Sunday, September 18, 2011


Last dish put away, leftovers from Saturday’s meal stored. Outside, the rain comes down in that steady stream that looks never ending. Nothing fierce, just constant.

We take the car for an afternoon coffee. Past gray skies and golden fields of harvest ready soy.


They say fall colors aren’t coming to this part of Wisconsin for several weeks yet. Nonsense. There’s the soy, of course. And at the farmette, we have the very last crop almost ready for Ed’s fruit picker.


Watching the green turn to gold is remarkably satisfying. We ignore what comes next: the brown months. No one I know likes the brown months.


I wonder, do older people seem a little dated to their children? Do they seem without memory? A tad antiquated? Do the kids, not kids really, but your kids and so for all intents -- kids, will they all eventually want to write books about the oddities of the generation that came before them?

A Saturday at the market. I’m not going to post market photos. You’ve seen them, last Saturday and the one before that. But how about of leaves as they begin to crinkle inward...


And of the special chicken presentation, which Ed and I attended, thinking for a whole hour that we would someday raise chickens at the farmette. Until we talked ourselves out of the idea.


Young people. The farmhouse was abuzz with them tonight: daughters – both of them! – and their friends, all spilling onto the porch where the food is plentiful and the heater Ed put up is quite wonderful.


They look like a serious lot, don’t they? Maybe. Except when the parent speaks in the way that my generation speaks. And then their faces light up with laughter -- abundant, youthful laughter.