Leaves on my pecan tree are what’s happening:
Tomatoes in my garden are what’s happening:
Organization in the military museum’s private library is what’s happening:
(Actually, that’s a lie. There is intent. Always. My goal is to have this library organized and up-to-date by the end of the summer. It is difficult, though, when my closest working partner is a state historian. Everything, and I mean everything, reminds him of some off-the-wall or little known historical fact that turns into an hour-long discussion between the two of us.)
Sweet, sweet sparrow babies are what’s happening:
And now that the sun shines more prominently on the couch, this is what’s happening:
I am currently reading Last Train to Paradise, a fascinating narrative of how Florida’s east coast came to be, all thanks to Henry Flagler. Being a Jacksonvillian (a Jaxon? What are we called?) I am already familiar with Flagler and some of his contributions. I was surprised to learn, though, that Key West was once the most populated city in Florida and that the class separation between Palm Beach and West Palm Beach is nothing new. (Except now you average people have bridges to drive across and no longer have to row your rickety boats back to the mainland encampment where you belong.)
- The kid made Honor Band. Her fist gig is this Saturday morning.
- Sunday’s forecast: 97 degrees. SPRING’S OVER, FOLKS. YOU CAN GO HOME NOW.
- My neighbor texted me at work yesterday to tell me my dog, Chimay, was dead in the front yard.
- She texted back a few minutes later to tell me she was wrong. And very sorry.
- The dog is fine.