This one needs a bit of prefatory info. The mobile mansion is now shrouded in the lovely arms of a prodigiously fruited apple tree we misguidedly saved from a Caltrans execution many years ago. It was little then, enormous now, and splendidly entwined with the healthy tendrils of a fruitless kiwi vine.
For years Aldo and Me have been bombarded by the tree, it’s magnificent fruit bombs startling us like sailors in the belly of a submarine under assault with depth charges. But now Aldo is so accustomed to the strange Arcadian Rhythms (Zydeco,,,no) that he sleeps while I twitch alone. Hey that would be a good title for my autobiography.