Glue sticks and spiral notebooks now occupy the prime retail real estate, and rumor has it Halloween displays are already claiming their share of shelf space, so it seems fair to say we’re midway through the summer, a season rivaled only by Christmas for sensory stimulation.

We had a house painting project happening around here in June, which meant no flowers on the porch or deck, but the garden center conveniently located 4.5 miles due East, and on my way to almost everywhere, seemed to hold a sale of some sort every time I drove by.

Being the civic-minded sort, I stopped in to support the local economy, which explains the excessive pinks, yellows, and purples of the too-many annuals placed around the yard in my temporary holding zones.

Economic assistance. That’s Lisa Logic. I love it, George has learned to live with it.

Painting completed, the plants were moved to their more permanent locations on the deck and after a brief tutorial, Ruffian learned that they are for decorative purposes only, and not, actually, for his dining pleasure.

New this year are some cheerful zinnias and showy cosmos, through which I feel my grandma Maxine, who planted them along the cedar fence in her backyard. When I look at those flowers, I see teenage me sitting with her on the concrete patio that connected her two-bedroom rambler and the detached garage.

I smell the smoke of her PallMall red, taste the real sugar of my icy Coca Cola in a glass bottle, and I hear Herb Carneal calling play by play for our Minnesota Twins as jets cruise across the flight path overhead, approaching and departing Minneapolis St Paul International.

Fortunately, Mother Nature has generously supplied the waterworks this summer, leaving me, the generally neglectful gardener, in a mostly supporting role; and I’ve come to appreciate my watering routine – the grounding of my bare feet on the warmed wood of the deck planks, the cathartic calm of deadheading spent blossoms, and the affable acceptance of a hummingbird’s impatient whirring around my head as he waits for me to move away from his Cuphea café, the new pollinator hot spot at Four Sticks Farm.

The best view from my deck includes Chicago and Moe, sporting shiny summer coats, both spotted with white dots befitting their heritages.

It’s a Pasture Palooza kind of summer, so they’re enjoying as much green freshness as they can manage with swishing tails, twitching ears, and an afternoon break to doze beneath the draft of their stall fans while the bugs are blown away.

The seasonal barn bouquet is one of warm horse and hay and citronella insect spray, but the tack room, unless I remember to run the dehumidifier, retains the faint but foul smell of a stray brown tabby who, many years ago, spent the night as an uninvited visitor. Fortunately, he found more accommodating accommodations elsewhere, so his was a single night stay, but he left a mark.

To minimize the muddy paws and stinging insects of our so-far warm and wet summer, Rowdy, Ruff and I are mostly walking at a park with a paved trail that winds past a target shooting range, through the woods, next to a radio-controlled airplane landing strip, along the Mississippi River, and around a disc-golf course.

The trail takes us across a sunny stretch of wild-flowered prairie grasses before leading into a shady pine forest, where we meet walkers, runners, cyclists, hoverboarders, skateboarders, inline skaters and frisbee golfers.

We hear the staccato pops of target shooters, and the droning whines of miniature flying machines, the thwack of golf discs hitting trees and the metallic ting of golf discs hitting chain-link baskets.

If our schedules have been synchronized, we also hear the threatening vocalizations of a pair of tiny dachshunds asking my golden punks if they feel lucky.

And if we really are lucky, we hear the nearly silent thump of a deer paw landing on soft soil when it leaps through the trees ahead of us.

It’s been a bunch of beautiful days in this neighborhood. Even when the humidity hits the high notes, when I feel that single drop of sweat sliding down my spine, there is respite in the slightest breeze or spot of shade.

The air around the house smells of pink verbena, damp soil, mowed grass, and some wildflower that I’ve yet to ferret out.

I wake up Every morning and fall asleep Every night serenaded by house wren who sings incessantly, staking his claim and looking for love. All. Day. Long.

I look at a world of wildlife.

And cats and dogs and horses.

And flowers.

Fifty percent off.

Road Sign for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 3
Obedience night
He did pretty well
The lessons, it seems
Are starting to gel.

Road Signs for Ruffian – Therapy Dog Class Week 4
He ignored the distractions
That were placed on the floor
I had hope when we started
And now I have more.