High

It is, in fact, noon, but you wouldn't know it in here, because the eight day clock wound down the other day, and neither of us has felt yet like winding it back up again. I occasionally muse that it would be nice to have a battery-backup windup clock, but I'm not sure there is such a thing. I look over at the clock every so often, from where I'm sitting in the living room, listening to the Bach Variations CD. Still just past two, apparently.

My wife is outside pulling weeds. We had some truly enormous -- as in, five feet or more -- ones. I kind of liked them, actually -- they're green, they grow, what more do you want? -- but when she said she wanted to pull them, I didn't gainsay her. I merely pointed out that I don't do weeds. I do the little ones, but when they get to be that big, I think that it's time for the attack corps -- which is to say, my wife. As for the daughter, she's inside doing some sewing. I'm always a little intimidated by the sewing machine -- I have this image of that shiny needle going into something a lot more precious to me than the red shirt that's lying in there, waiting to be mended. I know, guys are supposed to like power tools, but I'm not in that mold. I've always admired people who can do amazing things with hand tools (not that I can do that, either). Come to think of it, thats a good description of my wife and the weeds. Whack, whack, whack.

Here's a picture that I like. I'm not sure where I found it, but its one of a few images I have that I'd like to think will be incorporated in the house we build, if we ever do.
I suppose it won't have quite the same effect if it's looking out on a busy street, or the neighbor's trash cans.