Finally! Several Days With No Rain!

There were quiet showers in the small hours of Sunday morning. I woke, turned on my pillow toward the open curtains of the west window, to a solid wall of white fog beyond the glass. The tree tops at the lower edge of the sloping meadow were veiled, obliterated. 

Dislodging slumberous cats, I clambered out of bed, padded around to close the window against the heavy damp. The digital weather reader on the living room wall gave the outside temperature at 70 F. with a humidity count of 96 per cent.

Glancing through the window onto the east porch I could see the hummingbird feeders were empty. With Rosie-cat at my heels I went out to collect them and discovered a female hummer beating against the inside of the screen. 

During our first two summers in this newly built house the porches were open. Hummingbirds sometimes darted in past the feeders hanging from the deep eaves of the porch. When the area was later screened, we cut a slit high up in the screen so I could reach the feeders. Over time the cut edges of the screen have rolled back and at least once a season a hummer flits through. The length of cheesecloth pinned along the opening in early summer was now tattered and no longer a deterrent to an unwitting tiny bird.

We've learned that a bird trapped inside the porch is only able to fly upwards toward the ceiling. 

Jim made a few futile swipes with cupped hands, then directed me to fetch his cap. 

With the hummingbird gently corralled by his cap he could scoop her up and toss her through the slit in the screen, none the worse for an adventure.

I hastily pulled a gridded plastic liner from a kitchen drawer; With that fastened over the slit we hope the hummers will stay on their side of the screen.

It was a day of fitful sunshine--but it didn't rain!

I wallowed about in the damp garden picking green beans, muttering grievances at the devastation wrought by by the invasion of Mexican bean beetles. I smash the greasy yellow larvae on the leaves, scrape off the clusters of tiny orange eggs each time I pick beans, but the infestation this season is bad.

Jim brought in melons and corn, went back out to dig potatoes, a muddy task accomplished over three mornings this week. The potatoes are smaller than other years, but the tops were long down and with the ground so wet it was time to lift them.

As the temperatures climb toward 90 F. by mid-mornings, we come inside to clean up and eat the first meal of the day at nearly noon.

Stepping outside for any chore is to be clobbered with a steamy blanket of humidity and heat.

We eagerly anticipate summer and gardens--by late July we are 'over it!'

My sunflowers were in regal full bloom when the storms belted through.

The tallest stalks went down, roots heaved from the soil.

In several of the black bins fat white mushrooms have colonized.

To close with a cheerful note: sheets and summer bedspreads laundered and pegged on the back porch lines! Humidity is such that the linens needed 15 minutes in the dryer to finish, still, folded and piled on closet shelves the sheets retain that scent of outdoors.

 

End of July: Chaos in the Garden

I began this post on July 31st, thinking to do a wrap of weather and projects. 

Photos refused to load from my Canon camera to desktop PC in spite of several attempts. I did manage to load them onto my recently purchased and set up Dell laptop  and from there onto a blog draft, although not in the order that I selected.

Being rather persistent [even without a clear idea of what I'm attempting] I made a late evening repeat of plugging the camera into the PC--photos loaded but with a different format which seemed to indicate that 'Microsoft' had updated/installed a change. Not that I authorized such a thing! When something works, why must it be continually tweaked?  

Not surprisingly, July was hot and humid--a blend of weather that leaves me less than energized. The rather unusual factor this year was frequent rain; 

The past two weeks have featured brief but tempestuous T-storms with bouts of gusty wind and pummeling rain. 

We lost internet and land-line for a day due to storms, and there have been frequent power blips which result in going through the rooms to reset digital clocks.

Jim departed on the 22nd for a week with his twin brother in Wyoming, returning on the 30th--retrieving his pickup at M and G's in time to drive home through a downpour.

I set myself a perhaps unrealistic roster of 'things to do' while I wasn't tied to regular meal prep.

Out of bed between 6 and 7 each morning to begin the routine tending of the cats, some minimal cleaning and tidying, refilling the hummingbird feeders.

My indulgence was enjoying Kate of The Last Homely House [you tube] while sipping a half cup of cream-laced coffee or a mug of tea sweetened with honey. 

One of the tasks tackled while on my own was cutting back achillea and the New England asters which have taken over the raised bed along the east wall of the house. These plants haven't been a good fit for that area as they grow too tall and then lean over the edge of the bed, dropping seeds which sprout between the bricks of the walkway. I pruned and weeded, pried up dandelions and other pestiferous things that have overtaken the graveled area near the steps.

