weofodthignen

Internet access is still best described as random. Neighbors moved into a house where a little apricot tree had been planted to replace a poor flowering tree that came down with some disease. This year after all the nice rain, its branches are all bent to the ground with fruit. They really need to harvest.

A single small fluffy cloud in the blue sky to the south as I loaded up the washing line.

I see that the neighbors have finished off their new fence with a matching sliding gate at the mouth of their driveway; they had to take down most of the plants they'd trained up the outside of the wall to give it room to slide, and it is maybe one millimeter from the tail of the sea otter on the remaining stone gatepost. It looks imposing but I suspect the next quake is going to trap their cars inside. And it's puzzling—is it our prying eyes they are so afraid of? Because one cotoneaster their workmen sawed off was blocking the view from our porch; from the top of the steps I now have an uninterrupted view of their kitchen window.

On Wednesdays I almost always miss the bus and wind up taking the express that comes along much later. I get off at the express stop before work, a couple of stops short. Sometimes I can see the next 22 in the distance and wait for it, but usually I wind up beating the feet past the towering cliffs of apartments that have replaced the little garden center, the row of furniture stores west of it, the fast-food dosa place, and the consignment car lot, and after that across the expressway. The creek still runs in its concrete channel east of where the garden center was; in the mornings I can see that the purple-flowered morning glory they planted still spills down the slope on that side, but of course that eerily beautiful South American spiky tree that flowered in November is gone. Walking across the bridge that carries El Camino over the creek, I've been hearing a noise like distant loudspeakers. As if there was some sporting event going on in the distance. I finally realized it must be frogs. Last night there was almost no sound. Stay safe, froggies.

After a year, the other neighbors suddenly decided to finish the re-fencing job by putting up a 6-foot privacy fence where there was once a dilapidated picket fence and a cinderblock wall. Much of our catoneaster got chainsawed.

Today it is flaming hot—our exterior thermometer says 108, the weather service says 100 in the hills in Los Altos, and when we left the house for the weekly shopping trip, the skinny old ginger tom was lying under the front of the car with his feet sticking out.

Continuing internet outages. I sit in my room trying to catch it being up so I can read the latest about the awful fire in London. Heat not improving my mood, but on a couple of occasions I've stomped off to bed early and actually managed to fall asleep.

All of a sudden, no white kitty. Instead I catch glimpses of a little tabby. The street is apparently becoming more evenly divided between cats and dogs. I hope the white kitty is ok.

Still cooler than usual during the day—we waste heating leaving the door open for the dog—and chilly at night. I'm glad of it, and the days are so beautiful I keep feeling I should be walking in the hills or something, but it's odd.

A sunny day with a brisk breeze; beach weather. I wonder what the water's like at Santa Cruz. The cat food dish is now getting polished clean, and in addition to the white cat who is sometimes waiting right outside the door, I've seen the tiny calico (she looks as if she's wearing urban camo) hanging around at the bottom of the porch steps. She's terrified of me.