I returned to my home in the foothills of the Catskills after months out west. The woods are quiet and peaceful, and the bare oaks seem like cathedral pillars. I blew the leaves out of the gutters and off the deck, and I’ll spend the better part of the weekend clearing them off the moss. I put peas to soak overnight and will serve fresh split pea soup for my beloved’s arrival today at noon. I lit the first fire of the season in the woodstove, and was comforted by the smell of a season’s dust burning off.
My old Subaru started right up; no critter invasions. My weapons: mothballs and dryer sheets.
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