Yesterday I stopped at a local farmstand to go berry picking. They're a well-known family in the folk world, living just a couple of miles from me. They grow veggies and fruits, and this year the blueberries and raspberries have been super succulent. I picked 2lbs of blueberries in about 20 minutes, bought a pint of raspberries and black berries and some Red Gold new potatoes bypassing the local maple syrup, the gorgeous bright green cabbage, the black string beans, the red kale.
And as I was driving home on the narrow dirt road, one of the back roads that leads to town, going by the few homesteads on this section of the road, all I could think was O, how I wish I lived out here instead of in the center of town. Which, I should add, consists of an inn, the post office, the meeting house, and the church.
What I love is how quiet it was, no sounds of traffic, surrounded by trees and what pasture/open ground you've cleared yourself. This is what it must have been like when the settlers first moved here in the 1750's. Of course, the weather was so atrocious that the first lot picked up after a few years and moved to the midwest, ha.
Hmm. Words aren't really adequate for what I want to say, so I guess I'll stop here.