It’s beautiful outside–windy and cloudy and because of that a little less infernally hot than it’s been the past few days. I’m a Florida native so I’m used to the heat, but it’s been unseasonably hot lately even for here. Steve is heading outside to mow (hopefully) before the rain comes. And then if the weather holds out he’ll grill the ribs I’ve been marinating all afternoon. How that wind is blowing right now, bending the grass right over and the palm fronds all slapping each other on the back like friends having fun. No droplets break the surface of the water, at least not yet. I hope they do later.
Judging by the stack of wood, I think the neighbors are building a new bridge over to the little island. They’ve been clearing growth from the lake’s edge and they took down the old one last week. They cleared the island, too, so I assume they’ll be wanting a way to get back over to it. Or they could just row over like the rest of us plain folk with weeds crowding our banks and docks.
I am blessed to have a very wise psychologist-to-be living in my house, and even more blessed that she is my daughter because she mixes tender daughter words with the more serious things she says to help me process what life is dishing out. I told her I don’t ever want her to feel like she has to help me with stuff, but she said she doesn’t mind. There is still so much I don’t say. I want her to live her own young, beautiful, happy life that doesn’t have to be quite so serious as mine. She will weather life better than I have. That was a parenting goal I think we met.
Thunder rumbles, and I quietly root for Steve out there pushing that mower down the bank and pulling it back up again and then making one row after another down the side of the yard. He’s pushing it faster trying to beat the rain while his yard shoes fill with bits of green. He’ll be watching closely for nearby lightning, and won’t be holding onto that metal mower bar once he sees a flash anywhere near. Lightning doesn’t play around in these parts.
I was inspired to write today by Amber Haines and her post about wording the “reglar” of life. I loved that she spelled out how she pronounces it so I can hear it in her voice. That’s how I grew up saying it during the southeast Georgia years. I miss those days, sometimes a lot. They were more innocent times. Like Amber, we had chickens, housed in a big coop. I remember gathering eggs from those silky birds and being comforted by their familiar clucking as we sat in lawn chairs and shelled purple-hulls in metal pans propped on our laps. Nothing tasted so delicious as those peas, freshly shelled and cooked with big chunks of smoked ham and seasoned with salt and pepper and sweet onion with sliced just-picked bright red tomatoes alongside.
Raindrops plop rings into what I can see of the lake out the window, and I still hear the mower running till that man of mine thinks he should quit. I’m guessing he’s enjoying the coolness on his back, a welcome reprieve from the heat of summer. I’m off to make him a glass of sweet tea because I promised.