It's Way Past Pumpkin Season Now!

In which we walk three miles for a sandwich.

My husband and I live in a house not far from a farm market called Way Fruit Farm. They grow apples and a bunch of other things. We drive by their orchards pretty much every time we go anywhere. It is also a Monday stop for the local Bookmobile, which my husband and I frequent often.

We'd received notice that two books he'd ordered would be on the Monday bookmobile. And the drive way is still a total sheet of ice, so instead of trying to move any of the cars, we determined to walk over to the Bookmobile. We also decided that, since we were there anyway, we'd get a takeout sandwich at Way Fruit Farm's cafe to split as our lunch.

So Monday morning around 11:30 found us walking up our road, two library books to return tucked into my daysack, dodging patches of ice, and trying to stay out of the way of cars, for the berm is either nonexistent or treacherous, your choice. But we walkers will not be denied!

Above is a view of some pumpkins deteriorating along the road in front of the apple trees in their orchards; I don't know why, I just found it . . . amusing. Those pumpkins look worse and worse every time I see them! But I watch them in the same way that country people keep track of decaying animal corpses along the edge of the road, with some element of fascination. We keep an eye on the comings and the goings.

I have only made the walk through or around their orchards a few times, and I was thinking back and remembering them: the first time I did it, admiring the craggy trees; the second time, oh, so much sorrow, when I loved and lost a black cat in a single day (one of the saddest stories I've ever posted here, you've been warned); the third time, this past summer, for the Art in the Orchard event that I think my big sister Barb would have loved. So many memories.

We got to Way Fruit Farm and discovered instantly that the Bookmobile was not there. (Upon returning home, we found an email message from the Bookmobile people, sent at 11:45, saying it would be off the road again for an indeterminate period of time. We emailed them back and they are sending us the books by mail.)

My husband waited outside while I went in and ordered a classic club sandwich to go. They also have all kinds of neat stuff for sale, so I wandered around and took pictures; you may see a shot of the wonderful selection of neatly organized sodas in glass bottles in the Extras. Oh yes, I'll take one of each, please!

Then we walked along route 550 and up Ira Lane and back onto our own road, as the cold and blustery (low 20s F) wind blew, and we dodged further sneaky little patches of ice. "I have to admit - this is about as far as I've ever walked for a sandwich," my husband said, as we neared home.

Now, here's a sidebar: on Sunday afternoon, my husband broke a piece of glass in the kitchen. He dropped it by accident, of course, and it shattered into pieces. I cleaned it up, tossing the itty bitty sharpies into a small trash can nearby. But later, while emptying that garbage can into the bigger one, I somehow cut my right pinky finger on a piece of that glass and it bled - surprisingly - profusely.

I'd put a Band-aid on it that night, but when it stopped bleeding, I took the Band-aid off, for it felt like it was cutting off my circulation. But when I took my gloves off on Monday afternoon when we got home, and went searching my daysack pocket for my house keys, I felt warm liquid on my fingers, and looked down to see blood everywhere.

Hello, my own nice, red blood, gushing all over the place and onto my daysack and pants, and into the snow! I'm sure it seemed like much more than it was, but I quickly wrapped it in a paper towel and washed my finger off; bandaged it again. Good to go, I guess. (A day later, it's fine! Thanks for asking!)

And finally, we got to sit down in the warmth and comfort of our own home and share our club sandwich with a side of Middleswarth potato chips (regular, they didn't have bar-b-q, alas), and everything was very good! So that was my story, with pictures, for this day.

My soundtrack song was inspired by the moment of blood gushing into the white snow on the front porch; it made me think of those song lyrics, "turn the white snow red as strawberries in summertime." My song is Winter White Hymnal, and I'm including two versions. The first is the original version by Fleet Foxes. The second is a marvelous cover by Pentatonix.

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