The Floydfest dust has settled. It’s too overcast to go the pool. I don’t feel like doing much because I didn’t get enough sleep last night after a storm knocked the power out, causing me to remember the movie Wait Until Dark and imagine that a prowler knew I was home alone, cut my electric lines and was wanting to get inside.
But the sun comes up the next day, regardless, and the chickens start squawking to get out of the coop early. It’s the first of a couple of days I have with no agenda, no need to even go to town. It’s a day where the extent of excitement is vacuuming the hard-to-reach corner where my dresser and my husband’s bureau meet (after planning to do it for week) and getting a step closer to harvesting potatoes (I found the right bucket).
I admired the toadstools and mushrooms in the woods on the walk to the mailbox and noticed that the purple iron weed is out nearly a month early. I tried not to be distracted by the chickens, as I read my mail on the lounge chair back in the yard. But they came around to see if I had treats and then started climbing up on the picnic table. After they lined-up on the seating as if they were waiting to be served, I had to get my camera.
What ever happened to Efrem Zimbalist Jr. (along with Audrey Hepburn, also in Wait Until Dark) and how did he come by such an unusual name, unchanged by Hollywood? It’s a day for pondering things like that and for hoping that the second part of Ken Burns PBS special on Mark Twain is on TV tonight.