Our brick-painting has reached the hardest color to replicate: the yellow-earth bricks. Jane’s nailed it.

Jane also has got the back door up. What then happened—I leave it to her to tell, when she’s coherent enough.

I got the butterfly bush planted; I’ve painted brick. I’ve tinkered with pond chemistry, got that fixed. I’ve made real progress on the book; and I am in less pain than before—thank goodness!  I think the cessation of pain has had a great deal to do with my concentration. I can ignore a lot of things—but that burning pain is amazingly nasty.

We have yet to pick up the panes for the storm door—but we almost have all the pieces ready. Jane has yet to paint the front door and a bit of trim.

I treated us to a quesadilla maker: it was on sale, and it’s a nice thing. Jane says she’s at the point she’ll eat anything. I think she just comes in for fuel.

The weather’s holding around 85 degrees. I’ve gotten to be such a wimp about heat it feels like 105.

We had a shocker on the news the other evening: a local doctor we share the ice with now and again —he’s 85—crashed his plane while trying to land up by Priest Lake. We hear he’s going to recover: he’s a very determined gentleman, and we hope the best for him.

We ourselves are faring quite well. Her Furry Grace has recovered somewhat—she was so weak this summer I began to wonder from moment to moment whether she was going to draw the next breath while I was holding her; but she’s full of it, now—she’s gotten to viewing both boys as rowdy teenagers, and has finally warmed to Seishi enough to sniff him over. This however, will be followed by a swat. Shu thought he would play with Her Grace’s tail for old times’ sake, and oh, my, yes, got swatted.

So the household is finding an equilibrium. We have some new ideas for Closed Circle and will be working on that. And we are not going to touch another repair project until winter, once we get that storm door up.