some day my guts will be fiddle strings

Our reward for feeding Mehitabel, the stray who appeared this spring, is a litter of kittens. They're soft and silly and very cute - what are the odds of that? One, at the tender age of four weeks, is a tiny lion stalking his patch of savannah - our woodshed. His opposite is a solemn, yet savage, panther, as quietly deadly as the wee lion is brashly lethal. When they're all asleep, I know there are three others, but awake they are like spilled mercury - scattering and regrouping in unpredictable, sort of sinister ways.

I'm looking forward to long winter evenings with a good book and a warm little furball or two in my lap.

Stayed too long at the fair . . .

There was a parks department picnic at Spencer's Butte when I was about six. I'm sure there were all sorts of healthy things to eat, but I went for the cupcakes, cookies and pop, and ended up tossing it all in the bushes and spending the rest of the evening lying on the back seat of the car feeling sorry for myself.

A billion years later, on the last morning of two glorious back-to-back vacations, I woke with that ominous feeling. It wasn't going to be a very good day, and I had a couple of hours of driving before I could pull the covers up over my head.

The irony this time was that I had eaten wisely, exercised and slept well, and drinking? OK, I'd had two glasses of wine instead of one some nights - not exactly a binge. No, this was a bug. My cousin's wife fell to it first, and then my cousin the next day. They blamed the crab. But what they ate on the way to the hotel didn't cause my malaise.

Did that take the glow off the week? No, siree! We stuffed enough fun into those seven days that I'd do it all over again - next year.

Redeeming qualities

OK, I'm woman enough to admit there are things I do like about summer.

It's nice to roll out of bed, pull on whatever, grab the pocket radio, and ask for a ride that will leave me a respectable distance from home in that flat morning light I so enjoy. Walking back, I'm dazzled by those wild oats glowing white-gold beside the road, with their seeds a-dangle in the breeze. At the far end of the filbert rows are diminutive arches framing a buttery-yellow field. A song sparrow flits along ahead of me, drawing my attention to the the fencerow - a tangle of wild roses, hawthorn, poison oak, wild apple, snowberry, and blackberries already warm from the early sun. And all the while, the voices of NPR overriding my mental prattle, and April Baer from OPB giving periodic updates on the traffic for Portland. Ahhhhhhh. . .

There's that half-awake state, somewhere between 2 and 4 AM, when I feel a cool breeze across my face and put my toes out to play for a while before snuggling back to sleep. The voices of a few coyotes or the whistle of the train tell me the night crew is at work and all is as it should be. And whoever is in the cedar tree is welcome, however odd the sounds it's making.

Long summer days as we're mooching about the place - sometimes working, sometimes just loafing - we find the treasures only summer can provide. Under huge leaves in the old tank there are strawberries dangling coyly. Weeding the end of the pine bed where the bindweed grows thick, there are blueberries to keep our spirits up. At the raised bed, a Black Plum tomato between two large basil leaves is a refreshing snack, or young carrots which taste especially good with just a little dirt still clinging to their tender skins. Picking raspberries is an exercise in patience, moving slowly and carefully among the bumblebees who are so graciously pollinating them. Then apples and grapes and walnuts and filberts . . . oh my!