Reading is that fruitful miracle of a communication in the midst of solitude.
The smoke outside from the forest fires is brutal—the worst of the summer so far. I will venture out at some point to water the garden and harvest some vegetables; it will be a quick, and less than enjoyable, task.
I have green beans to tend to. I’m still deciding whether to freeze them or can another batch of lemon-garlic beans. The tomatoes are coming fast and furious and I’m thinking salsa. My jalapeños have done nothing this year, so I’ll need to get some from the green grocer first (oh wait—I might still have some in the freezer from last year’s abundant harvest of them).
Gerry will return from his salmon fishing trip sometime this afternoon; it will be a busy homecoming as we freeze and can the catch. If this year is like others, we’ll have enough salmon to see us through the winter (though I was disappointed to learn that they won’t be bringing home any crab this time).
So, a busy day ahead, coming at the end of a week in which I have intentionally not been busy. Good thing I finished the book I’ve been reading last night (The Nightingale by Kristin Hannah—I recommend it) so I won’t be tempted to dally. Ah, but there is still that stack of other library books waiting for me on the hearth. I may allow myself time to start nibbling on another.