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Summer's heat has finally struck, this time to stay, I suspect. (Late-afternoon temperatures above 95 F are the rule here through August, sometimes up to mid-September.) We have claimed the first tomatoes, cucumbers and jalape�os from our garden, and the fireworks stands are open from the first through the fourth. So, it's summer.

Since 9 AM Saturday the boys have stayed busy setting off firecrackers, smoke bombs, parachutes, jumping jacks and other weapons of mass destruction that will one day scorch their corneas, shred their fingers, or pierce their ear drums. My little patriots will persist in this revelry (revelry for them, anxiety for me) until sane rule returns at midnight, July 4th. If the city made fireworks illegal, I wouldn't be heartbroken. But as I have mentioned before, there are two parental opinions of this matter in the household, and mine is not the default opinion in this matter. But it damn well should be.

During the cooler hours of the morning (but after 9 AM -- like 350 F, another default setting), the boys set off their explosives out front. During the hotter hours of the afternoon, the two younger boys have spent their time inside reading, while Josh and a friend rehearse their three chords at high decibels down in the basement -- Bad Religion, I think. Owen studies for his scuba qualifying tests, and Taylor charges through the Harry Potter series.

All three boys long ago discovered a parental vulnerability. In response to requests to practice the violin or the trumpet, to take out trash or straighten a bedroom, the excuse that always works on the parental units in this household is "I can't right now; I'm reading." This must be spoken in a matter-of-fact tone that indicates that reading is a holy act, a form of worship that brooks no interruption for daily banalities, and everyone knows it.

Good discovery, guys!

So Taylor and I spent much of Sunday afternoon behind half-closed shades, draped on what came to be called the Harry Potter sofa, while Owen collapsed with his scuba lessons on the love seat. With the right excuses, the living is easy.

Reading:
I started yawning too often through the Bayley/Murdoch memoir, so I've switched briefly to Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, in an attempt to keep up with Taylor. He read it this week. Sunday he moved on to the next one. After finishing the Rowling, I moved on to Fay, by Larry Brown (not the basketball coach, the firefighter).

Watched:
Saturday night, The Russia House, for the Connery charisma.
Sunday night, The Remains of the Day, for the Masterpiece Theater effect.