The humidity was punishing even with an overcast sky.

A cloudburst drove me inside before I could cart off my pile of weeds.

The cleared walkway, rain-drenched. 

Everything in this raised bed needs to be cleared out: the blackberry lilies, asters, blue prairie flax,, all raised from seed, the achilleas purchased at my favorite nursery. 

Zinnias in the tubs are this year's seedlings, some started in my little greenhouse; others self-sown into the  gravel walkway were carefully pried up and tucked into pots and tubs.

A few seedlings of coneflower hastily stuck into the south-east retaining wall strip have multiplied thuggishly. 

Red-orange seems to be the prevailing color for the zinnias.

Signet marigolds, my preference for their ferny foliage and dainty blooms, didn't germinate this year either from saved seed or from the remainder in last season's packet. 

These French marigolds were rescued from the Wal Mart garden center and coaxed back to health.

A stalk of Joe Pye Weed sprang up at the edge of the fire-damaged hybrid magnolia that still stands near the site of the former owners house [which 'mysteriously' burned to the ground two years before we bought the property.]

I first noticed this in tight bud on one of my dog-walking rounds and have delighted in marking its progress.

I feel over-whelmed by the garden. Jim has valiantly tilled, strung electric fence around his sweet corn. I have battled the horrid yellow larvae of the Mexican bean beetles, bent over rain-pummeled plants to pick the beans. The earlier crop, maturing before we had frequent rain, were lacking in tenderness.

While Jim was away, racoons spent a night feasting on sweet corn--strangely, only the one night.

I wallowed about in the mud, picking corn, discovering cucumbers that had fattened beyond appeal, harvesting green peppers, Carolina Gold tomatoes.

I sorted the good veg into two containers which went with me to church to be given to those who don't have gardens.

The first sunflowers to bloom were the volunteers from last summers scattered seeds.

Goldfinches have been flitting among the heads anxious for the seeds to mature.

Dwarf sunflowers, this season's planting on the far edge of the garden, photo taken Wednesday before two more storms swept through. 

Most of the sunflowers have been toppled, uprooted or the stalks broken.

I've picked beans from the second planting, my third planting struggles in the mud.

Tomatoes and cucumbers must be rescued from wet ground, melons brought in before various 'bugs' can drill into them.

Jim has revived the electric fence, taken over the corn harvest.

I've canned salvaged green beans and tomatoes--feeling that the yield was scarcely worth the labor.

My real accomplishments for July were projects other than gardening.

There's been a power blip as I typed this. 

It hasn't stormed since mid-morning, but there has been so much wind and rain recently that water-logged branches fall on power lines--at least that's what we are telling ourselves.

Its been a strange month!

What will August bring?

 

If A Tree Falls......

"If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" is a philosophical thought experiment that raises questions regarding observation and perception. [Wikipedia]

A few minutes past 8 A.M. and the sun peering over the hedgerow trees of the eastern boundary, already spilling heat onto the front porch steps. Son Howard has delivered his three dogs into my keeping for the day, collected J. and they are off to a carpentry job in the next county.

The dogs often accompany H. to work, waiting in the back seat of his truck for the breaks when they are let out to run, do their business, have a drink.

Mid-summer weather is too hot for that, so the dogs stay with me during the men's work hours.

I take them out about every hour and a half, trudging around the lower meadow with them, up the lane, back across the meadow.

Dixie, the middle-aged Aussie-mix bumbles slowly along behind me--unless she spots a squirrel at the edge of the north ravine, when she forgets her old lady status.

Mudgie, the lovely Great Burnese, alternately gambols ponderously through the grass or goes on an intense round of sniffing out unmentionable tidbits I'd rather she didn't ingest.

Smallest and youngest of the trio is Boo-Bear, less than a year old, a rescue shelter adoptee.

Intoxicated by the great outdoors, Boo doesn't always turn around when called, so she is usually on a retractable lead, for her safety and my peace of mind.

We walked this morning through heavy dew. The dogs headed for a hickory at the tree line where the ground begins to slope into the depth of the north ravine. Last week they noticed a squirrel there, yapped hysterically at it until it disappeared up the tree. There's always the chance it might reappear to entertain them.

We trailed down the slope of the meadow, giving the dogs opportunity to accomplish necessary deposits on a line that I can later avoid.

