The Best Part

The best part of a trip to town is coming home.  Going to the store is never less than a three-hour round trip, and I had a couple of extra stops yesterday.  I'm a wuss and it wears me out.  I'm stocking up on nonperishables for Thanksgiving so as not to get stunned with a huge bill later, which meant extra bags to haul in from the truck.  Like many houses up here, there is no garage.  The danged ground squirrels have undermined the pathway so it can be a perilous journey just getting stuff to the front door.  It's challenge to see how many bags I can carry at a time to minimize the back and forth from truck to house.  Given the amount of canned goods yesterday, the bags won.  That job done, I was faced with putting everything away.  Aarrgh.  Now where did I put that magic wand?  Frozen food in the freezer, cold stuff in the fridge, cans stuffed in cupboards wherever there was room.  Finally.  With about an hour of daylight left, I poured a (well-earned) drink and Bessie Anne and I went out to sit at the picnic table under the oak to enjoy the setting sun, a soft breeze, and bird calls from every tree, bush, and power line.  Linda drove up, home from work and getting her California driver's license (four hours at DMV), and said, "That looks like a good place to be."  "Fix yourself a drink and join me."  (I thought I'd had a rough day.)  We three sat until it was time (about the time this photo was taken) to put the girls to bed.  The temperature dropped like a rock in a matter of minutes, enough that I needed a jacket to make the trek to the barn.  All chores done, I love coming back up to the house, the best part of the day.