A perfect late summer day, hooray! I’d get up early, for me, say around 7. I’d bake blueberry muffins from our own frozen blueberries, scramble a couple of eggs from our hens, and savor a large mug of coffee. I’d take my breakfast outside by the fish pond and watch the ducks taking their morning swim.Then I’d deliver a muffin, still hot, to my big sister, Alvida, who lives on the same property. Back home, I’d check out the garden to see what’s there — cantaloupes, tomatoes, Swiss chard, parsley, cucumbers — it’s all magic the way those tiny seeds know how to develop into sprawling vines that produce melons unlike anything our stores can provide. The mint is taking over. I love mint. Not only is it the right garnish for a gin and tonic, it seems to deter garden pests. But it does take over, and I pull it up gladly because it smells great. Our two little goats will see me coming with armfuls of mint. They’ll stand at the fence on their hind legs, front feet on the fence top. Somehow it’s become noon on this ideal day, and although it’s midweek, the Sunday Writers are meeting in a couple of hours. I’ve got to get something written — fast! During the pandemic, we’ve been meeting outdoors under the maple trees my mother planted when she was about 8 years old. She planted two, far enough apart so when she grew up and the trees grew larger, she could sling a hammock between them. The trees did grow. She, and later we three daughters, spent summer hours in that hammock. The trees are now more than a hundred years old, and their trunks are a good five feet in diameter. They’ve grown too close for a hammock. But the shade from those giant trees — ahh! On a hot day, it’s at least 10 degrees cooler under their leafy canopy. I’ve procrastinated, and my reading for today isn’t ready yet. When it is, I’ll send a quick email to the group with my work. Each of us prints out our own copy of everyone’s writing to minimize touching. The writers group, all masked, will sit in a circle on wooden benches and resin chairs set six feet apart. It’s a working meeting, but it morphs into a much-needed social occasion. Those of us with gardens and chickens and zucchini share eggs and produce, those with no garden share zucchini bread. The afternoon has waned and cooled. I check the goats. Chris has given them a load of hay. I check the ducks and chickens and guineas, but Lynn has fed them so they wouldn’t beg at the writers’ group. A final check of the garden to see what new magic has taken place. Yes! A zucchini, the size of a fireplace log, has escaped my earlier inspection. Supper: zucchini bread from the writers group, and a tomato and cucumber salad, a book, and bed.[With regard to Labor Day:] Ordinarily, Bunch of Grapes would have a booth at the Artisans Fair on Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, and I’d be at all three, from 10 am to 4 pm, selling books. When BOG wasn’t able to book their booth one year, Andrea Rodgers, who established the Artisans Fair, invited Lynn Christoffers, other writers, and me to take over their booth to sell our books. It’s always a grand occasion, not only selling the books, but talking to neighbors and friends and readers I’m meeting for the first time. Not sure what will happen this year, certainly not the usual schmoozing. This is a year for Que Sera, Sera.