Early Morning Farmers Market

Coffee made and the dog following me around.  I look at the clock and it is a quarter to 7.  Ah what the hell I say.  Put on my sweatpants and a sweatshirt and my old flip flips and head out the door.  The dog in tow.  It is a typical New York fall morning, the dew is heavy on every surface and the air smells clean.  There is a crisp quality to the air, the city is quiet.  The guy at the gas station where I get money from the ATM is chatty.  We discuss our respective sleep disorders, how lovely it is at this time of day.  How quiet.

The Farmers Market is not busy at all at this time of day.  The local growers are friendly and smiling.  The sun is still low on the horizon.  As I walk along I run into my Uncles who have been together for probably close to 40 years.  I recognize them instantly but always have to introduce myself to them.  They are not close to the family, too many hurt feelings, too many rednecks who are insensitive to the gays.  I don’t care, two of my best friends are gay.

I come home with honey, jelly, cukes, peppers, zucchini, and crab apples for making crab apple pickles.  I hope I can find my great aunt Arlie’s recipe some place.  The sun is up and the yard needs work, and I have a couple loads of laundry to hang on the line. It is a beautiful day.

My Mom just corrected me, aunt Arlie was the dill pickle.  Great Grandma C. was the crab apple pickle.

I think I want to be a ginger pickle.

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