The katydids started up their annual screaming this year precisely at dawn on July 1st. In the long lost innocence of my younger days, I was rather fond of katydids. I even used them in books I've written as a shorthand for sultry and romantic summer nights. Then I moved to Italy.

Three solid months of incessantly droning screams -- loud enough to drown out all the birdsong -- eventually wears on the nerves. And not just for me. I was sitting on the terrace of the pub one evening last summer when the katydids all simultaneously paused their cacophony for a moment. Everyone on the terrace spontaneously burst into cheers.

Then the katydids started up again.

But five days ago, I finally made my peace with them. After a particularly troublesome and difficult call with the "outside" world, I went onto the front porch of our house and was immediately enveloped in the overwhelming drone of the katydids. But now they seemed like some sort of giant sonic protective shield -- a big comfy blanket of sound. For some reason I can't explain, I felt safe -- like nothing bad could get to me as long as I was inside that sound.

The beach is the same way, with surf and the sound of children playing. And so is the pub, where we are now part of the secret society of workers. While the outside world descends further and further into the frightening chaos of fascism and we have to take breaks from reading the news for the sake of our mental well-being, in our protective sound bubble here, nothing can hurt us.

It has cooled down a bit (low 80s) and I am able to sleep now and, as a consequence, think consecutive thoughts again. 

I have changed the title of my finished novel to "Armadillo Massacre Number Three," for instance, and decided that if it ever gets published, I am going to immediately start lobbying for it to be made into a big Broadway musical along the lines of "Little Shop of Horrors." 

Since there are armadillos in it and since the narrator of it is dead and speaking to us from the afterlife, I think the musical version of it should have two choruses of background singers, like in Greek tragedies. 

One will be a group of singers dressed up as angels and the other will be dressed up as armadillos. I can just see the armadillos singing and dancing in step like the Temptations.

I hope I never forget the time a longhorn steer escaped from a parade in downtown Colorado Springs and went into the lobby of my bank. Good times.

The heat is still here, lower temperatures always predicted for "tomorrow." I bought three gauzy summer sundresses for fifteen euros each at the market in an attempt to fool myself into believing that the daytime temperature had dropped by ten degrees. That didn't work, but the dresses are pretty anyway.

Daniele has been cooking everything he can out on the grill behind the pub, where it is a tiny bit cooler than in the sweltering kitchen. Since he has the hot coals going anyway, he has also been making roasted cherries in red wine. We bought three jars and are considering stocking up on some more. They are a rare treat and we don't know how long it may be before they come around again.

When I went outside two days ago, I startled a young red deer that was standing under our grape arbor eating the baby strawberry grapes. It flitted off to the far end of the garden and stood very still under the apple tree watching me for a long time until I turned my head and it vanished into the woods.

 

Lately, Jonathan and I wander around completely dazed in a haze of heat. We don't trust ourselves with heavy machinery or tricky crossword puzzles. At night, I keep the bathtub full of cool water and go in every now and then to take a quick dip to cool off. But the forecast is for rain early next week, so we cling to hope.

We think we have now submitted the final forms for my Italian citizenship application. This is the third time we have thought that. But now that Jonathan has at long last achieved a valid Italian driver's license, we believe that anything is possible. Who knows? Next week it might actually even rain.