The sounds of a sweet summer night:
The electric fan oscillating.
Radio going, Joseph Dispenza giving me reasons why I should bury myself and my loved ones in Forest Lawn. Forest Lawn is not full! It keeps telling me it has room for me.
Cicadas.
(Wow, they are prettier to hear than to see.)
Crickets.
And most importantly the guy in the nearby group home swearing.
The group home guy just burst out with a string of creative applications of the "F" word.
Sometimes on Saturday mornings he sits outside and I feel sorry for him, he seems full of the blues. He kind of moans and groans as if terribly depressed. And once, in a weary voice, I heard him grumble:
"You son of a bitch. You son of a pup."
And then the moaning commenced again.
Later, with more energy:
"You bastard! You jackass!"
It is funny, I take my mind off Pennario and transfer it for a moment to that.
And I admit it, I am kind of affectionate about it. When the winter comes and the windows are closed I will not hear him until the spring, when his voice will be like the call of the chickadee.
The beauties of summer!
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