Past the small barn we call the 'snake shed,' no snakes in sight nor the painted turtle whose presence sometimes brings me to a quick halt, one booted foot suspended in avoidance.

The shade is still deep here, the grass wet. Here and there a clump of purple violets rises undaunted by mowing, the first heads of Joe Pye weed thrust up against a fire-seared hybrid magnolia. 

Dixie-dog is resting under the hickory that supposedly houses the fox squirrel; Mudgie sniffs at the base of every tree and shrub. Boo-Bear is at the extent of her lead, delicate ears flattened straight back, nearly touching her pink collar.

The laboring growl of a chainsaw throbs from another ridge, the sound rolling through the convolutions of hills and hollers, background to the more subtle swish of my booted feet, the rustle of leaves.

The sun has moved high enough to beam a shimmer of light down the meadow, sending fingers of warmth into the shaded rise of ground that rims the south ravine. Sunlight catches the fine threads of three spiders' webs delicately suspended from the low hanging branch of a maple. The webs drift, trembling in the breeze, floating in and out of focus. 

Boo-Bear steps forward on dainty paws brushing against an invisible anchoring thread and the nearest spider web disappears. 

Skirting the remaining two sticky orbs we start back up the slope toward the back of the house. 

The whine of the chainsaw is cut off; for a second the air throbs with fresh stillness, then comes the wrenching creak of a tree losing its final attachment to the stump from which it has grown. 

Did I really feel a faint tremor run through the ground--or did I merely imagine it as the tree slammed into the ground with a reverberating crash, followed by the rustle of settling branches and twigs ?

Boo-Bear scuttled to my side, flinging herself onto my booted feet, leaning her slender bones against my legs. 

I stood in the quiet meadow, young dog quivering beside me until the sound of the chainsaw again hummed through the summer morning and I could envision a man clambering among the branches of the fallen tree, beginning the process of 'limbing.'

I recalled, in the way of memory unexpectedly jogged, the long ago tenure of a student teacher at our small town high school. He was likely only 20 or 21 years old, almost ready to graduate from the nearby college which had been churning out teachers for decades.

He seemed almost arrogantly in charge, undaunted by a roomful of 14 and 15 year olds, taking in his stride the too obvious 'crush' of Janice, a blushing young lady known for her skill on the basketball court. 

His major was in science, so we were told, and he would be with us for several weeks presenting a unit on 'sound.'

He had brought with him stereo equipment which was state-of-the-art for its day; he spoke of sound waves, radio transmission, inventors, possibilities.

One day--perhaps the only class I really remember--he stunned us with the old question: 'if a tree falls in the forest and no one is there to hear, did it really make a sound?'

He seemed to be pushing the premise that without a human interpreter, there was no sound.

With that, I can never agree. 

My brain doesn't lean toward the intricacies of math or science, still I have seen wind moving through trees at a distance that doesn't allow me to hear the roar of its passing. 

I've watched as my cats, dogs, horses, come to attention, hearing what it will take me a few more seconds to discern. 

I can watch Willis the barn cat running toward me, his mouth opening and closing, but I can only hear his catly voice when he reaches the foot of the steps. 

I heard the crashing fall of a tree this morning, a fall planned and carried out by a man with a chainsaw. Had the tree succumbed to wind and storm, fallen at midnight with no human to declare, 'I heard a tree fall!' there would still have been a sound!

 

Boo-Bear; safely away from crashing trees, but cringing at the tiny click of the camera shutter.

 

Mowing Weather

Following an unpleasantly warm and humid weekend, July 1st dawned with a gift of ideal weather. 

62 F. at 6:30 a.m. with a delightful breeze riffling through the trees that edge the north and south ravines. .

J. and H. were off early on a mission to purchase a zero-turn lawn mower which H. had noted for sale near Hazard, KY.

This left me quite happily on my own for a few hours.

It was comfortable to putter in the little greenhouse, potting on a few cherry tomato plants and half a dozen of 'spicy globe' basil.

That done and an early 'tea' served to the cats, I headed for the South Fork discount markets for a bit of bargain shopping. 

I didn't find much that I needed; a few tubs of a disgustingly sloppy 'stew' approved by our felines, cleaning supplies--and of all things--a hand held hair dryer to replace the one which began threatening noises when used on Sunday.

I was putting away the shopping when J. and H. wheeled in, immensely pleased with their own buying expedition.

The mower was rolled off the trailer, the gas tank filled, and there followed a typical frolic of both men trying out the new purchase. 

