Leisure, Liberty, Recreation

I bought a life jacket today.

I bought the life jacket because I bought a kayak.

I bought a kayak because I'm looking for ways to get the most out of summer in southwestern Wyoming. It was a lot cheaper and more portable than windsurfing equipment, and can be checked as baggage when I go back to Venice. You can't rent a kayak in Venice; you have to bring your own.

I discovered tonight that the best way to eat sweet potatoes is to bake them into crispy, salty-sweet fries. Slice them squarely thin, coat them with olive oil and sprinkle with salt, bake ten minutes on each side at 425º on a cookie sheet, and voila- they're even better than sweet potatoes smothered with marshmallows and brown sugar, and that's saying something.

I'm celebrating a remote birthday today and making plans for my early October pilgrimage to Massachusetts to see how they live in the Berkshires. I'm more than a little afraid I won't want to come back.

I'm eyeballing real estate and crossing my fingers for candidates for local office, all the while resenting the rectangular litter of campaign signs blighting our fair city. (Candidate, from the Latin canditātus, "clothed in white" [from the white togas worn by Romans seeking office], not candidus, "pure, guileless," because we all know that's not the case.)

I briefly fawned over some classic cars at the Evanston Cruise-In this afternoon. Somehow it's not the same without Dad. Next door to Hamblin Park (where the sparkling rods and woodies lounged on a natural emerald carpet) the fair is winding down, which seems a little sad. During fair week Evanston seems charged with excitement and an overall seasonal enjoyment that is distinctly rural. Last Saturday the Trace Adkins concert blared so loudly throughout town that I could hear every guitar lick and tuneful drawl as I walked out on Union Center Road. The roads around here are clogged with horse trailers and tractors, though, and it will be nice to have our streets back.

I jumped on the trampoline with Cordale for half an hour Wednesday night and discovered that I spend most of my time holding my jeans up. It was a great workout, though, and the games he invented on the spot- changing the rules as we bounced- were actually fun and imaginative. I can still do a somersault but it takes longer to recover than it used to. I can't lie flat on my back and bounce to a standing position anymore, at least not without a transitional arrangement, but I can still bounce up from sitting, kneeling, or laying flat on my stomach. I can also build up a lot more momentum than my nephew and, with careful timing, launch him nearly to the height of the roof. But I am far more afraid for my limbs and joints than I was at twelve years old, and I'm not willing to fall backwards onto the springy tarp from the top rung of the porch railing like he does.

Finally, after parched weeks, the Uintas snagged low-slung storm clouds and thoroughly doused our high desert plateau. My hollyhocks bloomed, big papery white blossoms jumbled at the top of their flimsy stocks. Other gardens were beaten down by heavy rains and took days to stand up straight, but my pair of plants were protected by the needled arms of the pine outside the door. Weather.com predicts more thunderstorms.

I'm doing a lot of walking. I never do enough sleeping. At least I keep my dishes clean and the kitchen swept. There aren't enough hours in the day.