It is too hot to write creatively.
It is much too hot for constructive thought or rational views of life.
The vines of the garden lie limp and faded.
J. has covered some of the tomato plants with old white curtains which I unearthed.
Some of the tomato varieties have a very open foliage habit and the exposed tomatoes are scalding before they can ripen.
The cats are alternately quarrelsome and lethargic, sprawling and stretching, snarling and snipping when their space is infringed upon.
I have made more pickles, rising before 7 this morning to start the brew of vinegar, sugar and spices simmering on the range.
I have finally gone to the tiny local post office to mail CD's.
I didn't mind waiting while the clerk, new to her job, fussed over the scales and the postal charts.
The PO is air-conditioned.
I delivered more surplus cucumbers to the Amish lady who keeps a bulk foods store in one large room of her house. The Yoder's garden isn't flourishing and pickles are a staple on Amish tables.
We are happy to share the cucumbers.
I have been to the library [also air-conditioned] and to Wal Mart--the shopping place we love to hate.
I have spent a frustrating hour scanning documents from the closing on our property in Wyoming to [hopefully] prove to the electric company there that our residence in that state terminated in February!
A rather desultory day of heat and fuzzy brain.
J. has gone out to water the languishing garden.
It is meant to be 10 degrees cooler tomorrow.
We can only hope!