Enthusiasm was so great that over the course of the afternoon the dooryard was cropped and then the rougher expanse of the lower back meadow and along both edges of the lane.

As J. and H. were gloating over the attributes of the lawn mower, our Beachy neighbors roared in to mow the second hay cutting on our upper meadow. 

I retreated downstairs to baste around the edges of a large quilt [by machine of course] with assistance from Rosie-cat. I cut and spliced what seemed like yards of binding but decided to leave the finish for another time.

 [Binding a queen/king quilt even with the completely machined method that currently works for an 'everyday' quilt, is a task that requires over an hour.]

Instead I walked out into the cool grass-scented dusk. Dew had already fallen and the toes of my shoes flung up damp clumps of longer cut grass as I neared the end of the lane and started around the slope at the western end of the property. 

From behind the small barn that we call the 'snake shed' the unmistakable voice of a Barred Owl queried, "Whooo cooks for yooo? Whooo cooks for yooo?"

I stood still, delightedly listening to the call and response conversation as another owl chimed in from deeper in the ravine. 

Tuesday continued blessedly cool with intermittent clouds.

Jim, still a farmer at heart, began to fret that rain would move in before the Beachys could bale the hay.

We were finishing supper on Wednesday when tractor and baler rumbled in.

Three handsome bales in their tidy nettings. One landed at the far edge of the garden just beyond my dwarf sunflowers. 

Before dark the bales had been trundled off, winter feed stored on a local Beachy farm.

A brief midnight shower has returned us to heat and high humidity. 

Roll on, July!

 

Heat; Humidity; Green Beans [On-Going!]

Jim offered to help pick the glut of green beans this morning. The garden rows were muddy from the night's rain. J. used the padded garden 'kneeler' to work down one row while I leaned from the waist to pick the adjoining row. The rain had beaten the lower stems of some plants into the mud, thus we brought in three 1 gallon buckets of wet dirty beans. 

Two cucumbers, a few tomatoes and the first harvested cabbage came in with the beans. 

My darling Rosie-cat [who has studied all phases of quilt making] is interested in the green bean harvest.

I have always had cats in residence who find green beans fascinating.

Selection made.

I wish I had a video taken a few seconds later. Rosie flipped a bean onto the floor, where it landed beside Elmo, a.k.a. 'Orange Eejit' Predictably, Elmo levitated, then skittered across the floor, fur on end, while Rosie peered over the edge of the counter as if to say, 'Chill, boy! Its only a bean!'

Each bucketful of green beans has been soaked in cool water, rinsed, spread to air dry on layers of newspaper laid atop opened out plastic bags. Ordinarily, I would top and tail the beans, then cut or break them before rinsing, but today's haul was too muddy, so 'plan B.'

Photos of cluttered kitchen counters aren't edifying, but there it is--a glimpse of reality.

I'm recalling that most of my veg/fruit canning over many decades has been accomplished in a small kitchen space. The tiny Orwell, VT kitchen with minimal counter space and a 24" propane cook stove was where hundreds of quarts of tomatoes, beans, beets, peaches and pears were processed.

The Wyoming houses all had rather high-end beautifully designed kitchens--but our attempts to garden in that high desert land didn't yield a harvest. 

The huge kitchen at our remodeled Amish farmhouse became the most ideal setting I've had for food prep or canning: ample lengths of counter tops providing work area around the sink, room to line up cooling filled jars. Produce could be brought into the large room off the kitchen which the Amish owners had used for laundry and their primitive shower arrangement, as well as for canning over a portable propane burner.  Garden dirt could be washed off in the big utility sink, before bringing the produce into the kitchen. I had both an electric cooktop and a wood-burning cookstove. The woodstove came into its own in October when applesauce simmered in my biggest kettles before being bottled and processed on whichever cooktop had room for the canners.

Can you tell that I am procrastinating? 

I sit here typing and reminiscing while an on-coming storm sets the hummingbird feeders swinging wildly on their hooks; the tiny birds are in a frenzy of feeding.

With several hours of work before me I had best get into it. I hope the electricity doesn't go out in the midst of my efforts!

 

Heat Continues

Nasturtiums are struggling in the ongoing heat--as are we humans.

Going out in late afternoon to water some of the container plants I found that the hose having been spread out in day-long sun was full of water of an uncomfortably hot temperature. I ran the water for a bit but it wasn't cooling--and we pay for county water. 

I pulled the hose into the shade of the barn wall and will try again later. 

