Pinker

 



My tomato is pinker today.  I'm trying not to look at it every day to judge progress because I figure that way lies madness also frustration, but it's definitely pinker today than it was the other day.

Cucumber number two is growing nicely.  I figure it'll be ready to pick just about the time that I finish cucumber number one.  I didn't see number three anywhere but it might be hiding behind some leaves or mint which is everywhere.  I should never have planted the stuff, it's a plague, but it sure smells good when I step on it.




One of the new day lilies has bloomed on top of the retaining wall.  It's very weedy up there but the flowers poke out nicely.  I like the color of the center of this one, it kind of glows.




I wrote another scene today, maybe two if I spread it out a bit.  Feels good.


I saw a hummingbird at the feeder this afternoon for less than a minute. I swear they know when I pick up the camera to zoom off for the hinterlands.  Dammit.



22 July--Barbara Malcolm, Better Than Mom's. 

First through the door were what Fay called “the coffee codgers.”  The codgers were a group of retired men--some executives, others blue collar workers, whose wives had passed on or just plain kicked them out of the house--that gathered in Better Than Mom’s every morning to drink endless cups of Brady’s coffee and debate.  Fay told Brady that if even half of what the codgers said they had done was true America would be in much better shape.  She regularly tried to coax the more vocal of the codgers to run for office and put his reputation where his mouth was. 

Every once in a while, the idea took flight and one or another of the men took a half-embarrassed, half-proud shuffle down to the City Clerk’s office for nomination papers.  Once one of them, Elmer Bump, had gone so far as to goad the other codgers into helping him collect the required number of signatures to get on the ballot.  But once the campaign had begun the enormous financial resources needed to mount a run for city alderman in their small city of eighty-five thousand his cronies, and Fay suspected Mrs. Bump most of all, took the wind out of Elmer’s sails and quieted all the codgers opinions for a time.  But they rallied and lately had taken up the gauntlet of illegal immigration. 

“Send them all back where they came from,” Raymond said. 

Fay hurried over and refilled his mug.  “For god’s sake, Raymond, keep it down.  You can't be talking like that.  It's offensive.  Brady hired a new man this morning.  Be nice.”  She laid a finger softly over his lips.  “Dicky did not show up and John did.  He's working hard and seems like a nice man.”  Raymond opened his mouth, but she was faster.  “Ah!  I don't want to hear it.  You clean up your attitude, young man, or you will be making your own coffee from now on.  And I happen to know it is even worse tasting than Brady’s.”  

A ripple of laughter that spread down the counter greeted that last remark.  “She's got you there, Raymond,” the man seated around the corner said. 

“Shut up, Leo,” said Raymond.  “You wouldn't have had the balls to talk to me like that ten years ago.” 

Leo grinned at him.  “No, you're right.  I wouldn't have, but then you aren't my boss anymore, so you can't fire me for speaking my mind.”  

The men on either side of Leo clapped him on the back while Raymond grumbled into his coffee mug. 

“A man of my age having to put up with smart asses like that.  And for a woman to talk to me and tell me to change my ways, well, times sure have changed.  And not for the better is all I have to say.” 

Fay walked by, heavy white china plates stacked down her arm, and said, “I doubt that this is the last time we'll hear you say something like that, Raymond.  Your opinions know no bounds.”  She breezed around the end of the counter and served the heaping plates to four construction workers at a table, gracefully maneuvering between the chairs, never losing an American fried potato or dislodging a piece of toast.  “Eat up, boys,” she said.  “Got to keep your strength up to finish at the high school before the middle of August.  I will get the pot and refill your mugs.” 

Today's toss was a couple more old WW cookbooks from the mid-1970s.  I figure someone might want them.  They have pretty pictures of food.  What's not to like?

I knitted another row on the Hawk's Wing shawl.  I am to tempted to rip it out and turn the yarn back into balls.  I have to concentrate on every stitch, it makes me feel like I'm in detention, but I'm halfway through the yarn so I might as well keep going.  I guess.   I can manage to endure one row a day even though each row is eight stitches longer than the one before it.  It doesn't look enough different to merit a photo.
--Barbara