The clock moves forward. At night, the rains come, during the day, the sun heats and
somewhat dries the wet fields. The committee on the proposed ban on moped
parking in the city of Madison meets and listens to the arguments on both sides
(you can guess where I come down on this issue). I think about how most people
aren’t affected by committee meetings and council decisions – you wont notice
it, you wont care, but for us moped commuters, it’s a big push back into the
car, with all that it entails.
Still, tick tock tick tock.
The Fitchburg market is selling the usual, though less of
it. One of my reliable vendors isn’t there for lack of product (though she
promises to return later in the month with tomatoes and corn). Others show up,
grateful that it’s *only* in the mid eighties outside. There is corn, but some of it is dry at the tips
while another vendor is warning that they’ve got worms at the tips -- it’s as if this year, nature is
going to get at you, no matter what.
Kids come to the market. Preschoolers, in bunches. These
have cute clips in their hair. Maybe that was the morning activity: put cute
clips in hair.
Slightly older kids pick up honey sticks which, I suppose is healthier than the Bit o’ Honey candy bar I coveted when I was their
age.
Ed and I pause to play tennis. A bad game and then another. Tick,
bounce, tock, bounce... Sorry! Out! We motorbike home. Tick, tock...
Another minute and another. I add pages to my book at
home – pages! – and plant the rest of the tired bunch of flowers and herbs. Grueling
work. The earth is hard and unforgiving. I tell myself – I should be grateful
for having anything come out of it this year.
Isis comes up the brick path, tick, step, tock, all the way...
We eat a humble meal of eggs, scrambled with market
mushrooms and a salad at the side. The crumbled cheese in it is local, the tomatoes are our own.
