Hops Morning. Evening.

Keith snapped this yesterday morning on his way to work--the cool morning fog behind the shed, with hops vines silhouetted in front.  My Vanderbilt team of interns and residents oohed and aahed--"you could put that on a postcard!". 

Jeff the Barefoot Farmer has been helping another farm project here in town, and came by a couple of times last week to anoint our compost piles with horn prep--one of those mysterious biodynamic witches' brews that seems to work so well--and to finish off Martha's borscht for his supper.

Potluck music was especially nice this week (bass, fiddle, flute, banjo, dulcimer, guitar, dobro), but, as usual, my bedtime interferes--I like hearing the faint melodies through the bedroom window, though.

Let's see, what else: pool's open, daughter #1 is here for a few days (I always get a kick out of my wait time at the bus depot--it's not the airport crowd, that's for sure!), daughter # 3 left for summer job, #1 husband successfully reuned with highschool and college classes without me,  dogs are fine, cats are skinny/fat as per their destiny as usual.  My good tablecloths showed up on the Vandy farmer's market tables, but have since been restored to their drawer. 

And every Tuesday evening, I walk back to the house in the fog and moonlight, leaving the music and the bonfire behind. Ollie always trots alongside.  At ten o'clock, most of the fireflies are high off the ground,  like tiny party lights in the hackberry trees.   I'd like to say something profound about the contrasting pleasures of the crowd clustered by the fire and the solitary and quiet walk home, but I better quit right now.