soggy plants, so much rain, and insects

 The cover on my new copy of Gentian Hill. It's certainly better than the other copy. But it doesn't illustrate (no pun intended) what the story's about, in my view. If I were an artist I'd paint a view of the town, the bay, the ships. The beautiful English scenery, which seems to be a character in her books, much of the time. 

We had a most beautiful weekend, with less humidity and lovely sunshine; we'd been waiting for it all summer. Now the humid air is back, and so the air conditioning. We had a thunderstorm today, too. More rain. The garden is a washout and I think I should get the wood for some raised beds. A long story, to be told later. Rosemary isn't looking too good.

My brother's kitchen garden is better, since the soil isn't as heavy, but the tomato plants aren't getting as tall as they should and the tomatoes are resting on the ground. We have to pick them before they're ripe or they'll rot. This is most unusual. 

My dress is barely coming along, but today I finished the understitching. I think I may have to topstitch around the neck edge to make it lay flat. I really don't like doing it. Do people who can whip up a dress in a day or two just ignore the housework? Or maybe they have a cook, or a housekeeper. 

A couple of nights ago I saw a few fireflies, so they're still around, but dwindling. 

There's always a chance, when you read a science book about a subject, that the romance of it will wane for you - the magic is "explained". This book is very interesting, and the author loves her subject. So, I'll try not to let it spoil my enchantment with fireflies. I know she means well. Books written by naturalists, on the other hand, seem to find a nice balance between the two: science fact and poetry.

"Summer belongs to the insects, and in the drowsy heat of July and August, when I walk southward over the brown road from Morgan Creek to Lone Field, I am never out of hearing of the buzzing of meadow grasshoppers, the whirring wasps. the droning of bees at the old field flowers. Birds sing early. The awakening whistle of quail comes at dawn from the hedges, and in the cool, green woods, the redstarts, summer tanagers, and red-eyed vireos sing long before the heat waves shimmer over the road and the sun has burned away the morning mists. But it is the insects that proclaim high summer, and at noon of days when the temperature rises to more than 100 degrees they are fiercely active."

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