The pockets of stillness ...

There I was, waiting to get out. Like a kid with my rain boots on, buggy in hand, scarf on head (I felt very Garbo) staring through the window at the beautiful rainy day outside. It was going to be my first trip to the market this season. I love rainy day market trips. Listening to the patter of raindrops on all kinds of surfaces, the other sounds of life on a wet day. Life sounds different in the rain.

Pitter patter on the way to the market ...

I love the smell of earth in the air. The contrasts of color between the soft gray of light and the bright greens and orange and fuchsia of  grass and flowers that have sprung from their tiny little buds makes me feel like I'm home. All is right.





I also love the silence. The pockets of stillness. Less people are out on rainy days.

That said, the poetry of it all kind of came to bite me in the foot. Here is why. No one goes to outdoor markets on rainy days. Except me. So what do I find dear readers as I scowered the stalls for my well loved purveyors you ask?

I find this:



My beloved small organic farmstand ... empty ...

 

My beloved butter and milk stand ... empty ...



My tiny beloved ewe's cheese and milk and sweetgrass and wool sock and everything else lovely... empty ...



My wild garden stand ... empty ...



But with promises of what's to come ...nevertheless ...empty...

And finally, just as I was about to give up and go soothe my sorrows with a steamy dark hot chocolate (with cream please) I found eggs. Lots of eggs. From chickens and geese and quails and turkeys that run around in a field and people that run around to collect the eggs right in the fields where they were layed. Genius uh?

Lots of eggs ...as above ...

Big ones. These would be goose eggs.

The little one is an egg from a hen ...

Spotted ones. These would be Turkey eggs. Cool huh. Turkey.

I also found Stephen. Wait until I tell you about him.