When I have nothing to say

When I have nothing to say, my lips are sealed. Say something once, why say it again?

My resemblance to “Psycho Killer” ends there (I hope), but as we venture into the unpredictable days of summer, when the weather forecasters should just admit they have no idea what’s going to happen (chance of 25-degree swings, violent thunderstorms, cloudbursts, blazing sun, overcast skies, and short periods of time when it is raining on the front of the truck but not the back). It’s the ridiculous and constantly debunked belief that they know what’s going to happen that keeps setting me back. I look up at the sky and it doesn’t even match what they say is happening now.

So despite uncertainty we’ve been getting out there and doing the summer things, not the least of which is spending several hours a day harvesting the black raspberries (it becomes a relief when they finally run out, but we do have a new pie recipe that is fantastic). Some light kayaking (in a heavy kayak) on Sunday, a fantastic new ride up Dunham Hollow Road yesterday (grateful for the cooling influence of an unpronounceable creek that wasn’t Tsatsawassa Creek), spending time weeding the garden, and interrupting the rare blog posting with another violent thunderstorm and lightning that’s too close for my computer’s comfort. Yesterday I took an afternoon nap in the hammock, one of those things I always think of and never do, and one of those things life is simply too short not to do. There was even time to chase fireflies, an activity that wins out in hazy memory over the reality of being chawed by skeeters as you try to relate the blinking of lightning bugs to quantum physics and wondering whether Heisenberg spent his evenings in the yard with a jar.