The beautiful, wintry white I’ve been waiting for finally arrived overnight. A silent, heavy snow fell blanketing
Cape Cod. My son had received a sled for Christmas, and a snowball maker, and he’s been anxious to try it out.
We headed to the golf course, where one parks at the top and sleds sown into the hollows. We brought the dog, Chloé, and she romped through the unfamiliar white stuff. She’s a Southern gal, from
. She raced behind the sleds, kissing us all over whn we dumped out of them at the bottom of the hill. Tennessee
We stopped by the beach on the way back, as it’s an amazing sight with sky and snow and sand mingled into an indiscernible horizon.
I’ve been thinking about spring, and a new garden. Seeds are bought, compost is cooking. But I so much want to spend June and part of July in
, to visit friends and welcome a new baby to one. A garden here cannot go untended. Many years ago I read French Dirt: The Story of a Garden in the South of France by Richard Goodman (1991). It has really stayed with me, the idea of working my own plot in France . And while I did do that for a bit in Montlaur, I left without seeing any final results. On verra, indeed. Planting French cultivars in Dennis is simply not the same at all. France
There is much snow to be moved in the morning before I can head to church. By Wednesday I will be far from it all, in