Gerry arrives home from a three day backpacking trip and I emerge from a weekend of solitude, looking forward to the return of a measure of routine.
The garden calls. There are things to harvest, things to prune, things to pull, and, perhaps, things to plant. My gardening mojo is absent this year but we plod along, picking and puttering (Well, not really much puttering. It’s been too smoky for that.)
I’m eying the beets and thinking pickles, Black Krim tomatoes are ripening, Swiss chard is plentiful, the freezer is filling with beans and there’s more to come. And cucumbers? We’re overrun.
Yesterday was a holiday (B.C. Day in these parts) and, while holidays don’t mean much in retirement, they do seem to set the week askew somehow. I’ll be confused until the upcoming weekend causes a reset.
The holiday marks the halfway point of summer. It’s been a smoky and strange one and I’m trying not to look too forward to autumn. It’s hard though. Clear, crisp, smokeless air is a powerful lure.
Meanwhile, life goes on. Words get written. Books get read. Gardens get watered. Dogs get bathed. Salads get eaten.