Spring to summer and explosions

Penny, who now lives in Maine, warned me that we are living in a vernally challenged corner of the world.  And, indeed, summer has now arrived, post haste on the tiny heels of a fleeting spring:  trees are in glorious leaf, the tulips are overblown and beds of pansies are on view. Today is actually approaching “hot” and everyone is in shorts, sundresses or a state of less dress than either of those afford.

Yesterday’s big local news is that Paul McCartney is coming to town.  Bob figured this out beforehand via the secret language of traffic warning signs.  Specifically, the riotously strange orange warning erected on the corner of Bedford Row and Sackville street: “Flying stones.”  What, he quipped, will Sir Paul, with Wings, be doing a double bill with Mick?  No, just Paul.

Closer to home–way too close to home–there appear to be more than mere flying stones in the forecast: today’s paper announces 14 weeks of blasting along the block.  However, blasting will be limited (if one can call 14 weeks of anything “limited”) to the hours of 8 am and 6 pm and will not occur on statutory holidays.  Fourteen weeks?  That takes us into late August.  Bob will ahve to go north to find peace and quiet.  perhaps to the Common?  No, that would be where Paul, and then Kiss, and a bunch of others are showcased during the same period.

Happy summer to all.  Have a blast.


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