Driving on long winding highways through cornfields (or fields of any type) is a relatively recent experience in my life. I’m not used to it at all, and it always makes any trip that I take seem like a journey, even if it’s only a 20 minute journey.

Sometimes as I set out through the fields I wonder what I’d be seeing if I were used to seeing these things. What would I notice about the health of the field, the type of crop, the irrigation decisions being made, and the types of pests and diseases that might become problems at different times in the season.

But this morning there was nothing subtle about the problems facing the fields that spaced themselves between me and my destination. Leaves blasted into deep oranges and bright yellows curled in on themselves, having spent their last hours writhing in agonies of thirst. Those fields whose farmers still pumped gallons and gallons of water onto their crops in desperate hope of a harvest, those fields maintained a predominance of green. But the green wasn’t that lush, deep, cool color that predicts bountiful harvests. It was the slightly manic green of a crop that’s really just in denial about it’s impending death.

I’ve never seen this side of a drought. I’m used to lawns shriveling to straw. But you never look at a shriveled lawn and wonder if that family is about to enter bankruptcy, or if the food you’ll be buying in another couple of months will be twice as expensive as it is now. (Speaking of lawns, I’ve never seen lawns gradually disintegrate into dirt quite like it has around here, either.)

Unfortunately, even though we just had about 24 hours of soft, gentle rain, I don’t think it was enough to change the life expectancy of this year’s crops.

It was too warm to stay indoors tonight, so after dinner I went walking for over an hour in the breeze and the sunset. Somebody was flying a kite. Somebody else was flying a plane in lazy circles around the town. And in one diminutive ranch house with greying asbestos siding and scraggly lawn scattered inside a warped chain-link fence, a two-foot tall porcelain doll swathed in yards of white satin and lace, gazed serenely out of a dusty bay window.

My bum leg doesn’t quite agree that jumping from winter to summer in 48 hours is a good thing. It feels like I’ve gone running, pumped some iron, and been mildly beaten, all on only one leg. But this too shall pass, and I wouldn’t have given up the chance to be part of a steady parade of couples pushing strollers, children on bikes, college students, and residents of the retirement center. No, not for anything.

[Update: The six blisters on my feet say that my feet would have preferred either a) a shorter walk, or b) a walk in something other than the sandals I haven’t worn in 6 months.]

Mr. Construction used to live in the apartment right next to me. He was the typical bachelor. He vacuumed a couple of times a year, microwaved stuff when he decided to stay in, and did his laundry every couple of weeks.

But a couple of months ago, a woman and young girl moved in with him, and then last month they moved across the hall to the (larger) apartment where Party Girl used to live. But that’s the least of the changes in his living situation. Mrs. Construction does laundry every single night, and every other night their smoke alarm goes off as she cooks a home-made dinner.

Sometimes the laundry thing is annoying. The laundry room shares a wall with my living room, so the 11pm spin cycle leaves something to be desired. But mostly it’s hard to be annoyed when I think of Mr. Construction and how confused he must be by all this domestic activity.

We read Plato and Cicero in preparation for tonight’s discussion. Then, before sitting down, we engaged in polite conversation while pouring our choice of chardonnay, merlot, or sherry and spreading delicate cheese over crackers. Our footsteps made soft shuffling sounds on the oriental rugs laid out in plush layers around a large, though unlit, fireplace.

What could have been more quintessentially scholarly? I half expected a butler to make his blatantly unobtrusive appearance with a box of fine cigars.

As the hushed conversations began to center themselves on the topic of the evening, the final member of our group showed up. In among our friendly banter, his crisp, upper class, highly educated British accent added a level of sophistication and gravitas our book group has never reached known.

It wasn’t that what he said was so much more sophisticated than what we said. He just said it so much more beautifully. In fact, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s impossible to disagree with any statement put forth in a British accent. It just isn’t not done. And when he wears a tweed suit in muted shades of brown, there’s just nothing to be done. You’re jolly well out of luck.

He spoke very rarely, but it was comforting to know that we had all the hallmarks of an old-fashioned scholarly discussion: sherry, oriental rugs, a fire place (even if it was unlit), readings from ancient philosophers, and a bonified Englishman. Next time we should work on getting a butler.