Tuesday, July 22nd

AT LAST I woke to clear air this morning and a serene pale blue satin sea, luminous after the hazy days. There is a disaster in the garden that kept me awake last night, trying to decide whether to make a heroic effort to rectify it or not … the phlox has reverted to that awful magenta color. When I knew I was coming here, I ordered phlox that Raymond put in the autumn before I came—pale pinks and white and deep purple. I had not taken in that there were large ragged groups that had reverted already, and when I found out, I told R. that we should take them out, but he persuaded me that that was nonsense. Now all that he planted for me is reverting! It is really sad because that narrow border below the terrace wall is the only “garden” in the usual sense that I have, except for annuals, and various small shady “borders” I have dug out here and there. I guess I’ll have to tear all the phlox out and start fresh—a waste of two years.

It is a curiously nil time these days—the deerflies are awful. I took Tamas for a walk in the woods for the first time since he came home yesterday, but it was a nerve-racking battle to keep the flies off his ears, head, and nose. About every ten steps he stood still and waited for me to drive them off with a bunch of bracken—a slow enervating process. After that episode I went to town to try to get a fan for up here … the small fan broke and fell yesterday when I stupidly ran into the cord. Lesswing was sold out of fans, so I came home. The mosquitoes are unbelievable multitudes … it was then five and I gave up on gardening. Why be compulsive about it?

I looked forward to getting into bed and reading the end of Wain’s Samuel Johnson. A saving grace at the end of a maddening day.