My “affluent suburb … [an] idyllic hamlet … used to the trappings of Washington’s elite,” looses its chihuahuas on the FBI as the feds search John Bolton‘s house.
But… “bucolic“?
… by early morning sunlight.
People like UD‘s gardens. UD likes UD‘s gardens. But it must be stated for the record that UD‘s zebra grass – eight feet tall and everywhere – is a mite more massive/spreading than she understood when she bought three plants from a little nursery near the Chesapeake Bay a few years ago.
Munro Leaf, author of Ferdinand, was the last owner of our house.
One of UD‘s neighbors is suddenly being visited by lots of friends in armored SUVs. Hm.
… that the very active paper wasp nest just outside the living room is now gone, after chemical warfare was initiated.
*******************
UD‘s sister discovered the thing.
He wrote The Story of Ferdinand.
Sing it.
Now is the panicle season
Humidity is hell
We're sweating well beyond reason
O hell now sing o hell
Took a Picture This shot of a tall something growing out of one of my pots on the deck, and the name came back HAIRY ASTER.
UD said it aloud and started giggling. And giggling.
She said it aloud, slowly, to Mr UD, who laughed about it for exactly one second and then said to UD, who was still giggling, “It’s not that funny.”
“Herb Rapp lives,” said UD. “If my father were alive, he’d be laughing twice as long as I’m laughing.”
She meant to say, you know, that she got her sense of humor from her father.
