guilt

Warm again. I don’t even look outside to check on the day. Hot and dry. It’s the way it is each day.

For us, it isn’t terrible. Yes, we’re losing some of our plantings, yes, it’s uncomfortable at midday. But it’s summer -- a time for bare feet and sprays of water from the hose. And we share that water with those who are tickled and thrilled by our random fountains. Not Isis, but birds, for example. They chase drops of water and forget for a while that we are the ones throwing it at them.

It is midday. I set out to trim Ed’s beard. We put an old wooden chair out front and I reach for the cutter. I've never done this before. Ed cowers...

...but I have that immigrant’s confidence and go right at it. I mean, is it that much different than shaving your legs?

So here he is, after the trim.

 

We engage in our own singularly guilty pleasures of working, writing, working, watering. And honestly, quite suddenly,  there's very little left of the day.

Thunder rumbles, not too far off, and yet for once, I haven't any concerns. Come on, bring that storm right over! I'll stand outside and welcome it every step of the way! But it passes us by. Spotty, worthless storms that dump no water on the fields.

And yet, for us, it is, in so many ways, a beautiful day.

You want take out Chinese for dinner?
Sure.

It seems right. Put down the hose, head over to pick up steamed this, stir-fried that.  I ask Ed to pull up when the sun seems to take one last sweep before hiding behind a cloud.

Day's over. Things I could have done? The list is long. Does it matter? No, not at all.