The Last Warm Day of the Year?

Like an episode of Seinfeld, this post isn’t about anything. Just some musings as I sit on the front porch in the middle of October, wearing a t-shirt and shorts, with a temperature in the 80’s at 9 o’clock. When Tate and I returned home with our pizza (another gourmet dinner), the digital gauge in the SUV of the external temperature read 88°. Global warming, I suppose. A cynical person might say the planet has been warming since the last ice age. Guess it’s a good thing I don’t know any cynical people.

Whatever the reason, I’m enjoying the evening here in famous Ferguson. The katydids, crickets and tree frogs are in fine form, serenading me as I’m enjoying what may be the last warm day of the year. The forecast is calling for a low of 44° tomorrow, that’s quite a drop.

There is slight smell of ash in our 1890 house. I don’t know for sure, but I’m wondering if because the outside temperature is warmer  than the inside that  the air is not flowing down through the three chimneys on the first floor rather than up. Having said that, the entire summer would fit that description, so that doesn’t explain it. The smell is not so unpleasant as to spend any more time contemplating the cause and it is a reminder of fires to come. If winter has any redeeming value, it is the joy of a warm fire on a cold evening.

I know all to well, that it won’t be long before I step out on the front porch, and there will be silence. The tree-top musicians that are still providing the soundtrack of summer, tuned into the temperature rather than the calendar date will be dormant. Until then, I will enjoy their symphony.

Mrs. G, our semi-feral cat has decided to join me on the front porch. How we came by Mrs G is a whole different blog post, but I should at least explain the name. We simply tired of calling her, “that grey cat” and she became Mrs. G.

I spent most of the day working outside, rebuilding the fence around the pool, yes I know, a first world problem if there ever was one, but Mrs. G enjoyed the company. Like most cats she wants some attention, but not too much. A brave man would draw parallels to women about now. Guess it’s a good thing I don’t know any brave men.

Poppy