First Summer Rose, But No Picture, Too Happy

No energy to post pictures. But I will.

For now, this telegraph-like entry: Roses blooming profusely. Smell of honeysuckle wafting into my office window. Badminton games until dark (first one to miss scoops ice-cream: inevitably, me).

In an attempt to kill ugly white flies eating one shrub rose, I rub it with undiluted Dr. Bronner's peppermint soap. Bad, bad idea. Bad idea! Kill rose buds instead. Buy flats of marigolds and allysum, hope to scare away the bugs with smells (also made Martin stand around after mowing our yard, but the bugs just flocked all over him as if he were slicked up with maple syrup). Also, nestle crushed garlic heads in crooks of the rose branches. Leave out dishes of Guinness for the slugs. Feel a bit like a witch doctor.

Cause of bad sentence construction? Aftermath of ten children visiting, gooping about in sprinkler, mud, and sand pit that is now (hurrah!) all that is left of our pool. Also transplanted ferns in humid, must have been 90 degree temperature. Martin made Pad Thai and also Thai Basil Chicken. Lovely families bearing children leave. We polish off bottle of white wine. Now, barely cognizant.

Delightful, hot summer. Hope it rains soon.

Pictures soon. Merry waits up though bone weary for my goodnight, then falls asleep immediately. Nasty white flies, horrid June bugs, grateful for life in general, wildly grateful for mine.

PS. First summer rose, vibrant hot pink, color of 1980's prom dress, in a vase on my dining room table.