Friday, early

To shock the daylights out of anyone and everyone, I am writing this while the sun is still settling into its afternoon trek against the western sky. (Regan, over in Denmark, in her comment to yesterday's post, asked for more frequent Ocean notes and though she probably wasn't entirely serious, I'd do a lot to make Regan's day brighter, so there you have it.)

And frankly, the clock has no great value for me anymore.

We live by Isis time.

Okay, so he (the cat) has been a tad under the weather lately (for example: standing up on our bed in the middle of the night and letting out a howl that means only one thing: I'm about to throw up. And then he does. And it's like having babies: we're cleaning up dirty linens in the middle of the night). Regardless. His summer schedule is for the birds.

He settles down, or goes out, or stays in but then asks to go out and so the clock moves forward, even as we are arrested in some state of perpetual uncertainty -- will he settle down? Will he go down to the sheep shed and stay there?

When I do not have to go in to my office the next day, of course, none of this really matters. We adjust. House cleaning, for example, was at 5:30 this morning.

(After, we do our morning inspection of the farmette. Of the flowers and today, of the tomatoes, too. And if you think the tomatoes look a little wild -- well yes, I admit it. Somehow the orderly rows disappear on us after the plants grow to their adult size.)











But breakfast is, as always, around 9 and on the porch and absolutely wonderful on this pretty pretty July morning. (As I run in to pick up more foods, I glance out at the porch through the kitchen window: there's a slice of heaven out there, that's for sure.)






I work then. On the porch, reading law materials, mulling over life and law and law and life and the hours pass.

View to the front of me:





View to the side:



 


And when the sun comes out good and strong and I completely ignore the sage advice of not watering during the hot afternoon (you waste 25% of what you throw on the ground) because these days it is the ONLY time we can stand for hours on end and not be eaten alive by mosquitoes. (They do not like sunny afternoons.)

So I water and I think about how much satisfaction I get from giving plants water. I imagine their little hands reaching out, just to get touched by a cool stream of water and I want to get every last finger (root) of theirs wet and so I stand there for a long long time, moving slowly from one plant to the next (and yes, we have hundreds) and if you want to tell me to put down a soaker hose instead, I'll nod and say -- I know I know, but where is the pleasure in putting down a soaker house when you can, instead, stand and send streams of water to thirsty plants?


Tonight, Diane, my friend from up north (and west) is driving down for the weekend and Barbara, my friend from down south (and west) is also in town for the weekend and we will have the rare pleasure of all three being in one place at the same time. For three evenings in a row.

But in the meantime, I'm on the porch and the flowers are there for me to admire and the swallows are darting after the bugs (thank you!) and life is very fine, for those reasons alone and for so many other. Even if I know that for you, Regan, it could be just a touch better than it is right now.