(Apologies to James Taylor.) The portable firepit has rendered signal service; we’ve roasted marshmallows over bits of the downed cedar and spent a lot of time gazing into the flames. Well, the kids have done more of the former and I’ve done more of the latter, thinking about plot tangles and considering which things to cut out of my life. it’s been exhausting, even with friends-who-have-chainsaws helping to get the bulk of the fallen cedar dealt with.
My health is not what it used to be. But the less said about that the better.
Phil and Willard liked the display too; you can see them basking. Willard tends to moan a bit and rock back and forth when the flames get high; Phil says his friend’s not upset but very cautious of fire, as zombies tend to be. When it gets too much, Phil pops a pebble into Willard’s mouth and takes him back to Miranda, who does a bit of comfort-singing. (She’s very fond of Carole King.) Phil, of course, is just fine with backyard bonfires; he and Emphysema Joe sit around with their green and trade rather recondite philosophical arguments.
The entire backyard gets in on it, except for the squirrels. They are quite put out at the falling of the cedar and the attendant damage to the highway–i.e., the back fence. They’re not even taunting Boxnoggin during his loo breaks, which is highly unusual. I suppose they’ll figure out alternative routes, poor things.
Anyway, it’s Friday the 13th and raining too hard for us to drag out the firepit again. So we’ll have to wait until it dries for another marshmallow roast. Maybe Emphysema Joe will even get his guitar out, though he and Phil are too busy arguing over tuning for anything to actually get played. (Everyone’s a critic, and everyone’s got to have a hobby.)
I hope your weekend holds similar delights, my beloveds. Have a good one.