Father's Day.

I feel like it rained Saturday night. I have a gauzy memory of that. It was raining a little around seven when we drove east out of it toward dinner, and when we got back there was about a tenth of an inch in the gauge, though the airport is reporting a little more. Another of those bands of storms that disintegrates right as it gets here, then reforms over toward Raleigh and further out. Plenty of wind with it, and a kind of dry line that pulled through around 5:30 as we were sprinting through the big box trying to purchase cement board and tile and various pressure-treated items with which to shore up the walls for the cement board and tile. Twelve-plus-hour days Saturday and yesterday getting ready for the tile gentlemen who are now here and in the WeatherCloset tiling up perfect and pretty my shoddy underlayment. We were eleven o'clock last night, me telling AMR I had to quit, that I couldn't see straight, and AMR carefully reminding me that in fact I could not quit, that the tile gentlemen would be here anon, etcetera, and I drank thirty gallons of Gatorade and made a perfect babbling fool out of myself on the phone to the paterfamilias on his day, and he laughed at me, and then I layed in the rest of the floor, puzzle-piece cutouts and all, and then it was this morning. There were intervening hours, but I don't know what happened in them.

Here is more than anyone really needs to know about Hardie Board.

Slight chance of a thunderstorm this afternoon. My father taught me to love the weather. He also taught me to go ahead and try home renovations. Six of one, this morning, anyway, and a half-dozen of the other.