It is August 2. It has been over 90 degrees here almost every day since early June. Usually, the awful heat doesn’t begin until July. We got one good rain storm in July. I bet we’ll get just one in August. Then nothing until the vernal equinox… more than six long weeks away.
Sparks and I are both dreaming about the Pacific Northwest. I added a Portland weather gadget to iGoogle, and it tells me that right now, in the early Portland morning, it is 60 degrees. The daily high will top out somewhere in the upper 70s. Gak. I die.
I’ve fallen into dreams about living there. I imagine a little two-storey cottage in the suburbs, with a little fenced-in yard. We don’t have to worry about rabbits or deer. We don’t have to worry about plants collapsing from heat or lack of water. Maintenance is a snap. I fill the fenced-in yard with pink and white flowers: hydrangeas, hostas, peonies, geraniums, foxglove, and climbing roses. We have teak adirondack chairs and a bench swing, weathered gray and starting to grow lichen. We have a wet stone walkway. And inside the house, there is lots of dark wood, lots of glass, lots of peacock blue and poison green. There are terrariums and Haekel prints. There is mercury glass and paperweights. It’s a small house.
Sparks makes a living from his tube amp hobby. I make lovingly crafted stationery with my vintage letterpress and paper marbling setup.
I wear tweed skirts and blouses and sweater cardigans every day. I wear czech glass jewelry. I wear retro pumps and ride my bicycle. It’s never too, too hot or too, too cold.