Summer days now are shorter, and a little cooler, which is appreciated, though the fire around Lower Lake makes for dramatic orange sunsets and moon risings. This author with compromised lungs does not appreciate the hazy air. The authorities are pretty sure they have the arsonist in jail who started this, and seventeen other fires.
On the home front I've been pestering my gardener to prune back the perennial plants, which he usually does in July, allowing for a radiant second bloom of everything in September, but my pleadings seem to be ignored. The garden looks forgotten. Now he is coming
next Wednesday with a big truck to haul away the dead stuff, and who knows if I'll get a second bloom. I guess in the larger scheme of things, this is inconsequential, but it bugs me.
Tuesday morning at six a.m. a professional driver is taking me to UCSF in the city for a second opinion on my rare cancer mutation, and he will hang around for the two hour appointment, before bringing me back home. A new kind of adventure. Cross your fingers that his diagnosis and treatment plan agree with the one I already have in place. Otherwise, like the flowers, I will be in a confused state.