The mid-nineties, slated to rise, didn’t, leaving us with a perfect last week of winds and warm but workable temps while Willey’s semis ran down to Brent’s and back hauling hay…
All month I’ve been spending a coupla hours a day [or less depending on how lame it gets] with National Propaganda Radio, much of the local programming hilariously “brought to you by the Terrorists at the Peppermill” or a “Marketplace” sponsored [in reality as well as on air] by the Koch Brothers. Fair and balanced sponsors, anyway, for wonders such as “Wimps with Words”, Ira Glass in adoration of The Proudly Fat and all that predictably wobegone news from Garrison Keillor. Mostly at the times I listen it’s only news, as in the endlessly repeated “All things Repeated”, whose breathless pronouncements every fifteen minutes that in fifteen minutes we’ll again hear what they’ve been repeating all day long is nearly as annoying as their inexplicable penchant for confusing singular with plural verb forms. And vice versa…of course, given the evisceration of primary education over the past several decades hereabouts it’s actually totally explicable, and circumstantially easily linked to that burning question keeping us all tuned in until November; “Will we the U.S. manage to trump the stupidity of Brexit or…what?”
None of which I’ll miss nearly as much, come Sunday, as the creatures and gardens of the oasis…
…and so, last day;
closing up the repo…
last ‘pies
last lunch at the pond…
last trip to the studio…
last walk to the Park
last dinner on the deck, last light fading…
and, Sunday morning; gone.
More from the road, later on.
M