Scything season again

Playing chicken with the ever-growing grass in the side yard; tomorrow it shall be cut down. After walks, exercising, and a rousing hairdo, we took a fall drive around the lake. The black walnut trees lining a big section of the circumference are golden, with the occasional thwack of a mature nut falling on passersby. 68 degrees F by the running shoe store clock, and nary a breeze stirring the lovely air.
Another delicious mostlyhome harvest-based dinner, to end a pleasant day. The Savage Detectives by Roberto Bolano is proving to be stranger and stranger, and is guaranteed to cause much clucking of tongues amongst the conservative book readers. It's odd, the narrator at this point is exuding the hormonal attitude of a teenaged boy, and I'm finding it pretty amusing, if occasionally getting a sort of nostalgic shock.