Today began cool, in the sixties, and although it had rained and was overcast and hugged you with dampness, it had a restful quality to it. Then I looked at the forecast and, my goodness, it is headed toward 88 BIG DEGREES. Of course, this is not that dreadful, really, but hot, humid heat does not suggest that you just entice you to relax. Words such as sticky and sweaty and oppressive knock on your consciousness and instead of the “time-out” day the morning suggested, you are now faced with the aspects of limply languishing.

I am looking forward to Monday when the electrician is scheduled to install new ceiling fans and replace others. Hunter fans – not the modern, sleek look, but suggesting Casablanca. Of course, I will have the job of re-enforcing the idea that ceiling fans do not have to go FAST to be effective. Indeed, I find a slower speed calming, as the air is gently directed away from hovering on the ceiling. And it doesn’t hurt to let the vision of Rick’s American Cafe to be a backdrop from your thoughts. Sometimes the power of suggestion is a marvelous thing . . . as the time goes by.

I am also getting new lights in the kitchen – quite utilitarian because it is a kitchen in need of remodeling, but not by me. I just need to see. And, yes, I thought of dimmer switches. My kitchen is designed like a wide hallway, and windows that once accessed the sky, now show you the ceiling of the vestibule formed when the second story was added on the garage. If I am not mistaken, I have not yet climbed up and wiped away the remaining cola explosion splats from last winter. It does give the beadboard less than a cottage feel. The other windows are down at the end of the hallway/room where you can place a small table and look out at the driveway, which widens into a large expanse of cement. On the spring and fall solstice, an angle of light reaches the corner of the oven and highlights smudges that shouldn’t be there, but are because it’s hard to see them normally.

When Mother was living, the kitchen was not inviting to stand in, but nice to hover around the doorways because she made such delicious dishes and always had some little special thing, such as you normally see on Mommy Mormon blogger sites. More often than not, there would be a pie in a special pie dish designed to look like a lattice-crusted pie. Oh, and utensils with ivory handles for lifting out pieces. Now, if we are lucky enough to have a pie, it is sitting in a tinfoil pan with a fork sticking out of it. Sigh. Don’t even think of homemade, specially frosted cookies sitting under a dome of glass. Oreaos with the middles licked out are more to be expected.

This is rather depressing; I suspect I will find myself often leaning against a wall, watching the lazy turning of the ceiling fan sweep though time.