In a sign of the coolness of Max's life, her fellow landscapers are all veterans of burlesque shows. Yes, they're hot gardeners. I told her they should market themselves that way. Kind of like a bikini carwash.
We rode the City of Wenatchee ferry to the island this morning. Now that is a civilized way to commute. Expensive, though. Piled into Maximy's hatchback were five of us plus a small dog named Berty, short for Albertina. Once we got to the property, overlooking the island's western shore, I wandered next to the water then peregrinated (I love that word) back to the house. My job was to stay out of the way, reading The Stand and trying not to look like a plantation master. (I imagined myself with a mint julip in hand. That image seemed especially wrong.)
I was helpful, though, by keeping Berty occupied. She brought a succession of phenomenally slimy tennis balls over to us, and I did a lot of the throwing of said balls. If we wanted to distract her a good long time, we threw the ball out past shrubberies and windbreaks so she'd be wandering a while, happily getting drenched. One of the landscapers warned me that Berty at least once ran for balls practically non-stop for eighteen hours. She has the energy of a small power plant.
As I was a dumbass, I thought keeping to the shade would be enough to prevent sunburn. I was wrong. I'm lotioned up now to mitigate the damage.
We shared popcorn and drinks in the car on the ferry heading back this afternoon. We also shared jokes and overshared information, some of it involving armpit skin. Don't ask. We got the hot gardeners back to their various places, then got home. The farmer's market yielded good food that we're now digesting (yummmmm), plus another visit with Jemma and her family. Cute kid. I think she likes her name: she often refers to herself in the third person. Coming from a two-year-old, that's kind of adorable.