It's not raining. Not like at my mom and dad's place, raining day, and night, on the Oregon coast. We aren't sitting in the dark, waiting out
a Nor'easter! Stay safe, friends. But this morning, I pulled the quilt up to my chin, and saw that it was a lovely fifty-seven degrees Fahrenheit.
Lovely, and cool-ish. Our days are still hovering around the mid-seventies, which is hardly seasonal, but as I was describing to Delia, we got so accustomed to temperatures in the eighties, nineties, even... now the these "cooler" days are just fine, thank you very much. I say "fine" in a relieved,
and resigned way. I dread the prospect of a
dry winter, which I have seen forecasted for California. I dread more drought, heat, wind, even the simple lack of
interesting weather. Granted, I cannot say I covet anything as
interesting as they are enduring in Maine, or Massachusetts.
This morning our lawn was bedazzled in dew, and it was cool enough to hold the droplets in place. As the sun rose, and every drop of water was backlit, the yard looked as though it were sealed in a light frost. It was beautiful. A worthy illusion of autumn, of
interesting weather. And with
William's tombstones set up for Halloween... the effect was marvelous. It is cooler than before, and we have these soothing coastal mornings. It's fine...
fine for gardening, fine for walks, fine for painting, fine for our busy October days.
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