough.

We had a great time on the show (Kevin is screamingly funny and even though he had done a nice piece in the same issue on arranging vases full of forsythia, which he had tortured into hedges for his living room, he loathes the color yellow. His callers, however, seem to go for yellow, and, in caller/torture fashion, wanted his advice on exactly how to mix various shades of yellow.) We got a great phone call from none other than Martha Stewart--"a very special caller" says Kevin--who announced that her daughter had had a second child, a son named Truman. Terrific name. BRAVO! We talked about what kind of world are we leaving behind for our children--and their children? And how important it is to try to make things just a little bit better for the beloveds. Cue up Moms Clean Air Force. (Well of course I am obsessed. How do you think anything gets done without obsession?)

All this talk of small children was on my mind as I walked back uptown (I'm trying to walk everywhere, in Walt Whitman mode these days. But he must have had better shoes than I do. Still.) I chose 11th Avenue, because I never walk there--why would anyone? And then I saw why. There below me lay sprawled all the sleeping trains in their yard, which reminded me of how I used to read about Thomas the Tank Engine to my two small tow heads, and how lovely it is to see where trains sleep at night. So I took a picture of sleeping trains for the boys. I must go visit them again. The trains, that is. And the boys, too. Er...young men. The guys.

Then I noticed that the moon was full; that seemed propitious (of what I do not know but no matter, if we do not use our vocabulary, it, too, goes the way of Tank Engines.) It took me a few blocks to realize that I was actually looking at the moon, because it kept being eclipsed by streetlights and headlights and such. But yes. Full. And leave it to Manhattan to be full of surprises. By the time I spotted the billboard, with the full moon under the pillows, I, too, was ready to park myself for the evening. Even my phone battery collapsed with exhaustion.  Enough excitement for one day: And so, to bed. 

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