My oldest daughter texts me early this morning — she’s driven through slush to get to work. And so it begins, the snowy season. The days already burn low, dim by late afternoon. It’s Not the Swimming Season.
To counteract, I contemplate potatoes. Sausage and potato pie? I ask my youngest. Cook together?
Having lived in New England for most of my life, this side of the stick season is familiar to me, intimately so. During Saturday’s sunny afternoon, I coil up the garden hose, pull weeds from the garden, play soccer with my girl, then lie on the grass while she samples bitter apples.
My father sends good news — it’s Arkhipov Day — a celebration of a man who served humanity and not the nation-state. Read details here.
