The historian came home. We read the paper while he ate his breakfast, drawing one another's attention to this and that article in the Tribune and the Times. I made a list. This is what was on it:
|only crucial things on this list, obviously.|
Before anyone expresses shock at how behind I am in my television watching (!)(this list isn't the half of how behind I am, just for your information), I would like to point out that I am caught up on my (highly selective) list of housekeeping chores, except for vacuuming, which: it is too hot, in my opinion.
In the mid afternoon, my sons, all of them, were here for a few hours to kibbitz with one another and catch up, and to have dinner. Soft tacos, in case anyone wants to know. Guacamole. Pineapple. It was good. We had a dance party, briefly, to the new Beck song. Then, they all departed at once.
The historian sat out on the patio as the evening cooled, reading a new book. Inside, I finished a detective novel set in New Orleans, floridly plotted and, perhaps, floridly written, although to say 'florid' may be a little glib for what I found interesting in the novel. I've put in a request with the library's robot for the second book in the series. Evidently, I'm interested in this potentially florid yet compelling series, and there you have it. I also started a book I heard about on the radio, when I was out buying the pineapple and some tortillas and a couple of avocados. I came right home and downloaded it.
Now, it's time to read a little more and end the day in quiet, an estimable bookend to the day's beginning. I'm grateful for it.
|(little photo project)|