It’s late Sunday afternoon and the first day of September. My weather app says it’s 28C / 82F but, let’s be honest, 28C in September isn’t the same as 28C in July. There’s a little sumpin’ sumpin’ in the air that tells you the dog days of summer are behind us. I’m sitting in the backyard under the gazebo. There’s a gentle breeze blowing and, as long as the wasps stay away, I’ll be here until it’s time for dinner.
Before I came out, I put a pot of soup on the stove because that’s just what one does on a Sunday afternoon in September, isn’t it? Chicken soup, made with the carcass of a Costco chicken we picked up the last time we were in Regina. What is it about the Costco rotisserie chickens that are so much better than grocery store ones? They’re so moist and flavourful. There’s probably some no-good reason for that, but we enjoy them nonetheless.
I’ve been busy at my desk this week. I’m researching my maternal lineage and a clue came in about my 2nd great grandmother I wanted to follow up on. That took me down rabbit hole after rabbit hole. I’m still looking for a key piece of information to tie me definitely to the individual I think is her but so far it eludes me. Meanwhile, I’ve been poring over documents and using Google translate to decipher them. Loads of fun. I’ve also been working through a bible study that’s giving me lots to think about. Bottom line: I’ve been heads down in the woman cave.
I had a minor medical procedure this week and (bonus!) got hooked up with a new doctor at a different clinic. A young Moose Jaw woman. Hurray! Hopefully she stays until she retires or I depart this earthly plane. Honestly, finding her made the issue I sought care for all worthwhile.
In other news, I cut back the tomato plants to allow the energy to go into ripening the fruit that’s already on the vines. We should get a good crop of Roma tomatoes even if I end up bringing them all into the house if frost threatens. Oh, but the Black Krims. I haven’t picked a single one. There have been no tomato sandwiches on white bread for us this year. Hoping we’ll get a few from the ones on the vines. Ah well. There’s always next year.
Now it’s September. Even after all these years of not being in school, it still feels like a new beginning, doesn’t it? I’m thinking about intentions and soup and the pile of books next to my chair in the woman cave—some I’ve started, others I haven’t picked up yet. I read mostly on my Kindle, but can’t resist buying real books sometimes. It’s the plight of a bibliophile. No apologies.
Days are shorter and the sun is lower in the sky. Even when it’s warm, there’s the feel of fall. Harvest is in full swing (Saskatchewan farmers are 25% complete). We’re looking for the best price on compost to amend the soil in the vegetable garden. Gerry is making plans to move some flowering perennials from the back yard to the front.
Time passes and I remind myself to remain present in it. I forget more often than I’d like but, as St. Benedict said, always, we begin again.
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