All are well and content in the peaceable kingdom.

A musing or two on a good Sunday morning in Oklahoma City.

I got an email from a friend in Paris, a British ex-pat who asked if I'd seen a show called The Good Wife. Yes, yes, yes I replied and went on to say how much I liked it and couldn't believe an American show is actually airing simultaneously in the UK. Typically it's one or the other, like Doctor Who which American fans see weeks after it's transmitted in the UK. I'm not complaining. Well, yes I am, but I remember the time not so long ago when the lag time was measured not in weeks, but months and years.

Horrible for a fan.

But back for a moment to The Good Wife. I was thrilled when they brought in a favorite actor from Scotch Land, Alan Cummings, into the fray speaking immaculate American and a Don't you dare screw with me attitude. What a talent.I love him.

O cats. The darling Rose is snoozing in my chair -- the proper chair -- leaving me the other chair to make do with. And Homer, ornery, adorable, mischievous Homer is asleep -- tail and paws hanging -- on the top shelf of the desk. The others I suspect are also snoozing in a place of their choosing.

Success as a subburban farmer arrived this year when my dream of growing glorious pumpkins was finally realized. Well, not so much pumpkin-s. More like pumpkin, singular, and surely nothing as truly fairy tale as the patch created for Hagred's garden in The Prisoner of Azkaban. Until this year, all my efforts to grow a crop of pumpkins movie set worthy proved fruitless. But no more as I have outside, growing by leaps and bounds, a beautiful dark green fruit the size of an over-inflated soccer ball that hopefully will ripen to deep orange for it's ultimate display on the front porch this Fall.

To complain on this beautiful day would be a sin.