The day is foggy and drizzly but after we run some errands in town we set out for a walk. I have written before about the difficulty of the way up the hill to the barn at the end of the gravel and sand road. The beavers have built a house and a considerable dam which the town has come in and dug out to keep it from flooding the road. Large trees are half chewed, and we laugh about how her father would love to be here with us just now, to speak of the beavers and all the effort to prevent them. I smile with the memory, realizing my daughter was still breastfeeding when I was given the Lake George Beaver Tour. A little further on I exclaim, I smell pickles! Why do I smell pickles? And she tells me, beavers smell like pickles.
The mist has shrouded the mountains behind the barn. I could walk here every day for a year and take a picture of this barn, just for the sake of it. We see bear prints in the sand on the curve upwards towards it. The long claws and the pads pressed in. Her dog injured from an encounter in which she chased the bear away from her children. I pat her, and fuss over her, calling her fierce bear chaser, and tell her she is a good dog for protecting her family. Later she lifts her paws and asks for more love, I give it freely.
The long down hill is easy, I am sweaty and have unzipped and removed coverings the whole way up, and do not put them back on again as we head down. At the bottom we both switch into our suits and climb into the hot tub. My skin and body are cold and the warm water makes me realize just how.
It is this kind of ordinary that makes me happy and content.