There is a bush that has really nice pink roses, and right now there are two blooming, but they are tiny. Another bush has four yellow roses that are about full size, and a third has one tiny rose of variegated color, while a fourth just recently had two, now dead, which were a bright red but diminutive. Four other bushes haven't produced any flowers recently, and don't even have any buds. My thumbs are anything but green. I think that I might soon be without roses altogether.
Today was shopping day, but there wasn't much to buy, or worth buying, at the supermarkets. It's a good thing I've stocked up on staples, and have a number of other items on hand. I'll probably be using up the last frozen dinners in the freezer this week. I did get two packages of decent cinnamon rolls on a buy-one-get-one deal, and I replenished my ice cream supply at half the regular price, though it was not on my favorite brand.
Alas, I had to take a rain check on the cottage cheese they had on sale, as all they had remaining on the shelf was the low fat stuff. When I pay for fat I want all the fat, dammit! I'd also intended to get a few tomatoes, but could find none for less than 1.99 lb, so decided to forgo them. Tomatoes should not be the same price as pork shoulder. That's too much. It's probably going to be chili beans for dinner tonight. After waking up early and then having no afternoon nap I don't feel like spending a lot of time in the kitchen.
The thermometer is once again creeping upward a bit each day, though the nights continue cool enough to chill the house nicely before dawn. Last night I slept under a blanket. It feels just like California is supposed to feel in summer— a pleasant and unexpected surprise. It will be several days before the place turns back into Georgia.
I'm not sure if English people will be murdering one another on television tonight, but I'm hopeful. The slaughter sometimes beings at eight o'clock, so I'm going to post this and go check now. Hmmm. Slaughter at Eight would be a good title for a murder mystery. Too bad Agatha Christie is dead and can't write it.
Sonnet on Mirth
by Jennifer Michael Hecht
Of mirth the poets counsel little after
that present it be loved for present laughter.
Also that fool hearts, alone, let themselves belong in
the house of it; the wise, the house of mourning.
Why such divergent answers from such teachers?
Life seemed cruelly short to bard; cruelly long to preacher.
Yet true times as rivers flow or candles burn,
long in the stretches, short on the turns,
and mirth with bitter herbs is better taken
than meals of mirth alone or years of it forsaken.
Does sweet improve when mixed with strain,
or is it that the acrid in that blend begins to fade?
Much endures while youth slips away like a thief;
mirth is a wine well pressed in the house of grief.