I’m supposed to be sitting in New Jersey right now.
Today was a heady combination of library, haircut, and gas – buying it, that is.
When we lived at our house, rather than having garbage collection, we bought a dump sticker and hauled it all ourselves to the town transfer station, sometimes a social event of its own.
Maybe one more toasty day, and then the heat here in the North may break. I hope so. Otherwise, my golf game on Tuesday will be less like a stroll down a green fairway and more like the March to Bataan.
Just when I was still basking in the warm glow of all my new stainless steel appliances. . . .
We’ve always been fortunate in repair garages. Over the years, two different shops have each at one time or another sent us home rather than charge us for work we don’t need.
I’ve just finished one library book (The Crossing Places by Elly Griffiths) and now I’m on to another, this one by Martha Grimes. As I plod on, writing the seventh chapter of my own book, passages like the following stop me in my tracks.
Yesterday began inauspiciously with sprinkles, but I pretended I didn’t see them and continued on my way to golf.
Outside of a neighbor’s tree crashing down at 7 a.m yesterday, we’re having a quiet Fourth.