It’s August. I keep refreshing my trusty weather page, but it seems we topped out at 58 today. In August.
I’m sure summer isn’t over for good, but at the moment all indicators are pointing to starting the year’s first fire. It’s chilly in the house and my toes are having circulatory problems. The wind is taunting, rattling the fireplace flu, begging for some smoke. 
The windows are shut, but that winter draft is blowing through the house from our icebox bedroom, where I fear that crawling into tonight’s sheets will be a jolting experience. The chickens have ruffled up their feathers against the unseasonable chill, the lizard has boycotted the day in it’s entirety, and suddenly baking cookies sounds like the best idea in the world.
Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining (really). I’ll take an early fall over the sweltering 90’s of summer any day. I’m just stating that there may be smoke rising out of our chimney before the night is out. On August 24th.
That’s a new one.
Tucked happily into the gorgeous hills and woods of Wisconsin, I write about life, faith, and the humor that both require. 
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