We had welcome rain Wednesday night, a gentle soaking, not the deluge that pummels plants into the ground.

Phlox in the bin planter outside my bedroom window are fragrant. Only the one pink, the others are lavender or white. 

I discovered that the butterfly weed purchased last year and put in the rough strip by the drive has survived and bloomed although surrounded by some tough-rooted stems of red clover and encroaching grass. I wish I could create a manageable area to rehome some of my favorite plants and relegate the more invasive ones to spots where they could happily proliferate without swallowing up those that grow more slowly

'Babies' from this stunning achillea have been dug out of the grass and lodged in a big pot for growing on.

A sturdy plant of feverfew in the west garden. I started this from seed several years ago and found it to be quite invasive. As long as I keep at least one clump I should never be without it.

I planted Clary sage nearby and it didn't thrive, not putting in an appearance last season. There are two small plants of it this year. When planted in a gravely area near the side steps of the farmhouse it flourished as long as we were there, sending up new seedlings each spring. 

As a biennial it won't flower this year. If I can keep it weed free perhaps I'll again have the pleasure of the distinctive blooms.

Blackberry lilies [so named for their seed pods which resemble a ripe blackberry] are eager to drop their seeds. I stuck a few in the raised bed by the front walk and now have lilies appearing in the cracks between bricks.

One bud on the Poet's Wife. On the morning after rain I did some hasty pruning of the roses and yanked out a few weeds. An hour's work didn't begin to deal with the weed crop.

Most years I've planted a short row of zinnias in the veg garden. I've been surprised to find self-seeded plants coming up here and there after the garden has been tilled, some even popping up in the grass verge. Last year I moved some of these volunteers to the back garden where they obligingly flourished. This pretty pink one took root in a space between the stepping stones.

I had 'mini-zinnies' in pots by the steps last year and have been eyeing new starts struggling to grow in the gravel walk. I pried them up and poked the twisted little roots into an assortment of containers. I think most have settled in, so the zinnia presence will carry on.

Feathery seedlings of achillea have also been potted up.

Achillea babies.

Zinnias rescued from the gravel.

Perennials such as coneflower, monarda and New England asters which I consider as late summer plants have rushed into bloom with the early and persistent heat.

I'll be cutting them back shortly and hoping for early autumn rebloom. 

Jim has been out to check the garden [8 p.m.] and tells me an early morning session of rototilling is on for him, and another picking of green beans at the ready for me. 

I've been out to water my flowers with the now cool water from the hose.

Summer--heat--humidity--we're in for it!

 

Thrust Into Summer

From Almanac.com: "The summer solstice is the first day of summer, according to astronomy. The word solstice comes from the Latin words “sun” and “stoppage.” It makes sense: The Sun stops moving North that day. The Sun’s most direct rays reach the maximum northernmost position."

I've often pondered why the first official day of summer, leading us into the hottest months of the year in the northern hemisphere, should also mark the incremental loss of daylight. The above simplified explanation does make sense.

Weather and seasons don't strictly abide by the calendar and we've been enduring heat and drought for most of the month.

Jim waters the garden every evening, I water my flower planters near the front door. I noticed today that the rosemarys summering on the screened porch are looking stressed. I forgot to water them yesterday and hope the water and pruning I did today [Sunday] will coax them to revive.

I had in mind a rather laid back Sunday as the past week was demanding. I thought of setting up my new laptop, working on a quilt, reading.

I followed J. to the garden and discovered more than a gallon of green beans that needed picked.  He meantime picked tomatoes and cukes and created a big salad which became a very late breakfast. with home fries on the side.

Planters near the front steps dry out quickly in the morning sun. The raised bed behind the planters is home to Achillea, Russian Sage, Blackberry Lilies, New England and Prairie Asters, and Blue Sage. All the plants have leaned toward the sun, resulting in a colorful but untidy sprawl.

This rough strip along the drive is where my cherished perennials landed when we moved from the farm. Countless hours of heavy weeding, many applications of bark mulch haven't kept the strip weed-free. Monarda Raspberry Wine, daylilies in shades of yellow, orange and deep purple along with earlier foxglove and some prairie asters in shades of pink, lavender and purple--an unintentionally 'hot' blend of colors.

More Raspberry Wine monarda in the back garden--another project that hasn't progressed as I hoped.

I suspect a cat or visiting dog may have dug up this lone dwarf daylily and I impulsively rehomed it in the bin/bed outside my bedroom window. It looks a bit out of place there, but at least has room to thrive.

