Heath woke up in the clouds this morning. There was a very Brigadoonish feeling in the misty air as I drove to the Transfer Station with my trash and recycling. The dim headlights of oncoming cars could very well have been flickering torches as the hunt went on for the the missing Harry Beaton whose flight threatened to destroy the magical village.
But the only tartans are on Henry’s and my flannel shirts as we prepare to tackle the Saturday chores.
Henry has three cords of firewood to split and stack. Alas, it will take more than one Saturday session. I am routinely building a fire in the woodstove these days, and I hope the threatened showers don’t shut Henry down too soon.
Of course, if rain should send both of us indoors, I’ll have nothing to do by drink tea by the fire and browse through my new book, Fallscaping by Nan Ondra.
There have been no bagpipes accomanying our labors, but tonight we are attending a performance of Mozart’s Requiem by the Pioneer Valley Symphony and Chorus. A suitable farewell to summer.