FOJ

On the one hand, I can't believe we're half way through July already. On the other hand, it seems like summer's just barely cracked open in our pan. But I did swing on a rope swing into devastatingly cold water under a Fourth of July sun, if that's what you're wondering.

Yeah we swam in Hood River and emerged like icecubes, the water being snowmelt directly from the volcano, and then we drank Bullet Bourbon on Lisa's deck. So much fresh food was on the table that I was kinda embarassed about the simple dogs and buns I'd brought. But whatever. Someone set down a pan filled with fresh apple crumble and I drank one more potent drink and then it was lights out—figuratively and literally.

Wish you were here.

Huckleberry milkshakes—think we didn't?

Lisa and Jeff's exceptional farmhouse.

"Farm fresh."

I caught Lance in the raspberry patch.

Little Lefty loved his time as a farm dog—chasin chickens and poopin wherever he might please.

He found a safe spot to sleep off the day.

Little E., dipping into Tricia's purse. Klepto?