Boys Of.

I know it rained this week. I know. And I know it in fact rained what we in the business often refer to, scientifically, as a shit-ton. I know the grass I planted (two days before the Toad was born) in the plumbing trench has greened back up, I know the front yard flowers are in pretty steady and avowed bloom, I know the flood could have taken our trash can but rather only deposited, serendipitously, said can at the neighbor's phone pole. I know even that the shed is dry, and the shed annex is dry, and all local interests that want to be dry are in fact dry, and that complaint is not what ought rise up here in this space or any other.

But every day feels like the same day. It is July.

There are ways of combatting this. Clean the kitchen. Fold the clothes. Begin work on finishing the shed electric and beginning the shed annex electric. Hold one of the dog's ears. Hold the Toad, when he can be held, or when you can stand to hold him, or both, or overcome one or both of those. Sit at the desk. Sit at the desk. Sit at the desk. And yet: some July days one cannot pull oneself toward any of that. Instead, you try to string the minutes together from coffee to evening, and then you hold for bed. Maybe there are a few minutes of baseball on the AM radio out of High Point, which feel like something that could save you. Maybe there are friends riding in on various trusty steeds, bearing dinner, even, to tell you that, yeah, it's July, but someday it might not be. But then it'll be August, you say. Well, yeah, they say. But you've known this. And if it wasn't going to be August next, then something much larger than you think would be broken.

But every day feels like the same day. It is July. And then it will be August. Hard to bear up sometimes under the sheer fact of, say, the calendar. That thing moves every day in the same direction.

Nearing midnight here in the Gate City, friends and fans of weather, finds us dropping through the muggy eighties on our way to an overnight low in the mid-seventies. It'll probably storm some the next few days. The mosquitoes here are as thick as I can remember, and we went three weeks without rain. We're gonna need some damn large bats before this is all played out. Oh: and on the strength of two early solo homers, the Braves come out of the break with another win, and continue to lead the division. I heard one of those shots on the radio. Maybe that's what's there for tomorrow evening: Hot front porch, failing evening, fussy Toad, box fan, cold beer, AM radio, the Braves in contention for the first time in a long time. I've got this little low-slung canvas chair I like a lot. Sits right down in the path of the fan, keeps the bugs off me, off the Toad. Who knows. Who knows. We get to August with that damn team out in front, there just might be reason to hope.