admit you're a lucky dog.

our days are flying by summer-style. the boys grow along with the garden, the sun comes up too fast and does not go down soon enough. summer is half-way over and i've yet to have a sweet-corn dinner or take my crunchy saturday morning self to the farmer's market.

henry paints while jude snores upstairs.



i'm told this is a trombone, this spattering of paint.



and these are fireworks. i think they really are.



my neighbor packs her truck with plants and weeding equipment as she readies herself for work in some lucky dog's yard. her short hair pokes out and about from the far side of the truck and i know it's her and that she's already working hard, early as it seems.

explosions of sorts. we worked-fire, fireworked twice in honor of the holiday. the first time we sat on blankets in the dirt in front of a tree (read: "a beautiful tree when there are no glittering stars to see behind her.") near the water.

henry bounced bubbly on the trampoline, his hair still flying when his feet were stopped. the ground show, water show at the works were fabulous, great balls of fire ("goodness gracious," the song screamed from the enourmous speaker standing behind us), sprays of pyrotechnics the likes of which henry and the other children had never seen.

it was hot and everyone looked it, most notably the shaven head of seth, the sticking golden hairs of jude and the seriously dripping brow of the unknown woman sporting too-tight blue-jean (light, stonewashed -- chic?) cutt-offs, sitting in the lawnchair a group or two over, drinking something iffy, telling her curious and excited little kid to, "sit down and shut up."

conversation-wise the evening was limited to, "it's almost time for the fireworks!" (repeated over and over and over and over) and "i can't hear you over the blasted music!" and "have you seen my other book?" noisy. and dangerous -- not a place you can just sit back and "keep and eye" on your children while chit-chatting. water, thousands of people, busy road. but it was worth the long walk in precarious shoes (why are you wearing such shoes, mama?) and the many trips to the trampoline. and the dust and noise. fantastic. "go green!" shouts henry before he runs off in the darkness and is nearly lost by his frantic parents.

the second round were small-town, run by the "jaycees." we park by the high school and sit on the lawn. every year we get there about ten minutes before blast-off and always get a prime park and a terrific spot to park it -- clear sky and open space for grass glitter dancing. not too long, not too short, not too sporadic. we return home to find neighbors blasting their own cheap variety late into the night. we wake up in the morning to find shrapnel and rocket nose-cones all over our yard. we shake our fists launcher-yard-ward. we continue to find pieces as the week goes on.

two minor annoyances: we were tee-peed last night, white streamers breezing in our fantastic tree. punks! ernie lost sleep and wished he'd been down there to beat the kids with a deadly african (?) weapon. i heard the kids cheering as they ran to their car. we're old now! we called the police!

and secondly, we've a creepy cat that comes and sleeps in our garden! get out, cat! it looks sick or something. please don't crucify me, but i let henry squirt it with the hose when we were watering the drought and came across the creepy thing. "scat, cat!" he echoed as the thing ran away.



i've lost count. does anyone even care?