July 17, 2025

DJ and I at lunch in Reynolds Village. I’m at the age when every restaurant portion is too much. Talked about the special treat when mom and I went to the Georgian Terrace in O’Neill’s for club sandwiches. Kids got a menus shaped like an elephant. Those club sandwiches were dainty. Those at the Village Porch were leviathans. Could barely haul myself into the van. 

On the night porch: Bart the black cat leapt up, sensed me, deliberated for a moment whether I were tolerable, then departed. I was disappointed. The balls of fluff (now taking up the tops of two columns) are sleeping wrens. I disturbed one a little, and he fluttered stupidly around until he found his perch again, groggy, or maybe night-blind. I guess the porch saves the energy it takes to cling to a twig; plus, against the roof, they are vulnerable to approach from only one side. As I turned to go inside, the shape of a bear loomed out of the gloom, making for the back garden. Unaccountably huge. I’m used to being amazed at the hugeness of bears, but this was at another level.