I know and I shouldn't rub it in but we're under eighty-three degree sunlight. The fallen oak leaves are thick and the wind directs the little brown pieces of flutter here and there but the smell of mast is wonderful.
I'm this close (picture my pinched fingers) to hanging a closed sign. I would much rather be home in my garage where I could tinker on my restoration projects. Yet, here I sit.
I want a big cast iron skillet of cornbread this evening....she made soup, and its delicious.