It's so hot I had to draw the Fat Chick in the shade, at night, with the bareest minimum of highlights. It's so hot the neighbor's dalmatian's spots melted. She looks like Bonnie now. http://doodlemum.com. I subscribe to Doodlemum's daily dose of humor. It adds a bright spot. Ha, ha! Pun intended!
It's so hot, a lone sunflower might have enough food to feed the end of summer grackle migration! The seeds ripen in no time at all. Too bad the greedy birds complete their harvest before I have to roll up my sleeves. Wait a minute. That's a plus!
I'm loving the sun despite the staggering temps. It's so hot, I swear I feel it soothing my bones. Languor is a state of being lately. Siestas make so much sense. Iced water and at least two Klean Kanteens are must-have items, right up there with daily bread. Water from sprinklers dry up like Sethe's milk. Fruit ripens in minutes. Heat sickness creeps up on a body like a thief under cover. It caught me unaware twice! Sweat dries up faster than alcohol on fevered skin in the middle of a sponge bath.
I don't know if it's the heat or the wind that makes the jasmine give up its heady scent, but I sure do enjoy it. Nothing else smells so good. The lavender seeds never reproduced, or perhaps I mistook them for weeds and unwittingly aborted them. I still get a kick to the brain from Kerry's sachet. Mmm. Who needs manmade mood elevators, huh? I might try growing them in clay pots nest time.
It's so-o-o hot, the Fat Chick's tum looks like a scorching sun.
It's too hot to touch clear wrap! I enjoy writing and drawing with this dynamic implement. It's a good thing I bought two. It has just enough drag to make control a breeze. No slipping-skidding-skipping with this. I do wish the cap fit the end too though. Here's hoping you'll try one. Or three. I prefer the winner point; the medium's not shabby at all; the brush is fun and the least used.
P.O. Box 6943's rental agreement has been renewed. I'll be bugging some of you for at least six more months. It's too hot for ail this week.
So, another envelope in the mail bag makes an even dozen. I'm hoping for a baker's dozen before I sleep this night. Another roll of mailing tape was necessary. I've no idea what ultra clear means . . . I mean, how clear can it get?
Twelve easy pieces. The news will be old by the time you get it. This might be the last some of you will hear of me, from me, and about me. Some mail makes me ill. Reading it on the patio doesn't help, so . . .
Another journal is full. IL Papiro used to be skimmed cream for me. These days it's gone the way of many affordable luxury items: Less for more. The Scrabble tile is a gift from Erin. She bought it from a friend's Easy store. A lovely red I1 is on the other side. I've written about some of you on a number of the pages tucked between this cow hide cover. You've enriched my life immeasurably, so, thank you.
The 4th was just another day here. At least one home was destroyed because of careless celebrants. Horrible injuries were reported. Fireworks are as dangerous as . . .
. . . a bluejay lighting a grill.
I'm currently co-reading this. My aunt, Annie, is a victim of Alzheimer's.
We talk almost everyday lately, sometimes as often as four times a day. She forgets she's called. Aunty was missing for almost seven days last week. It's a sad story. She's a widow. She has no children. She's a retired RN. Her IQ always put her on top, so the idea that highly educated people are immune to the disease/illness is a myth.
This photo bothers me. I'm embarrassed by the image. The look on B.'s face makes me uncomfortable. It's too personal. She's vulnerable. So very vulnerable we should not be allowed to look. Dan looks too detached. Her arms are wrapped around him in an obviously loving embrace; his one arm is . . . His touch is the same as the one you'd give a co-worker in a group photo.
I don't want B. to forget! Wait. Selfish me. What if there's a gift in the forgetting? Shouldn't I want good things for her? I mean, how do we know what people with Alzheimer's are remembering and just aren't sharing with us? What if they're really living by being in the moment, unmarred by a past and future??? Part of me knows that's a bucket full of manure, but it doesn't keep me from praying for an upside to this illness that cannot be cured.
On another hand, not the other hand--Alzheimer's is its own kind of independence day. There's a cruel sort irony in that. Day after days of independence from just about everything and everyone, while being totally dependent on others is a messed up sort of holiday. Surely there's a benefit in there somewhere?
The Fat Chick without highlights is simply another flat, star spangled day. The stars at night are so big and bright we have to use a parasol. That's just how hot it is. And, like my grandpa used to say, "People in hell want ice water, too." Hope yours was a coolish 4th, 5th, 6th . . .