Like this morning, I come down the kitchen stairs singing Que Sera Sera (or something, it’s always different, whatever the “guardian MUSICA angel” puts into my head when I first wake up, but today, Que Sera Sera) which brings back lots of 
memories, and gives me all these great ideas that run through my mind while I’m feeding the cats, emptying the dishwasher, singing, “ I asked my mother what will I be . . .” and making tea. I can barely get to the studio fast enough (before I forget) to add the new memories and ideas to the book I am writing, and then something happens to me. I disappear 
completely, I hear nothing, see nothing, only a sort of ticker-tape noise in my brain (which sounds just like when my brothers used to clothespin playing cards to the spokes of their bikes . . .very good for hypnosis) and when I wake up a. it’s 2 pm and b. I need a nap, and c. I have to do laundry, get the mail, and go to the market, on oh yes! My Girlfriends, I need to say hello! This is my problem in a nutshell. I knew you’d want to know.♥
Walking through town to the post office (after I spend the morning writing) is a good way to wake up from what sometimes feels like a dream . . . it’s August on Martha’s Vineyard, the weather has been beautiful (actually stunning: last night a HUGE lightening storm, pounding thunder, blinking electricity, sirens, lit candles, pulling Girl Kitty out from under couch) but today, another dry sunny coolish day, just heaven), and the gardens and trees along the way are in full leafy bloom. The hydrangea practically froths.
The soil here on the island is acidic (because of all those leaves that are contemplating September. On their to-do list: Change), so most of our hydrangeas are blue, purple or white.
I love walking on the quiet streets past the old fences, where there’s wicker furniture on porches and in gardens. It speaks to me . . .
I thought you’d like to see this wonderful illustrated letter that came in the mail yesterday. A real hand-written old-fashioned letter . . . a different kind of garden, but still, a garden … it made my day. ♥
(Her toe hurts bet-tee.♥) I love that a high school girl likes our book, don’t you? That she took the time to write with her review? I love her mother too ~ all that cooking, how great. They are good sunshine-spreaders. Wouldn’t you like to follow her around for the rest of her life and be with her when she goes to England herself someday? Stand right next to her as she looks out over the Dales for the first time, takes a deep breath and tears come in her eyes because of the beauty? See the little lambs she drew? I wrote her back to say thank you and told her to go to the Appendix for A FINE ROMANCE, for my little videos and more England and maybe a little Beatrix Potter . . . ♥
K I T T Y L O V E
I have left Kitty Love out of both of my last two posts but I woke up this morning with Jack’s eyes about three inches from mine, staring into my face; he seemed to be trying to tell me something. Notice me. Not that I don’t, but it is his goal that I never forget for an instant. There cannot be enough noticing. You have to see what my house looks like. He hints constantly:
By leaving rubber bands all over the house . . .
They are strategically placed everywhere he knows I go . . . They are in every doorway . . . MAS MUSICA?
He puts them on his favorite window sills . . .
They are on the kitchen floor . . .
. . . on the back stairs . . .
. . . in the dining room . . .
. . . in the hall, and he waits.
I picked them all up . . . these are just the ones from the downstairs . . .
I hold one up so Mr. Green Eyes knows I’m getting his hints ~ finally!
I shoot it just above his head, he leaps off his scratching post, tries for it in mid air, misses (this time), runs to get it, brings it back up . . .
And points to it. Just in case I might miss it. So we can do it again.
and again and again . . .
Girl lounges. She is fine with it, as long as none of it gets on her. If the action comes too near, she daintily walks to the door and says, let me out please. Because, unlike Jack, she is a responsible adult and is allowed to go outside by herself (because she is part chicken and never gets further than two feet from the foundation of the house).
She lords this freedom over Jack. He follows her every move from the top of the ironing board or window sill or screen door. When she comes in, he sees her as a neighborhood cat, ie, the enemy. He lies in wait, he chases her up the stairs, but she is ready. He doesn’t stand a chance. A few growls and he is back downstairs . . . boom boom boom, his feet hit the stairs . . .
. . . and there he is, looking up at me with those eyes saying, Hey, remember me? Have you seen my rubber bands?
W I N D O W of O P P O R T U N I T Y
So, the window is still open, but barely, this is the fleeting moment, the five-minute opening in summer when the peaches are 
ripe and juicy, the plums are red and dripping, the cantaloupe is sweet and melts in your mouth . . . So I thought I would remind you to take advantage of the moment with two delicious recipes you really can’t make at any other time of year . . . First, healthy and ice cold . . .
When it’s really hot and the bees are drowsy, I add “ice cream croutons” to this cold soup. Little round melon-ballers of vanilla ice cream are a wonderful surprise to find in this beautiful peach-colored soup. Speaking of peaches . . . you could have soup for dinner, and this ↓ for dessert, commonly known in the biz as having your cake and eating it too . . . ♥
Peaches and plums baked in a crisp . . . Bake this one for 25 minutes, just heaven on a summer night. Make your weekend special with one of these recipes. Peaches, plums, and Cantaloupes . . . the taste of summer.♥
B E C A U S E
Artsy fartsy photography, just for you.♥ We’ve got it all, don’t we Girlfriends? With l♥ve from me . . . XOXO
F O R N O W . . .
the right, is my sister as a baby. I was fourteen when she was born (she’s the youngest of eight and I’m the oldest) so my mother let me name her — I chose Michelle after the most popular girl in my Junior High School (whose name was Shelly Stewart). Most of us call her Shelly, some say Shelly Belly, and I call her Belle, as in Mee-shell, ma belle, somblay mon kee bon tre bien on somble . . . (my “French” is phonetic in case you can’t tell!).
balance out all that health, she made her favorite recipe for “Macaroni and Cheese.” 
