Samuel Beckett’s Waiting for Godot was required reading during my college days. It’s summarized as an absurdest play, with two men waiting in vain for the arrival of someone named Godot. Interpretations of the play vary widely.
I’m waiting for the gourds to turn brown. How’s that for absurd? I waited months for the birdhouse gourds to turn green. Now I’ll wait even longer for them to turn brown.
My wait isn’t political, psychological, Freudian or existential. It’s craft-based. I’m waiting for the gourds to turn brown so I can carve them into birdhouses.
I’ve bundled them up to keep them warm and dry. I give them a spin now and again to be sure they’re drying evenly. Today I wrapped them in scarves and set them on a chair where they sit mocking me. They seem determined to remain ever-green.
Waiting for Godot is “a tragicomedy in two acts.” Waiting for the gourds is just silly.