My Hanging Basket Of Flowers. Oh yeah, I know you love it.
Oh heck... what to write? I am acclimating myself to summer temperatures. On Palmer we experienced cool breezes all summer and when it actually was too hot we could go to the lower sanctum to find refuge in the coolness of the bedrock. Yup. It was like that. That plus 99.5% shade. You had to work to find a direct beam of sunlight. My skin is gently weeping now... all that natural sun protection gone. I will start looking old soon. Soon I will wrinkle like the grape as she shrivels in the midday heat.
No. Seriously. I prefer winter. I do! I know what to do in the winter. Make fires. Shovel snow. Keep warm. Those are the basics. In the summer I am like a cat on a hot tin roof, as the saying goes. It's too hot to stay anywhere for too long. Oh. Whatever. Listen to me complain. My mom will read this and think I am unhappy.
(Mom? This stuff is just writing... don't worry. I love you. I love it here. I am happy. We are happy. Stop reading my blog! Save yourself!)
Ian and I went for a walk in the snow at midnight last winter ( our kids were at their aunt's house). It was divinely beautiful. All this hot sunshine just makes everything seem somewhat surreal. It's a dream world. It's not real like the silver lights of winter are real. No. But the flowers are pretty. For sure.
So, about today? What else could I do but jump in the car when Ian wanted to go to the library. I am glad I went. I am well equipped to begin my summer reading... Four novels: Elle, 16 Categories of Desire--both written by Douglas Glover. Next up it's Helen of Troy (supposedly a great summer read but so much more than that) written by Margaret George (we'll see if it is actually more than a great summer read) and last but never least I snatched a copy of The Story of Heathcliff's Journey Back to Wuthering Heights by Lin Haire-Sargeant. Who could resist this one? It's been a burning question within myself to know just exactly what happened to the tragic character Heathcliff during those years of absence and exile... am I right ladies? Of course I am.
Off I go. The literary hiatus begins now.