What is Frances Saying?

The little European goldfinches have been in our garden again, eating something off the tamarisk. I don't know if they're eating bugs or the plant itself, but I don't suppose they do any harm, and I love watching them.

Remember how I said the porch railing looks so good since Mr. Russia painted it? Well, yesterday, Mrs. Russia dropped the bombshell that they're redoing it. "It's too shiny," she said. They're waiting for matte paint to arrive in the mail and when it does, the whole thing gets stripped and repainted.

I protested that it looks fine, but I doubt my words will have any effect. As I have said, they are insane.

I'm glad you liked yesterday's old postcards. I must admit I am not at all sure I'm reading the one from Frances Delany correctly. I thought I'd post it here in case any of you have a better idea what it might say.

I've got it all except that first word or words -- the best I could come up with is "standing." It looks more like "I landing," which doesn't quite make sense, or maybe even the more nonsensical "I tanding." What do you think, blog sleuths? I assume she took a train where there was standing room only, but would that really be "very nice"? It's a mystery.

I can hear her teachers now: "Frances, what have we told you about your penmanship?"

(She also appears to have signed France, or Terance, but the latter makes no sense as she clearly said "daughter." I'm gambling she's Frances.)

Well, that's probably taking you way too far down the old-postcard rabbit hole.

I'm reading a book right now that I kind of hate. It's called "The Woman Who Lost Her Soul," by Bob Shacochis, and it's about American intrigue in Haiti. Shacochis makes it really, really challenging to read this book. He is fond of run-on sentences and changing perspectives, and the timeline jumps around, and he doesn't use quotation marks, which in a complex novel makes me crazy.

The thing is, there's an interesting plot here, but it's buried beneath unnecessary authorial trickery. Where was his editor? Why do some writers want to make it hard to read their work?

Anyway, I'm about 200 pages in, and I think I may quit. (That's another thing -- it's a 700-page book.) I rarely quit books but I am feeling resentment that I'm being made to work so hard.

Here's the latest from our garden cam. We had hundreds of videos of wind and blowing leaves this time, so I only have about a minute of interesting footage. The cat at the very beginning is carrying some kind of prey in its mouth. At first I thought it was a bird and I was annoyed, but I think it's actually a mouse or rat. I think I see a long tail. And then there's a squirrel close-up, and the fox makes an appearance, and then Olga comes sniffing around after the fox.

Last night we had our friends Gordon and Donna over for dinner. Dave, inspired by our recent trip to South America, made ceviche, followed by roast chicken and a gin & lime pie. Yummy! We sat out in the garden, amidst the teasel forest, until it got dark and then moved into the dining room.