hot like summer, but no fireflies yet

I have surprised myself at how well I'm doing with my hand warmers - I've only had to rip it out once, and that was at the beginning. I'm ready to switch back to the smaller needles to do ribbing, bind off, and make the thumb on the first one.

I'm still enjoying Out of Africa - her way of seeing things, and then telling them is so appealing to me. Here she speaks of a plane ride:

We landed on the white shore, that was white-hot as an oven, and lunched there, taking shelter against the sun under the wing of an aeroplane. If you stretched out your hand from the shade, the sun was so hot that it hurt you. Our bottles of beer when they first arrived with us, straight out of the ether, were pleasantly cold, but before we had finished them, in a quarter of an hour, they became as hot as a cup of tea.

I have this week off from work, and even though it's May, it's just like a summer vacation: hot and humid, except the nights are still pleasant, unlike in July when we usually have these temperatures. I'm loving it!  Memorial Day was very nice; quite warm but cloudy, and comfortable to sit outside for hours.  The only things lacking are the fireflies - it's too early for them yet.

making the pasta salad

The Fireflies

Here in the highlands, when the long rains are over, and in the first week of June nights begin to be cold, we get the fireflies in the woods. 

On an evening you will see two or three of them, adventurous lonely stars floating in the clear air, rising and lowering, as if upon waves, or as if curtseying. To that rhythm of their flight they lighten and put out their diminutive lamps. You may catch the insect and make it shine upon the palm of your hand, giving out a strange light, a mysterious message, it turns the flesh pale green in a small circle round it. The next night there are hundreds and hundreds in the woods.

For some reason they keep within a certain height, four or five feet, above the ground. It is impossible then not to imagine that a whole crowd of children of six or seven years, are running through the dark forest carrying candles, little sticks dipped in a magic fire, joyously jumping up and down, and gamboling as they run, and swinging their small pale torches merrily. The woods are filled with a wild frolicsome life, and it is all perfectly silent.

- Out of Africa,  by Isak Dinesen

Thanks to Ginny and her yarnalong