Crikey.

You guys, Steve Irwin died - our Crocodile Hunter - everybody’s Crocodile Hunter… Usually, I don’t care if celebrities die; I mean, I’m not cold-hearted or anything, and some of their deaths elicit a little sad “awww” from me - like when Bruno Kirby died, or Michael Jeter - but none of them have the kind of deep, lasting effect on me that would make their deaths hit me hard. Not like Steve Irwin’s did. He was genuinely passionate, sincerely enthusiastic, and had an ability to draw people into his sphere like nobody else. At least, like nobody who wasn’t pure-dee evil. How many people live their lives with such passion, and spend so much time and energy sharing it with others? 

It was a weird kind of freak accident that killed him, too - stabbed in the heart by a stingray’s tail, unheard of.

I think we’re really going to miss him.

It rained, fit to bust, all last night, and much of the morning. In fact, the dips in our lawn, and the area by the front walk were completely flooded, though the water’s receding now. I feel slightly (okay, not at all, I’m just trying to be nice) bad for the people who made Labor Day boating and grilling out plans. Torie and I are going to have hot chocolate and cereal for dinner, while we watch the rain fall and work on mucking out her room. It’s a good day for cosying in. But still, an eensy sad one. kiss you all. xo