A regular thunderstorm blew up a few minutes ago, complete with mighty winds that ripped through our porch plants and sent me running outside to retrieve the stroller. Merry sang to Beatrix on the bed, safely inside; we'd just finished reading a pre-nap bit of L. I. Wilder's "The First Four Years." The happiest books are over (save the locust plague, tornadoes, fire, etc., etc.) and I know what's coming for Laura and Almanzo: sickness, bankruptcy, you name it.
I bungled the stroller up the stairs but the tools were left out in the chaos, along with the last of the numerous tomatoes in their pots. I kicked off my mud-caked shoes and slammed the door safely on the blustery weather. We've had mud, mud, mud, and cold weather, and I do believe I've forgotten what crumbly, dry soil feels like. Oh, I'm glad I'm not a real farmer, and that the when thunderstorms blow up out of nowhere my heart does not sink irretrievably into the mud at the thought of all the tender seedlings we planted this morning (we did, but we don't derive our livelihood from them).
Our summer potlucks are in full swing, though, every Tuesday, where adults are outnumbered by children and we are surrounded by good people and even better food, so there's a proof that summer is here, even if the weather doesn't indicate holiday.
And we got ourselves down to the annual Sheep and Fiber Festival last weekend, where Elspeth fed the embarrassingly clipped ewes
and we sang in a wind that threatened to tear the awning off the courthouse steps. Merry played drums, Elspeth kicked her feet, and we tried to stay in tune.
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