Shall See.

10 June. Heavy rain in the forecast, tomatoes coming, lawn unmowed, windows finished, the Toad indoctrinated into the world of sprinklers. I'm out back with the double doors wide open, the windows fully finished and enameled, and I'm wearing jeans. It's not cool out there, and it's not that dry, either, but: How many more nights will I be able to wear jeans? Not so many.

We used to turn finally and thoroughly hot on the Fourth of July. My problem: I don't remember those days well, don't remember anymore when June was June. Combination of the Toad and the recent record, I presume.

The neighbor's 30-year-old AC just clacked off. Near-silence in the back yard. I'm gambling I'll be able to mow in the morning. If not, then Thursday at the earliest. We live tight to the bone in these parts, folks. Skin of the teeth. The Toad is two. Ice in the glass. He sleeps. We recover. It goes like this.