Rain hard, I mean, it rained a bit waiting until I was out doing errands, of course, but we never got the torrential rain they were predicting. We did get a couple hours of gusty winds which played havoc with the Tall Ships in town for the weekend. Now the sun is shining and there are puffy white clouds in the sky.
August 13-- Majorca. It was hot, tedious work. Hours spent bent over a little patch of ground, one meter on a side, scraping away the soil with a trowel, one millimeter at a time. "Isn't there something in the Geneva Convention about making us work in the blazing sun?" Hal asked no one in particular. Jeanine snorted. "We're not prisoners, genius, we're lab rats. We don't count." She dug her fist into the small of her back and arched against the pressure, groaning as she stretched. "Besides," she went on, "we volunteered." She laid down her trowel, poured a little water on her bandana and laid it on the back of her neck. "Sweet Jesus, that feels good." Hal grunted as his trowel hit a corner of rock, a square corner. He moved the pint of the tool along the edge, scribing a line in the pale earth. "Tool marks," he said, "these are tool marks." His eyes gleamed and he looked around. "Professor Jansen," he called, "I think I've found something."
How come the whiners and the suck-ups always come out smelling like roses?
--Barbara
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