I have high hopes for this sultry Saturday in the middle of the actual week of summer about which natives often moan.

True enough, I woke later than I intended.  My bones ache with a convincing imitation of old age. The tender spots at the base of my thumbs remind me that I forgot to take ibuprofen last night. Temperatures threaten to climb above 100F.  My in-home humidity gauge indicates that we might reach 50% today.

My enthusiasm persists.

My plan to get into Rio Vista by eight fell away as I eased myself down the stairs from my erstwhile writing loft turned bedroom.  I feel compelled to explore the dollar general to see if any heat-beating mechanisms could be acquired for the comfort of our #SundayMarket guests.  Extra bottled water, perhaps; personal misters; something.  I need a new battery for the gizmo which lets me into my vehicle and starts the engine.  Getting out of the house at the crack of opening time would have put me back home with the entire morning to spare.  I reckoned without the gleeful, unpredictable resurgence of the symptoms of a disease which no one can identify, cure, or treat.  I staggered around my tiny house begging for coffee, waiting for the kettle to boil.

I remain undaunted.

The grim reality of 2020 smacked me in the face from the New York Times, social media, and my personal inbox.  US Covid-19 deaths nearing 170,000.  Postal services threatened less than three months before a presidential election which will be largely vote-by-mail. Racist comments flying through the airwaves on the heels of the selection of Kamala Harris as the Democratic VP candidate. Film at eleven ooo ahhh ahhh.

I keep pushing.

I intend to enjoy this day.  Chores will be completed, pain quelled, attitude adjusted.  Everything which needs to unfold in my one clear day for tackling the nuts and bolts of life will be  organized, addressed, and accomplished.  As the sun sets over the California Delta and the heat of our week-long hot weather abates, I will walk — or drive — down the row of tiny houses and open my lawn chair in the meadow by the home of my friends Louis and Helix for movie night.  By and by, I will sleep again, and when Sunday dawns, I will get up and do it all over again.

It’s the fifteenth day of the ninetieth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

When I first moved to Park Delta Bay, this old tree on Jackson Slough Road caught my attention and became a symbol of the transplanting of this middle-aged Missouri Mugwump from her Midwestern complacency to the new challenges in NORCAL.  These cell phone snaps do not do justice to the venerable lines of this tree, nor clearly depict the mighty bird perched on its old branches.  Perhaps your imagination can complete the picture.