Phlox also in the black bin. These nursery plants were first set out in the rough strip where they were promptly swallowed by weeds. They have bloomed happily for two summers in this inelegant spot.

Nasturtiums delight me in spite of their tendency to flop and have the lower leaves turn yellow. I was not yet in my teens when I commandeered the space that had been a childhood sandbox to plant a packet of nasturtiums. My Dad assured me they wouldn't grow there--too shady--but they did. For many years at our Young Road home I grew nasturtiums in a large wooden half barrel. When frost threatened I picked as many as possible, bringing them indoors to cram into mason jars where their peppery fragrance distilled through the living area.

Jim grumbles over my sunflowers as they always fall over in late summer wind. This group sprang up after he tilled the garden and I fiercely defended their right to grow there. I have a double row of shorter varieties growing on the far edge of the garden, a space rather grudgingly allowed by J.

All winter as I trudged along the edge of the north ravine fallen hickory nuts rolled under my booted feet. I pondered how many of the thousands of nuts would germinate and push up tiny trees. It would seem that they came up by the hundreds, many directly in the meadow path, more visible as valiant sprigs where the land tips down into the shady tangle of the ravine. This area is regularly mowed so I doubt any of the fledgling trees can survive. It is interesting how quickly the fallen nuts shed their hard casings and responded to spring's warmth and moisture.

I don't spend a great deal of time outdoors during weather such as our recent heat wave, hurrying out with kitchen trimmings or to get into the car for an errand. As evening comes on it is sometimes possible to endure at least one loop of the meadow path. On an evening last week the sky above the setting sun was brushed with feathery clouds.

Sunday evening's pink and thundery sunset which gave way by dark to a burst of brisk rain. Not enough to soak the ground, but sufficient to refresh the garden and clear the air.

Achillea with the flash after dark. 

After picking the green beans yesterday morning, my clean cotton shirt was plastered to my back. Feeling grubby I decided to work at pruning down foxglove stalks and cutting back the roses that have been trashed by the yearly invasion of sawfly larvae and Japanese beetles. Hot work as by then the sun had come round the house to glare down on the plantings above the concrete retaining wall.

Tiny brown seeds rained from the foxglove stems, clinging to my sweaty forearms, landing in my hair. 

There is so much more that 'wants done' in every planted area, but I am learning when a sensible quitting time has arrived.

Shampooing my long hair in the shower I wasn't surprised to feel foxglove seeds under my fingertips. It took extra rinsing to wash them away.

I began assembling this post late on Sunday evening. 

Clattering on the front porch drew Jim and me to switch on the outside light and peer through the front door windows. Two raccoons, their long fur streaming wet with rain, were battling for supremacy of the cat kibble tray. The smaller of the two was definitely losing out, cringing on the top step, being shoved backwards by the larger coon. J. opened the door a few inches, made shooing noises. The larger coon, startled, made another swipe at the smaller one, bumbled into the water bowl which rolled off the porch, coon following with a thump into the raised bed.

We expected him/her to reappear but when it didn't the smaller racoon began a timid approach to the now askew kibble tray. The smaller coon polished off the remaining kibble glancing anxiously over its shoulder with each mouthful. 

Jim has worked with Howard for several days on a local building job. The location is near a main highway and that along with the high heat has meant it wasn't safe for Howard to take his three dogs who usually ride to every job site. I have been dog-sitting. They are companionable creatures and not much trouble; I take them outside for a short walk down the lower path about every hour and a half.

The men plan an early start to take advantage of the cooler mornings. I'm liking this as I have food prepared and housekeeping done before noon. 

This morning I felt a bit tired and rickety, so rewarded myself with an hour of Kate Jackson's 'Last Homely House' videos. 

I still managed to have a batch of bread out of the oven a few minutes before noon.

The men have returned and eaten. The kitchen needs a bit of tidying.

That done, will I attempt some sewing? Do I have wits enough left to sort the laptop? [ I doubt it!] 

Rosie-cat has landed on my desk and from there onto my front. She tolerates the dogs but as soon as they depart she asserts her ownership of me as her person, snuffling in my hair, purring in my ear.

Perhaps Rosie and I will take a book--and a bowl of tapioca pudding--and see if it is cool enough to sit on the screened porch and watch hummingbirds come to the feeders.

{BTW: the rosemary plants appear to have appreciated extra watering and pruning.}