The weather is entering a stretch of coolness--a sunny high of 60 today, then highs in the 50s over the three-day weekend, with rain forecast for each. But Valerie and I have decided we don't care about drizzle and chill: we're still going on our Saturday outing to the lilac festival. I don't even know where it is, and I don't care; I'm just looking forward to sitting in the passenger seat and leaving town for a few hours.
Today, after my exercise class, I'll finish up an editing chapter, and then do the grocery shopping and probably some outside chores--weeding and such--before the rains kick in tonight. I don't know what day the boys will choose for their canoe trip this weekend, but Sunday and Monday look drier than Saturday--which means I'll probably have a day alone to write an essay and sort through some Frost Place obligations. I hope so: I could use a thinking day.
Outside, the peonies are beginning to bloom; my lemony Harmony irises are opening; a squirrel massacred a perfect broccoli seedling. Inside, I'm reading the Odyssey and, for a break, rereading Hilary Spurling's biography of Ivy Compton-Burnett . . . probably just her childhood years, as I always find myself particularly interested in those moments before one decides to become something. And her before-years are gothic.