I'm not one to get too excited about the weather. Mostly, when everyone is saying things like, "what a beautiful day; I can't wait to get outside," I'm thinking, "what a great day to sit on the couch with a good book. Seriously, it usually takes a snowstorm -- which provides infinite opportunities to sit around with a good book -- to get me excited.
But this weekend? Beautiful. Cool nights, crisp morning air, and just a hint of those long shadows that signal the start of Autumn, with its art festivals, chili, and the annual Pulling Out of the Winter Clothes.
I went to the farmer's market on Saturday, and people, let me tell you -- it's OVER. The tomatoes weren't quite as red, and where a few weeks ago, they were spilling over the edge of the tables and rolling through the church parking lot, on Saturday, there were just a few sitting forlornly in a bunch. You couldn't even call it a heap.
The eggplants looked smaller, and the peppers sort of pale. Shoot, the honey guy has apparently packed it in altogether.
And although the summer has been nearly a bust, food-wise (nary a blueberry or a blackberry to be found), I have to say I wasn't too sad to see the decline of the farmer's market. Fall is such a happy time.
I tend to think of Autumn as the REAL New Year's. It's when I get excited about getting back into my "normal" routine; excited about the promise of a new "school" year with shiny new pencils and notebooks.
Then I watched the weather reports for this week. Eight-eight honkin' degrees on Wednesday.
Crappity crapola. Now I have to shove all those sweaters back in the closet.