My dearest friend brought in the first snowball of the season today. (Note: “Today” meaning Oct. 18, when I started writing this but got sidetracked.)
He had no intention of tossing it at me. Wise man.
“I just thought it was funny that I could make a snowball,” he said.
DF was also glad that he’d (mostly) finished putting the garden to bed. All that’s left is to thin out a few rows of raspberries, a task I want to observe. If I have to do it for him some year, or even if I simply want to help, I won’t accidentally kill any healthy specimens.
And healthy specimens they were: We froze about 30 quarts, I made about 16 jars of jam and his grandchildren romped through the rows, eating as many as they could hold. Which is, of course, one reason we do this: We want those kids to know where food comes from, other than Safeway.
I’d every intention of writing this article in late summer as “A walk through the garden.” I even took pictures. Due to various Reasons the article never materialized.
When I looked at the tiny white flakes falling to cover grass and the beds, I decided to go ahead with the piece. I wanted to see those summer pictures again, both as a reminder of what was and what will come again next year.





