as it should be

Sunday evening. Dinner, the Emmies, a daughter, only one daughter, because the other had to return to her home in Chicago. And Isis.





And now the weekend is over.


Monday morning. It’s what we’re known for, here in Wisconsin: a beautiful September day. Deeply blue skies, breezes that make the birch leaves sing.

I look at the clock. Too late for a ride in on Mister Red. Or is it?  I'm going to give it a try. Speed, speed past the fields of flowers, harvested early for the markets in town...






Speed until the lungs heave. Breathe in, exhale, breathe in, exhale. A hundred pants a minute. In, out, in, out.

Forty minutes! A record! in just seconds before class starts.


The ride back at the end of the class hours is gentler and longer. Past fishermen casting in the waters of the big lakes, shirtless now, in the warm afternoon sun.







Past birds. Huge birds.






Bees, too. I think. I pause to take a look.






...Which means that I am late for a meetup with Ed at the café. He’s halfway through his soup by the time I get there. Hi Nina... And within minutes, his eyes close shut. Asleep. That’s okay. I’m used to his odd hours.


At the farmette, I gather the last tomatoes for a salad. Ed is at the pear tree. No more pears for now, I tell him. I don't have the time to even consider what to do with them next.  And then he looks down, just below the tree. Yesterday’s rains have brought in a spectacular crop of wine caps. Ed brings them in. A handful, another, and another.

Too much, it's too much!

Maybe we should dry them... Like your porcini...

I have bagfuls of dried porcini! Enough to last us all winter long. And beyond.

Pickle them? Should we pickle them?

Too complicated! I'll cook what you picked and let's hope for no more rain.

Mushrooms and eggs for supper.  And the last of the tomatoes. I'll deal with the pears later. Tomorrow. Or the day after. If only the fruit flies would quit multiplying. Why do all fruits, vegetables and mushrooms ripen at the same time?