I've been lolling in a sort of giddy euphoria over our early June weather — brief heat blasts aside.

This morning, after a rush of rain, the air smelled so delicious I wanted to carry it in and ladle it over my oatmeal.

Today, between cloud-bursts (what, more rain?), I cast fond glances toward Fiona’s thermometer as I drove to the Growers Market. It read 59 degrees. At noon. On June 8. I’m the one who thinks summer highs should hover somewhere around 80 to 85, and never above 90, which would be considered a heat onslaught. But I don’t always get my way.

Fiona and I were happy to be on the road again, because she had recently taken ill with a deteriorating wheel bearing. Side note: If your car begins to bellow and moan and it gets louder the faster you drive, it isn’t going away. It’s trying to tell you something like, “Hey, stupid, take me to a mechanic before your wheel falls off.” Dave’s Import Service came to the rescue and had her rolling like her old self inside of a day, and the scenery from Foothills Road never seemed so sweet. I wore a jacket because I could.

The blustery morning didn’t seem to deter other shoppers at the market. I hit the necessary booths, avoiding those delectable donuts at all costs, and made it out of the market before having to open my dog-handled umbrella — a retriever of some kind.

After arriving home with a treasure of colorful goodness of the fresh produce ilk, the sun had won the afternoon, and a stout breeze set Leanin’ Digger, my 120-foot digger pine, to creaking like an old man’s knees. But its multi-armed topknot moved like an early punk rocker, lobbing cone bombs as it swayed. It’s a tree with deadly cones, able to dispatch unsuspecting passers-under with one conk. But the wind blew clean, and once I was inside, it made dancing leaf shadows on the drapes.

As if the weather weren’t reason enough to get out and celebrate, we have lakes full of summer fun ahead. I can’t keep track of all the events on Facebook to which I have either committed or marked “interested.” Good thing they do it for me. On any given day, I’m reminded that I have 12 events coming up. Twelve? Not sure I’ll make all dozen, however, frolicking comes to mind.

This weekend’s agenda, wet or not, includes a visit to Wooldridge Creek Winery in Grants Pass — one of many I have yet to explore. I’ve enjoyed more than one glass of their Malbec at local restaurants, and who wouldn’t opt for a drive through the lush Applegate River Valley. There will be scenes to take my breath away, and live music to charm the melancholy beast.

Saturday I’ll take aim on Gold Hill and find out what their Gold Rush Days are about. Maybe I’ll pan enough dust to pay my forthcoming tax bill. I know there is a parade, although unlike Buncom, Gold Hill did not invite me to be their grand marshal again. Guess I still need a few more qualifiers. I read something about them having a cow train and tried to recall ever having seen cows walk in a parade. I must have that envisioned wrong. The haystack scramble sounds like fun as long as eggs are involved.

Happy summer anticipation, everyone.

— Peggy Dover is a freelance writer living in Eagle Point. Email her at pdover@hotmail.com.