Number 64, in fact. A hot, humid Sunday, but I still took a walk around the development this morning. Determined to do no work, that soon changed as Pat asked me to help get her set up to water and weed. We're going to try to transplant the Indian blanket flower from the front to the back yard, hoping it is a perennial, but it probably isn't, and in a day or so whatever seeds it produced will be covered by landscaping.
So how'd I spend my birthday? Reading a New Yorker article by Jane Mayer and Susan B Glasser's letter from Washington, plus one from 1945 on Gabriel Heatter that I'd saved a few weeks ago.
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