Up early, off to breakfast. Denny’s! Back home to write for a while, then off to the garage to paint. Have begun to believe the renovation will never end. Granite countertops are allegedly being cut, and once finished, should allow the rest of the work to move forward. But who knows? Meanwhile, no electricity, wires dangling from sockets, and no plumbing in place. Clinging to the hope that, at some point, the workers will shift into high gear because they can’t stand the project any longer either.
Miraculously, the lawn isn’t dead. Big rains keep trailing in, and overcast skies have kept things cool. Bad haze the past two days, though, owing the terrible fires in the northwest.
A while back, in early June, the New Yorker ran a special section called “My Old Flame.” One of the pieces, “Good Legs” by Joshua Ferris, caught my attention. Re-read it today, and had to marvel again at its craftsmanship. It’s a short piece, as were the others, but quite muscular in its compactness. So much story in such a small space.