High summer, suddenly, and the days are long and full. This morning we moved our breakfast coffee to the back screen porch instead of the front three-season porch. We feel a little on display out here, with the screen porch elevated like a stage, but we can also better smell our neighbors' peonies, and listen to those noisy birds (and the roar of the garbage trucks).
I've been using spare time--Sunday afternoons, mornings--to work on my book, and I'm happy to report that Chapter 11 is in good shape, a draft solidly done, and I am taking Friday off work to plunge into Chapter 12, which I believe will be the final chapter.
I think I will make that August first deadline after all, though I clearly did not make the secret unreasonable deadline I had set for myself, which was February.
Boscoe had another all-day glucose-curve test this week, and the results show he's doing well on the insulin. He looks old and shaky some days and perky and youthful others; that's what getting old is like, I guess. Not a steady arc, but up and down. Last night he was racing around the yard, playing with Riley. I stood and watched and watched.
On Sunday I have to go to a party at the home of a tall local writer who has a radio show. No names, please; I'd like to keep this out of Google. And do not be impressed, not even the least little bit; I do not know the man and not once has he returned a phone call for an interview, even when another tall local writer died and I was just looking for a quote. The party is to celebrate the publication of a book, which is why I've been invited.
If you are all very nice and good I will write about the party here later. The writer, who claims shyness, yesterday posted a bunch of pictures of his house (inside and out) on his facebook page, so I don't think I will be violating much privacy if I tell you a little about the party. Assuming I go. With me and parties, it's always touch and go.
3 hours ago