So now it's Saturday, and I'm packing. Well, actually I'm writing this, eating bacon, and looking out at my garden which is being moved today. I'm taking a load of plants and breakable objects up to the new house. As my dad pointed out, it's foolish to let movers move your most precious objects. I'd cry my eyes out if they broke my ceramic village-and-moon candle cover I bought in a tiny shop in Quito, the set of wheat sheaf teacups I discovered in a barn in Limoges, or either of my two Primitive Art cow plates purchased for me by John. They can share the back seat with the euphorbia, the freesias, and the burgeoning astilbe.

I picked some of the freesia, and they're filling the house with a strong, spicy fragrance. Happily, John doesn't object. He is not fond of floral scents, but freesias don't set off his perfume alarm, apparently. I think they're a little intense, myself.

Baseball season is here at last. Opening day has come and gone at the new PacBell stadium in San Francisco. Everyone was urged to ride Caltrain rather than driving since there's almost no parking available. Everyone did, to the detriment of train service. One conductor was suspended for making disparaging remarks about Caltrain management, then reinstated when people protested that he was just trying to keep tempers from flaring. I got to ride home with the subdued crowd who witnessed the Dodgers trash the Giants on Wednesday. They seemed happy even if we didn't win. Meanwhile, the head of Caltrain has been demoted to Waste Management, and a former Chicago Transit Authority chap has been lined up to get the train system functioning. Since I take the train to work daily, I applaud the decision to finally hire someone with transit experience, rather than the political appointees who have previously been in charge.

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