hot, continued

Well, you can’t have it both ways. A good writing day over there means a lousy one over here. It’s the kind of day where you have room for only one (if that) explosion of stardust.

Blame it on the weather. The summer heat. As a gardener, I’m not prepared. I haven’t planted for this. I planted for northern Midwest spring and summer. My nasturtium, revived last week, now look like it wants to bail out on me again. The potted plants are wilting even as I refuse to water them until the sun sinks below the tree line.

 

And we’re fighting the beetles. And moving around wasp nests. The usual stuff, but all done in temps that even have me liking air conditioning and that’s saying a lot.

Across the road, the farmers' fields stand silent. There's little activity in these very doggy days of summer.

Today I actually speak wistfully about winter. The easy season for us. No garden to hover over. No bugs to chase away. No hours with the hose. A mouse every now and then – caught, sent to another field. Nothing more than that.

Ah, greener pastures.

We do bike to Paul’s café but only after a period of couch sitting and deliberating – should we, should we not... And we play tennis on the way back, but I don’t run after missed balls. 

In the evening I water flowers.  For a long time. Ed picks tomatoes.