There is a certain special attractiveness about a woman in her early forties who has kept in good shape. Flesh lacks the firmness of younger years, but it isn't wrinkled yet - except at the corners of the eyes and mouth. There is a fragility and a power. A woman just on the far end of fertility. Still capable of producing children, but likely on the verge of becoming a grandparent. There is something about that beauty that says to the basic animal portion of my brain, "I am here. I have survived, and I am still beautiful and fertile. In a few years, an instant or a moment, the opportunity will be gone."

In high school we used to talk about the difference between body builder muscle and farmer muscle. Kids who worked out a lot had bulging pecs and biceps. Farmer's kids had huge forearms and callused fingers - the kind of muscle that comes from using your hands constantly, shoveling, stacking, knotting and unknotting, hitching and unhitching.

About a month ago, we had a going away party for an attorney in our office who entered private practice. There was this older fellow wearing a baseball cap and a red sports shirt. He had a blocky look about him. A bit overweight, but solid looking. Forearms like the farmer kids, with thick meaty fingers, but different. I struck up a conversation and quickly learned that he was a former factory worker from the same factory that my father worked in. Kind of job where you stand all day. Those guys all have that same blocky build - my father, all the older guys who showed up at my second cousin's funeral - all wearing their baseball caps, and volunteer firefighter jackets. Not the kind of people you see on the weekend hikes I go on. Spend 40 to 50 hours a week on your feet working with your hands, and the last thing in the world you want to do is spend your spare time hiking in the woods.

Temperature went up to about 97 today. Had a hike with my regular crew, but we went to a place with a nice swimming hole. A small pond fed by natural springs, and kept clear of weeds by the owners of the land, one of whom is one of our hikers. We were up in the hills far enough that all around was nothing but trees. We swam for about 1/2 an hour, then hiked for about an hour - going to the top of a steep hill behind the pond, then we headed back down the hill, and swam for another half hour. Incidently, the woman who prompted my musings in the first paragraph of this entry was present on today's hike.