Fed Up

Unlike the intrepid British who seem to be game to go out for fresh air in all weathers (or perhaps to murder someone if British mysteries are to be believed) We tend to reject the idea of going out in the rain for any reason if it can be avoided. And Spike concurs. John took this picture of the two of us as we gazed out the window wondering if we would get a break long enough to go out.

We didn't. In our defense, it has been raining unrelentingly since yesterday morning, and what was billed yesterday as 'rain' is today being called an 'atmospheric river', and like a river it just keeps flowing. We did have a dry January, often one of our wettest months, but February is kicking off as if it intends to make up for lost time. 

We watched the Pebble Beach golf tournament, remembering the glory days when John consulted for a Dutch catalyst company which underwrote some rather splendid outings, including a stay in a room on the 18th green at Pebble Beach. That, however, was at a sensible time of year, unlike this storied tournament which is always held at this time of year and is almost always played in rain, wind, and cold. The stunning views just aren't enough to make it worth it.

I read an interesting article in the New Yorker about the hand crews who fight wildfires. This particular crew was in the San Gabriel mountains above Altadena fighting the Eton fire. There was also a story in the paper (the only one I could bear to read) about a shout out from Stevie Nicks during a Fire Aid concert in Los Angeles to a crew from Santa Rosa which she credited for saving her home in Pacific Palisades.

And that was my day. I think I'm going to have to go now to throw Spike's prickleball down the hall about 700 times....