"Everything has a shelf life."Sam (and his lovely bride Thelma) are our family's oldest friends. One of the greatest memories I have as a child was the time Sam put me in his lap and let me steer his car while driving on the Bluegrass Parkway. I felt like such a grownup. My dad, sitting in the front passenger seat, was considerably less than happy with the arrangement but remained a good sport about it until the next stop. I love to tell this story to kids as an illustration of how things we took for granted 40 years ago would now get you locked up, or at least get you showcased on the news as a cautionary tale.
-Our friend Sam during my recent trip to Kentucky, referring to restaurants that have closed, shops that have gone out of business, and people who have died.
Sam's shelf life comment was, I think, perfect and beautiful in its simplicity, and in its recognition of the inevitability of time's passing. That phrase has stuck in my head for the past couple of weeks, especially now that the leaves are falling, the days are shorter and the air colder. Tempus fugit, y'all. Everything has a shelf life.
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Today was the last day for our local farmer's market. The high winds meant that a lot of the vendors didn't set up their usual tents, and that made it look even more sparse on the last day:
What is it about the quality of sunlight that changes so much this time of year? A sunny morning in June bears so much promise; a sunny morning in October feels like a reproach-a last glimpse of all that warmth and sunshine about to disappear for the next few months. A reminder of all the warmth and sunshine you didn't take advantage of when you had it, and now it's gone, or about to be.
We loaded up on peppers, the last of the real tomatoes we'll see until next summer, some Brussels sprouts and carrots. We said goodbye to the farmers we've been buying from every Sunday for the past four months, and then we left.
This was one of those weeks that just disappeared.
What is it about the quality of sunlight that changes so much this time of year? A sunny morning in June bears so much promise; a sunny morning in October feels like a reproach-a last glimpse of all that warmth and sunshine about to disappear for the next few months. A reminder of all the warmth and sunshine you didn't take advantage of when you had it, and now it's gone, or about to be.
We loaded up on peppers, the last of the real tomatoes we'll see until next summer, some Brussels sprouts and carrots. We said goodbye to the farmers we've been buying from every Sunday for the past four months, and then we left.
This was one of those weeks that just disappeared.
