Where There's Smoke

Charred cedar floor of my rinse-down area by the faucet--
from last year!

I'll probably be there.  Sometime ago I was told that my astrology charts contained triple fire symbols, or something like that.  That stuff is all a confusing blur to me.  However, lighting a fire under projects to get them on the path to completion is what I love in the Things I get to do today.

Burned a leaky hole in my plastic watering can.
Always knew the metal ones were best.

There's a dark side to this fire thing, however.  It's called smoke.  We smelled it really strong the day nearly 20 years ago when I lit the neighbor's pampas grass on fire with a weed burner on a rather windy day.  No real harm done, and the neighbors have long ago forgiven, forgotten and moved away.  But my family will never, never, let a tellable tale retreat into a place of no details.

Fortunately a favorite nozzle just melts a bit

And there's no leak in my hose.

Though the bright spot at the bottom of
the jug doesn't look like much in the
photo, to the live human eye, it is
blindingly bright and extremely hot.

A number of little smokes lately have been fuel for the retelling of the torched pampas grass drama.  I'm only partially at fault here: it's my sunshine wine that's the lighter.  The sunlight passing through a gallon jug of water lacks only proper tinder to create a blaze.  Something in my lucky stars has saved me, and up till now, we've had only smoke.