When we were in Adelboden last August, one night Dan and I were curled up in front of the television when English broadcasting interrupted my usual: "blahblahblahIdon'tknowwhatthey'resayingblahblahbl--WAIT! I JUST UNDERSTOOD THAT! I CAN UNDERSTAND GERMAN!"
But it was British broadcasting none the less, and I refused to let Dan change the channel. As a result, we watched (oh, it was thrilling!) a bunch of stuffy old linguists sitting around a table, complaining about the wretched deterioration of the English language, and how their ears bleed every time they turn on the television or talk to their grandchildren.
Believe me, no one was more surprised than me when I heard this. Grandchildren? You mean women actually procreated with these crusty old buggers, once upon a time?
Anyhow, they were all very formal, they were obviously well-spoken, and they were very angry with how people cannot tell when it is appropriate to use 'who' or 'whom'. Well old boys, I hate to do this to you but I'm about to make your eyes bleed too, if you read the following words:
Can you guys, like, believe how awesome nature is? Doesn't it sorta blow your mind, if you really stop to think about it? Like, whoa.... Or am I supposed to say 'Like, whom...?'
Grammar stutters aside, I am really earnest in the fact that sometimes when I stop and *really* ponder something ordinary, my brain totally explodes in admiration and awe for the natural world. Okay, so I know you're all wondering what I crumbled into my Cheerios this morning, and the answer is 'nothing!' I am naturally just this spaced out.
It's a gift.
And the latest natural wonder I have been pondering are the Catkins on the Goat Willow just by our house.
The Goat Willow Catkins?
Oh sorry, let me introduce you properly. Internet, have you met Mr. Willow, first name Goat? These are his Catkins.
Aren't they a precious family?
When I was in elementary school, my friends and I used to cut bouquets of pussy willows for our teachers, and I always used to rip a few silky buds off the branches and keep them in my pocket to rub between my fingers until they disintegrated into wispy nothingness.
I was going for a walk the other day when I spied this willow that was just full of fuzzy little catkins, and seeing them made me feel horribly nostalgic. I reached across the fence to feel their familiar softness, and I wanted to cut a bouquet of them and bring them home as the tree didn't look like it belonged to someone, even if it was behind a fence.
But then I considered that since I'm in Switzerland, some botanical police force (otherwise known as an elderly citizen who has no problem speaking their mind) would jump out of nowhere and give me a verbal bitch slapping. Then I would have to confound that person and be all, "Who me? Whom you? Who dat? Whom what?' as I ran away from the situation, likely never to be allowed near the vicinity of the tree again.
So I took pictures instead.