Sunday in the country

I’m up early. Not by my standards, but by yours: isn’t Sunday supposed to be the day the sun eventually coaxes you up and out of bed?

Eh, there was no sun.

So we picked berries for breakfast (and then some). Might as well plunk a friend into the cane jungle too. Experience farm living from all its scratchy sides.

Breakfast on the porch. Cereals, breads, fruits. Toasted bagels. Acacia honey.





What is acacia – someone asks. Ah, in Poland, Acacia is what allows little girls to decide if “he loves me” or “he loves me not.” It goes like that: he loves me, he likes me, he respects me, he doesn’t want me, he doesn’t care, he’s messing with me, I’m in his thoughts, I’m in his words, I’m in his wedding plans. Except in Polish, it all rhymes.


Some people are very helpful putting out the foods. Other people are very good at sitting back and watching the world of early morning swallows.






My friends and I take a morning country walk. We want to veer off on the Nature Conservancy trail, but the path is so overgrown that some of us are buried to our necks in grasses. Others duck and dodge the singularly motivated deer flies. All of us decide to turn back and resume our walk along the country road. The prairie flowers are as beautiful from afar.





Really, it is like a canvas out there.





All that’s missing is a vineyard or two. Soon. We’re a state with an open mind.