I came home from grocery shopping today to a spirited conversation coming from my side yard where my two boys (er, men) were cleaning out the gutters: N. at the top of the ladder, R. holding it steady on the sloppy soggy earth. Amid the flinging of moss/fir-needles/leaves they were embroiled in a discussion on the history of Israel and Palestine; then suddenly Socialism was the topic, which quickly spilled into the subject of independent presidential candidates.
Thankfully, all in good nature. They do tend to get each others passions stirred up in these dialogues.
"Watch out for James Fenimore Cooper!" I said.
You might recall the antiquarian book I placed in the sun last June, whose place on the deck railing has gone undisturbed for going on six months.
"Wait!" I said. "I'm gonna take a picture!"
Anyway, I checked on it after the gutter-reaming was completed, and not a page had flapped.
R. made us dinner — Hungarian goulash, papperdelle, and carrots in brown sugar and butter.
Before N. left, he scooped up his kitty, who settled into his arms
with an ease reserved for N. only —