One Year.

One wee ranting complaint and what do we get? A morning that hung onto the sixties and is still, however barely, hanging onto the seventies, and you could feel this coming even last night, late evening, just after sundown, when the humidity dropped down into the thirty percent range. There was a breeze. And then this morning: Yardwork. Dogwalk. Porch. Coffee that somehow did not require ice, though there is a pitcher now fridged for just such a purpose. If this were summer, I told the Toad on his way to prepreschool, then I'd have no concerns. Hell, it felt like that first crispish September morning out there. Or maybe it felt like what June is supposed to be, used to be, here on the Piedmont.

On the docket: cake-baking. His Honor the Toad turns one today. Last year this time: holy hell. This year this time: friends and fans of weather—of all weathers—I do not understand how we ended up with this child. And yet here he is, in this house. At times I still would have it every other way but this one, but the thing that's surprised me is that, at times, I'd have it no other way than the way it is. I did not know that would or could be me. I did not know.