broken record

That's right. Weather-wise, each new day feels like a rerun of the previous one. Sort of like a record that got stuck on one of those nicks, giving us the same sad melody again and again and again. Our resolve to be out and about every single day -- prancing dancing working biking -- grows feeble. Eat a good breakfast, read a good book. That describes my morning!





(It's not a total loss: I return to youtube yoga, so that I don't morph into a complete wet noodle today.)

I study the weather maps ever so carefully: two more days of gray. Just two more!

(Looking out toward the barn from the porch: this is what "wet" looks like.)






But then comes my afternoon with Snowdrop.

The girl is not flustered by gray skies. I tell her "it may rain," and she is indifferent to the news.






At the park playground, her imagination runs wild. Her stories leave me gaping, or laughing, or both.





It's tough to pull her away from the park, but an intensifying drizzle forces our hand.

It's Thursday -- our local (Fitchburg) farmers market  takes place on this day and Snowdrop is delighted when I tell her that we'll be stopping there to pick up both cheese and the tomatoes.

My last farmers market was, of course, in Sorede. It's tempting to compare the two, but I resist doing so. In size, they are similar, in all other ways they are not. Neither is better. Merely different, nothing more.

There is, at our local market, a really sweet vendor who has contributed greatly to our tomato stock pile for the winter. She is wonderfully cool about letting Snowdrop climb onto her truck to pick out our bags of tomatoes and Snowdrop is always in seventh heaven when she is up there among bins of vegetables.






(Today, she insists that I also cart home some broccoli.)






There is a (fiberglass) cow just outside the market and Snowdrop is so very eager to grab a ride. I wipe off the wet rain and she climbs on.






At the farmhouse, she continues to produce that characteristic everlasting grin of hers. A bowl of fruit and a good book? Smile. I show her the new quilt for her big girl bed. Smile. A cookie with milk? Well of course -- smile.






My guitar? Outright laughter.





It's always the case that when those around you laugh, you laugh with them.

Evening. I reheat chili for supper. Rain out there? Maybe. But the smile lingers.