it's summer

 Well, the humidity is way up, and it feels like summer, all of a sudden. Because yesterday it was down in the sixties. 

I have a new thermometer outside my window, with a humidity needle. I'm not sure the percentage of humidity interests me, just the feeling of it. My energy levels decline as it goes up. But yesterday it felt drier and I made good progress on my linen dress. I like the way it's looking, except that I didn't line up the back center seams: for the top and the bottom, since the dress has a horizontal seam in the back.

I ripped out part of it, hoping I could shift things and correct it, but it didn't work. Blast! I don't want to re-do the seam; I'll leave it and learn from it, hopefully, but I won't cry over it. Speaking of crying, though, I could sometimes cry over things like this:

Cats who play on bedsheets. 

I am also trying really hard to move along with my summer quilting project, and have been picking it up while listening to podcasts or whatever. I've got a few colors of embroidery floss: pale yellow, deep gold, taupe, off-white. Whatever suits my fancy, and I sometimes put them close, other times further apart.

And, when the time comes to bind it, I think the blue linen of the dress will go very nicely, and there is plenty of it.

I finished the Isabella Stewart Gardner book.

For supper, we had a tuna sandwich recipe I haven't made for a few years, but it seemed special for Mid-Summer's Eve. Right now I hear baby birds chucking outside and robins laughing. It's good.

"I have a naturalist's love for the road that winds from Muskrat Pond to the borders of Big Oak Woods. In June, the poet's month, I follow it for two miles southward, past fields white with elderberry and Queen Anne's lace and trumpet creeper in scarlet flower. Cardinals and mockingbirds sing from the roadside thickets and bluebirds warble softly from the sky. In the early morning, when the dew sparkles on the grass, I hear the wild, sweet singing of the field sparrows and the first daylight calls of the quail."

                                    -  John K. Terres, From Laurel Hill to Siler's Bog