Roof rot

I dreamed last night that I’d come home to find that the roof of my house was being power washed, so I used an electric lift to raise myself up to the roof where I asked the man who was washing it how much longer the roof would last. The shingles were, indeed, lush with moss and mushrooms and lichen. “It looks like a forest up here!” I said. The man told me that the roof, even after cleaning, would have to be replaced in about a year.

As is often the case in my dreams, I had no car. I realized this (irrelevant as it was to the action of the dream) at the same time that I recognized the house as my boyhood home, 1063 Wellington Road in Sumter. It’s the place we left when we moved to California in 1973.

A cat named Phebe is hiding under a chair these days, trying to get away from whatever it is that’s hurting her. X-rays and bloodwork shed no light. Hiding and howling. Her vet knows not what to do.

To what extent is our marketing responsible for the Chautauqua Festival’s record attendance this year? Wouldn’t we love to know?