and then it's Friday

I come straight up to the bedroom and I say to a barely awake Ed -- they're gone!

He knows right away what I'm talking about.
They'll probably come back. Or, maybe they're hiding because it was a cool morning?
It's not that cool. I had been out to the coop and I didn't even need a sweater.

In the end, he was right. Too good to be true to be finally rid of them for good. But certainly in the wee hours of the morning they weren't there to bother me.

(I'm talking about this summer's mosquitoes, of course.)

I felt akin to what a victorious warrior must feel having reclaimed her land from the occupying forces. Not since July could I push through the dense plant leaves and take stock of what's weed and what's flower without slapping myself and waving a paddle around to keep the foe away.

And so I work for a good ninety minutes in these wee hours of the morning, starting in on what was once the strawberry patch (overgrown and in need of a different life going forward) and also trimming and tidying up the brand new front bed, so that we wouldn't look like the slovenly and neglectful types to those driving by.

At this time of the year, the asters are starting to perk up and there are the modest reblooms on some of the daylilies, and of course, the annuals do their job as well by providing the much needed splash of vibrant color.





In all, things are looking okay out there, given that it's September!

By the time a few mosquitoes start to reemerge (though their quantities are low now and we expect them to keep diminishing in the weeks ahead), I'm ready for breakfast.






And then I slip into Friday routines: Ed's off for his meetings and I'm off to the grocery store. With a last glance at the garden that even in this late shape and form I love so very much.






And just after the noon hour, I'm picking up Snowdrop and marveling that this little girl has now (nearly) a week of school behind her, joining the ranks of so many children who say goodbye to teachers, wishing them a good weekend of rest (well, in her heart; she can't fully articulate this yet). See you next week!


Again we drive to the famette.





Snowdrop has gotten used to not lingering outside and I don't push her to reconsider. She has had a very full four hours. Let her take the lead on what she wants to do next.

Oh, I should have guessed: dance.






She has a burst of energy and I suppose I could have let her continue running full speed into the afternoon...






But I'm thinking some quiet time makes better sense.

Snowdrop's mommy is here, resting (the sniffles made the rounds in our family; only Ed and Snowdrop seem to have been spared), watching, reading.






Toward evening, I give in to the little girl's prodding to go outside. There are a few bugs, but I'm vigilant.

I ask if she wants to check out the tomatoes. She loves our tomato patch and hasn't been there since the tomatoes first started ripening in mid July.  It is also the epicenter of all our bug activity and so I am cautious.

Snowdrop tugs at a tomato and emerges victorious.
Let's take it inside! -- I urge her.
She chomps right into it.
Let's save some to show mommy!
Another chomp.

I quickly sit her down on the picnic table. No way is the girl going to make it inside with that tomato! I take out my camera just before the final chomp.






In the evening I cook supper for the four of us. It's Snowdrop's third dinner in a row at the farmhouse, which, of course, makes me very happy as she is deeply appreciative when you prepare some of her favorite food (she eats a wide range of stuff, so the task isn't especially hard).

The sun fades, but as before, it throws that last warm set of beams right smack in the middle of the gardens.






Sometimes we ask Snowdrop -- are you happy? And she'll smile enthusiastically and say with utter conviction -- happy! I don't know what she understands this to mean. But there's no doubt -- she's in a good place and she tugs everyone in her life right into it.