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Sunday, June 22--

5:54 p.m.-

EZ is wading slowly upstream against Grand Sandbanks current. Now she's sitting, considering the river disappearing upstream. She has slowed markedly the past few months, though today, as is her custom, she step-toed in the bow and paced circles on the way up. She doesn't yawn anymore. I think her jaw tumor is sapping her verve.

A bird somewhere out of sight is making odd sounds, a rapid "pft-pft-pft-ing" as a golf course sprinkler makes on its rewind circuit. Another is mimicking a cell phone chirp, unless someone with a cell phone is walking just out of sight above the bank. The big dragonflies that eat mosquitoes are here and I have yet to get bitten.

Gorgeous weather today, just like the past two weeks. Most people are happy about it, but some are beginning to grumble at the lack of rain. Daisies and hawkweed and buttercups should be coloring the roadsides orange and yellow, but they are sparse this year. Missing too, are myriad lilies and purple irises siding the marshes. Deerflies are not stirring. The river is gasping and wheezing for moisture, cracks like dry desert mud are etched on its surface.

6:12-

A few minutes ago I heard war-whoop-ish shouts through the woods and an old-fashioned tom-tom thumping. A 30-foot pontoon leaned around the far river bend on one blade, about to tip over, teetering, with two men scrambling up the high side to overcome the off-balance. They won the battle. The boat splashed down, and the driver held the throttle wide as the party rushed past our moorage without regret or misgivings, four grownup men and three ladies of commensurate maturity. Each body was the color of freshly steamed lobster and exhibiting no heartbreak of rickets. The golden retriever on the front deck was polite and well mannered.

The skipper slowed slightly, where the river turned more abruptly above the Sandbanks, then turned up the throttle on the 70-horse motor and overpowered the physics working hard to prevent his extended barge from turning.

6:35-

Foolish men mix themselves poorly in a sacred place like this, tipping broken bottles of brown Budweiser Light, staggering across deck, and inadequately commanding more horsepower than is right for them at such a time. I have read about real river folk, calm easy people, respecting the river and taking care of their own, men and women and turtles and newcomers, carrying in their souls contentment for life unknown by those who are not river livers. They, non-river people, come here in the summer but belong back in Chicago throwing Jerry Springer chairs at wet T-shirt contests and weepy cheaty marital debates.

I backed us off the beach and headed upriver seeking shade from the 85-degree sun and a change of scenery. Ten minutes later we re-engaged the pontoon delinquents at a narrow curve, them coming fast, still fast and un-yielding as I slowed down and edged right. One lady was asleep on a deck chair, one was knitting a sweater. Two sunburned men stood stuporous and slack-jawed having sex with the third lady on a picnic table in the center of the boat. The driver waved cordially. The lady on the table waggled her high-in-the-air-feet as the boat plowed past ten-feet away throwing spray our direction. Waves rocked our boat spectacularly.

I did not wave back.

Incensed at my lack of maritime good manners the driver yelled, "Hey! HEY!" so I looked back. He showed me his middle finger as many men do when their charity has been sullied.

8:23-

I have been reminded of a forgotten Truth. Slow down. Stop, look, listen. The last couple of times spent on the water have been vacant and lacking stimulation. Last night after work I raced home and packed and got us on the water a little after 6:00. Motored fast into town. Sat and fished, listening to the Brewers score more points than the iniquitous Twins. Returned upriver seeking something that would re-ignite winter's fond memory of staying out after dark because it used to be so much fun. The air cooled and the sun slid behind barren clouds, so I went home brooding over what must be wrong. Guess it is the lack of rain; the natural world is drab and ashamed. Maybe the bliss has run its course. This spring I've taken interest in the lawn and nurturing flower seedlings (unlike the last two years when I let the grass sicken and die from too much rock and sand).

I've forsaken the private office the past three visits, blasting on by instead, seeking cheap sensation elsewhere. The last hour has been good, bullfrogs chugging, red-winged blackbirds warbling, and tree frogs trilling high in the maples.

Grass seed, thrown out over new topsoil hauled and spread around the yard Monday is on its own tonight, though I feel bad for its suffering under this week's punishing sun while I was at work and couldn't give it drinks during the day. I usually get home a little after 8:00 when it's become hard crusty death, until I spritz light mists around and revive its color to wet soggy death.

EZ has acquired a tremor in her hind flanks. It's been there time to time for the past four or five months. She quivers only when lying with no weight on the free leg. The Vet said it indicates pain, or is an old-age palsy.

We were supposed to have gotten rain by today. The Weather Channel said so last Thursday. Scattered thunderstorms Sunday through Tuesday, which is as far as they like to estimate for our local-on-the-eights. This morning I turned on the crew to see what sort of excitement we'd be having after work tonight. "Sunny and dry until Tuesday," they said, when the summery atmospheric violence will finally move in.

During dead winter nights at work I planned, plotted, and sketched a rain shelter to hide under during impromptu rain showers. Electrical metal conduits for the transom and to plug into the front boat seat hole, small holes drilled into the top of each conduit, and a section of small nylon cord with hooks on both ends to span the distance. Into the hems of a $3.99 8x10 blue plastic tarp I hammered female snaps, then drilled holes into the outsides of the gunwale and screwed in the male counterparts, four to each side. The tarp remains folded in the bottom of the tote, still waiting for action. What was so certain during last year's life is remarkably not so dependable this summer.