Monday, rainy Monday. Once again I am amazed at this wild lands ability to recover from droughts. The ground vegetation had almost disappeared, the bermudagrass was straw colored. Then we gratefully receive two days of intermittent rains, and it looks like a verdant spring outside, albeit on the soggy side.
“Old Joe Clark” by Bill Monroe plays on the google puck for the budgies benefit. I am slowly adapting to her tastes in banjer music. She is happily chirping and whistling in response to the five string pickin’s and my foot starts tappin’ out the rhythm. My days as a classical music snob have ended. No more wine and brie. It is beer and skittles now. Well, maybe not skittles. We got too many armadillo holes here for lawn bowling. But you get the idea.
And it’s Rosh Hashanah today. Honey and apples and brisket on the menus. Sort of like black-eyed-peas on New Years day, but with more meals and liturgy. We bluegrass types don’t stand on a lot of formality, though and give a passing nod to the holy day and move on.
So here in my little corner of paradise we cycle through the seasons, each morning marked with one or two cups of perfectly brewed coffee from Snooks pot.