I write this not, like Cassandra Mortmain, sitting in the kitchen sink, but while listening to the shrieking of brakes and the grinding of gears. Apparently, D is teaching L to drive the car with the standard transmission. I have been banished inside the house.
This morning, I went to church, the Lone Pilgrim. L was in a bad mood, in pajamas and a sweatshirt with the hood over her head, shouting about an essay. D was in front of the television, shouting about the Sunday morning political commentary programs. I was glad I went, as the choir sang Psalm 23 during the Offertory, so the opening to the Vicar of Dibley came to mind . . . In an hour I'm going back to hear some choral Tudor anthems sung by a fairly new group.
Friday, D and I went to the Native Plant Sale:
We got a few things, one of which was Dutchman's Pipe, a vine to cover the pergola and give us some shade. Another plant we spied and got was the Mountain Bush Honeysuckle (Diervilla rivularis), to replace the out-of-place rose bush in the otherwise native plant garden.
This pot was, oddly, NFS:
We have lots of this Blue-eyed Grass, but no Thimbleweed:
These are dried gourds that the swifts use as houses, if someone, as here, strings them up; I think every one of them was occupied.
There were many turtles lurking below the surface, but only one Canada goose was in evidence. I wonder where the mate was . . .
Tomorrow, urban views!