Honeysuckle Summer Evening

Mint and white roses with aspen and a wall of creeping Jenny in the background on the fence. The familiar garden path from the cottage to the maim house. And two panes out of three of the greenhouse--one pane with a trellis leaning and covered with honeysuckle, and reflected in the glass the incredible invisible woman. This is a very peaceful place.

There is a tangle of honeysuckle covering the open bathroom window and when the breeze blows, the scent of honeysuckle fills the room. The glass needs cleaning, the vines pulled some from behind the trellis and the grill over the bathroom window.

The weeds need to be pulled from the spaces between the stones. But I am lazy, and it will wait.



Anyone care to take bets on who gets the job of hosting Meet the Press? We've had the week long wake. It's a fair question to ask. Let's get on with it.

Can the Funeral End Now?

I'm going into a little seclusion, staying in, reading Dorothy Parker, hoping the long deification of Tim Russert will finally end soon, so we can get on with the business of electing a President to clean up the mess left by the eight years of Republican rule. Notice I didn't say governance?

Tim must have been a swell guy, but honestly I can't ever remember anything lasting this long in the way of State Funerals. So goodbye Tim. Now it's time to move off the stage, and let the living get on with living.

It's getting hot here. Swamp cooler weather. (This is the kind of thing I need a man for). I can appreciate a man's many talents, like writing poetry and such, but if he can't hook up the swamp cooler and hang the hammock, well... Not so much. My one big love could play any musical instrument, well even, could compose and write songs, could, in fact, do anything, and do it well, and was smart, too, but... I need to live alone. Short visits are fine, so long as my guest is willing to sleep in the hammock alone, or get a hotel room. And in the hottest of weather, it's almost always cool in the deep shade of the gazebo. Then, late in the evening, the breeze that blows down Emigration Canyon, brings the scent of honeysuckle into the house through open windows.