Misting up

We awoke to gray skies here in Ashland, Oregon, unprecedented cool air for all the 12 years we've come down for plays and recreation. Mists obscured the quilted hills to the east, and the higher summits of the Siskiyous to the west. Refreshing breezes wafted about all day, halting the transformation of my skin into jerky, at least briefly. We moved our quarters to another little domicile belonging to the rental outfit we've used for the last two years, and dashed off to an afternoon play, which was an unexpected delight: "Intimate Apparel", by Lynn Nottage. It was set in the early 20th century, and had mostly black characters struggling to make a living in NYC: A seamstress who made fancy undergarments for mostly an affluent clientele, her landlady, her friend who was a "burlesque performer" ( and prostitute), the seamstress's correspondent cum husbnad from the Carribean who wanted to escape working on the Panama Canal, and an Orthodox Jewish merchant from whom the seamstress obtained her fabrics. Perhaps this doesn't sound astounding, but Nottage's storytelling, language and deft touch moved me.
Tonight my beloved spouse and his mom went to the outdoor theater to see "The Merry Wives of Windsor", which I have seen before and didn't want to see again. They are in the front row, the "spit zone", as it is called, and I'm sure are having a great time. We go to "Cyrano" tomorrow night, our last play.
I am recovering from a very late night, poor sleep, and am lying low in the new digs. There's a train going by in the distance, but it's been very quiet and relaxing. This town has cicadas during the day, and crickets at night; minnows in the creek, and turtles in the duck pond. It also has denizens spouting rafts of alternative weirdness, but also demonstrating a fair amount of tolerance for diversity. A fragile ecosystem indeed.