We reasoned that it's probably because it feels like autumn here. No Native American summer for us. The mornings and evenings are crisp and pine scented-- mostly from our spiffy new pellet stove-- the trees are ablaze with color, it's drizzly gray, and the lake is knock-your-trunks-off cold, as R discovered during his end of the season dip this week.
They're still wearing sunscreen in the Golden State.
Here's something I learned about autumn in The Woods: Acorns are dangerous. They don't just fall from the tree; they fling themselves violently, taking out branches and windshields as they go. I have yet to be hit in the head, but I know it's coming. Luckily, like the flame-spurt in the Princess Bride's fire swamp, the acorns give a heads-up by rustling loudly through the leaves on the way down. I just hope all the acorns fall before the leaves do.
You know how spring is for cleaning? Well, apparently autumn is for tearing apart. Yesterday I took the scissors to my browning garden and pulled out the unsightlies, and today I wrestled some deity-forsaken shrub in the garden, but not before I ripped the wall paper from two walls in the bedroom. See before and after photos above. Next, paint!
Don't know if I've mentioned, but the master bedroom is the only room that's not wall-to-wall knotty, except the den which is wall-to-wall fake wood paneling.
If I'm gonna be leashed to a place, it might as well feel like it's mine-- even if that means it's in a constant state of disheveledness. Sometimes a mess must be made-- in this case many, many messes-- before one can arrive at her state of blissful contentedness.
Also, all of the hard work is keeping Buckaroo and me busy while R is away from dark thirty to dark nighty.
**One last note to say that as part of his new job R is required to introduce himself to everyone in the company, learn their names, and what they do. He has 30 days. Good thing he's been taking social cues from Buckaroo.