Our seventeenth wedding anniversary was mellow and nice. The piano recital was lovely; the girls did quite well. It was held out in Jamul, where the yellow-brown hills lift themselves up to the sky. I love it out there, all sere and windblown and smelling of sage, where the land seems to ripple like waves. Scott would like a house up on top of one of those hills, with that enormous view that takes the breath out of you. I’d rather one at the foot of the hill, where the mountain rises up above you, and you can look out your kitchen window while you wash dishes and watch the cloudshadows swim over the slopes.
I forgot to take my camera. But the tomatoes are what’s happening here at home.