Bluebird Sky Day

Washed clean by the rain, colors on everything popped yesterday, including the goats.  Leaves on dust-covered trees and vineyards shone again.  Even the truck looked good.  Succumbing to temptation, Bess (and Pearl) and I took a book and went out on the deck after barn chores.  We (all of us; Pearl will not be left behind now) went in to watch the start of the NASCAR race, but that cerulean sky kept calling.  I'd been unable to mow for weeks and weeks due to high fire danger and star thistle had given the property a pretty ramshackle appearance.  Some chores are beyond me and I can't keep the place up the way Steve did, but I'm hell on wheels on the mower.  NASCAR would have to do without one fan; the opportunity was too great to miss.  It's difficult to describe the pleasure of riding around on a just-right day with enough breeze to cool but not enough wind to blow chaff and the satisfaction of looking back and seeing the yards neat and tidy.  It's addicting.  One yard led to another and the west point, driveway, south side, back and south back yards are all mowed down.  The ironworkers I knew looked forward to hanging steel on what they called a "bluebird sky day."  I know exactly what they meant.

Camille brought a slab of honey-cured salmon and I made bubble-and-squeak for a shared dinner before watching another episode of "The Newsroom."  It was a great finish to a perfect day.

Postscript to yesterday's entry:  it wasn't lights in the downstairs shop that I saw in the early morning darkness.  It was the downstairs porch light that I don't believe we'd ever turned on once in sixteen years.  Between that and the ceiling fan that turned itself on twice, it's been Twilight Zone time.  Beyond weird.