We need rain. Yard-Bob can attest that my lawn is getting crispy in places but I refuse to pay to water the lawn. I'll pay for garden water so Tomato Boy has his tomatoes but not for green grass.
August 12--Something's burning--Smoke tendrils drifted just above ground level, slithering through the blades of unmown grass, borne on the late afternoon breeze already dying as sunset approached. Blue and yellow flames lick the bottom of the old siding of the house that stood foursquare and pugnacious on its double lot. The front door stood open in a silent scream and the jutting roof pieces over the dormers cocked in surprise and disapproval at what was happening. The setting sun sunk low enough to send yellow and orange rays to shimmer on the old glass windows before they burst from the heat as furnishings inside joined together, each adding fuel to the fire. On the end of the gravel drive nearest the street a man stood sweating in a black funeral suit, his white shirt still crisp, his tie still carefully knotted. His hands were at his sides, an engraved Zippo lighter held loosely in the right one, and tears flowed unchecked down his cheeks. He watched the house burn, heard the almost human sounds as, one by one, the pieces of his past were consumed. He felt rather than saw his neighbors gather beside him to watch along with him. Every one of them knew why the house burned and no one called the fire department until the walls collapsed in upon themselves and the floors fell into the cellar. Mr. Hopkins touched the man's arm and said, "Come on, Jack, let's have a drink. I'm buying." Jack turned away and never looked back.
I like this. Don't know where it's going or if it's going but I like it.
--Barbara
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