Postcard From The Bunker

There might as well be a sandstorm raging outside as far as I’m concerned.

I’m hiding out in the house retreating from the heat of the day. Though to be honest, I just ventured across the street to mail a letter, so I’m not a TOTAL wimp. On the way back into the house, I got a good look at the disaster that is our front yard. Every plant, though they get watered all the time, looks parched and dry and just plain exhausted from the summer heat. That side of the house faces west and gets the full brunt of the afternoon blast furnace effect. It’s depressing.


I’m not cut out for hot climates. All my ancestors lived in places that give you ruddy cheeks and damp frizzy hair. They were covered head to toe with woolens and Wellies. Places where a good fire in the hearth was not just for ambiance. Where hot tea might save your life, not make you look trendy at Starbucks. Where a nice boiled potato might be the ONLY food group.

But alas, here I am, toasting like a lizard on a hot rock in the middle of the Sunshine State, when really I would rather be tramping through the sheep pasture during a fine drizzle wearing a pair of these:

My Ideal Wellies

Which of course would be covering up a nice pair of hand knit socks, which thanks be to woolies, I know how to make!

I’m a missplaced person.

That’s what I am.

(You can say that again.)

Can I have a baby sheep?
And pink boots?
And a scone with honey on it?

Yes. Let’s have all of that.

(In your dreams.)


In my dreams there are cool breezes, green hillsides, and no punctuation.