The rain has come and gone and come again—sending torrents, sprinkles, showers, mists, and what my grandmother called “pitchforks and hammer handles.”

My feet are still up instead of walking for a couple more days, Jeanie Tomalek’s painting has been lost by the UPS since 19 May, the Russian doll and the CD from Estonia are still somewhere between there and here even though the Atlantic is not so big as the Pacific Ocean, Butterfly Fontanelle has been submitted for the third time (did I already mention that?), the left side of my jaw remains tender (I may never chew on that side or anything crunchy ever again), my son helped me download software that removed the (thirty-eight!) malware things on my computer, I have been revising work for a collection of slightly-to-seriously non-realist stories in order to submit (to someplace), and I am laying out yarn for a “Strawberry” warp. I might not have all the colors I want for the weaving, but I tell myself that sometimes forging ahead with what I have works out best. In between writing paragraphs, I move skeins around.

The sky settled down low overhead, blotting out the lower peaks in the Coast range, and allowing me to feel better about missing my walk. Sometimes the precipitation clattered and other times it came down like a gentle rain that falls over all the world.

Tomorrow is our 41st anniversary living in this house. Gary has put wine in the fridge. The first four years here after Seattle were hard. We missed our friends and cultural events. When I began teaching, I took classes in Portland and often drove students to Powell’s Book Store or a mall or Portland State University for the library. The cable was really bad, then it was worse, and now it’s just slow sometimes. There was a movie theater two towns to the north and then there wasn’t, then a multiplex opened, and now we feel no interest in entering a movie house ever again.

But the good news is that it rained enough over the weekend to discourage some tourists, the people staying at the rental north of us built only a small beach fire and stayed with it till it burnt away, and our grandchildren played in the ocean at least five times in two days, rain or shine! Gary’s stilton cheese arrived, I cut his hair, and I am happy with the rearrangement of the “Strawberry” warp skeins. I might wish I had more red skeins, but I will make do.

And am I the only one who recalls the original predictions for covid? There are well over two million confirmed cases in the U.S. and nearly one hundred sixteen thousand dead.

To read something wonderful, please check out Bracken, Issue VII and scroll down to find fiction and poetry and art. This brand new issue has a gorgeous “cover” image and offers accompanying music (Odetta’s “Another Man Done Gone” is first up). You can start the music and then listen to while you read, and the “Corona Hopelings” on the website offer words and images that are very dear.

“I didn’t know his name.” But now we do.

I helped Ruby make a cake for her dad’s birthday. She decorated the James Beard huckleberry cake with raspberry pureé she’d brought from home, my strawberry-rhubarb jam, and whipped cream, and placed a ring of honeysuckle flowers on top. Ruby drew a picture first to show how it should be. Little Logan had two pieces.

‘