All of the Irene-slaw, ratatouille, pesto, or was it just plain gazpacho having been raked and tossed, wheelbarrow load after wheelbarrow load, on the 50-foot-long composting pile, remaining foliage is hardly in top form, being rent or chewed and singed by salt airs. I thought that the heavy rains following had done an antiseptic, restorative rinse, and perhaps they had, but the damage had been too marked for such alleviation and was imbued in the remaining foliage. (Fadeout of camera closeup: Forget aloe and lanolin!
Midday and lovely, the 26th of August, well before the eve of the storm, a day and more before its brunt. Fell Irene, Irene most foul, Irene so lovely a name to be so affixed and hence besmirched. All of the other “I”s I can rummage up are equally fine, save, I suppose, Irma, which doesn’t sound like a name at all: Ivy, Ilene, Iphegenia, Ilsa, Ida, Ilka, Imogen. It would be a shame to abuse them by attaching them to a weather event brooding with the direct of consequences.