We have had oodles of rain. Everything is green, green green. The dragonflies are everywhere at our country house. Not only are they beautiful, they eat mosquitoes and black flies. I LOVE dragonflies; and bats, because bats eat mosquitoes too.
Attila is working today, I am not. No complaint from me!
We have plans for short trips this weekend, and a weekend is only one day long at our house. We hope to see Luna and Janus and the Grandbabies. We hope to see my Mom, and this is really important because I missed seeing her on her 80th birthday and on Mother’s Day. I had to work that day, and boy-oh-boy did I resent it.
Of course there is the week’s laundry to do over the weekend, Attila and I each need to attend to our laundry. It is imperative that it be done over the weekend, to avoid the doubled price of electricity during the week.
I am noticing a distinct shortage of breath coming up the stairs. This comes of working at a desk job for the last six weeks. Walking in the mosquito enhanced outdoors of an evening is just not going to happen. I try to pick up the mail in the mornings on my way into work, which is a short walk from the car, and to shop for things like milk and lettuce after work before I head back into the bush. Not enough exercise I fear, but certainly better than none at all. There is no place to walk at work, except to deliver paperwork, not exactly a workout.
Attila and I have been hoping that there has been rainfall at our little house in the city; our newly planted garden is on its own until we visit again, usually every two or three weeks. We have our fingers crossed.
The load limits have just come off the roads, so our firewood and the bill for the firewood should arrive soon. We are ready. Attila is ready to spend his evenings stacking wood in the woodshed and I am ready with my pen to write a cheque that will not bounce. It is all good.
Pressure: 101.6 kPa
Visibility: 16 km
Humidity: 90 %
Wind: SSE 15 gust 30 km/h
“An education isn’t how much you have committed to memory, or even how much you know. It’s being able to differentiate between what you do know and what you don’t.”
1844 – 1924
“François-Anatole Thibault, was a French poet, journalist, and novelist. He was born in Paris, and died in Saint-Cyr-sur-Loire. He was a successful novelist, with several best-sellers. Ironic and skeptical, he was considered in his day the ideal French man of letters. He was a member of the Académie française, and won the Nobel Prize for Literature…”
“During the Franco-Prussian War, France served briefly in the army, and witnessed the bloodbath at the Paris Commune in 1871…
In 1877 France married Valérie Guérin de Sauville. The marriage ended in divorce in 1893, several years after France’s liaison with Mme Arman de Caillavet (Leontine Lippmann), a patron of arts and the great love of the author…
The last fifteen years of France’s life were shadowed by personal difficulties, some of which he created himself. His daughter Suzanne died in 1917, his mistress Mme Arman, whom he started to deceive with other women as early as 1904, became seriously ill and died in 1910. He deceived his housekeeper, Emma Laprevotte, whom he later married, and an American woman whom he had deserted, killed herself in 1911.”