The squash plant in our backyard is a real producer. According to my count, it must grow some thirty squashes during its short season of life. Plump, firm, colorful, and delicious, the vegetables serve to nourish us throughout the summer.
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I try not to visit the farmer's market on an empty stomach. The overstimulation of so much fresh, ripe food causes me to buy too much stuff. I lug it all home, as happy as a pig in pile of corn—all self-satisfied and content. But, by the miracle of time, alchemy and a big fridge, too much of the bright and colorful produce transforms into a khaki-colored sludge. This may be good for the compost pile but, at today's prices for organic produce, the green in my wallet disappears faster than the green in my refrigerator.
Four days before Thanksgiving it hit me. The traffic was heavier and the drivers more frantic. The left-turn signal to the Safeway had a long line of idling cars, exhaust evaporating into the chilled autumn air. The holidays are here. I don't know anyone who looks forward to that first realization. What should be the loveliest, most peaceful and introspective of seasons has become a frantic dash to the finish line.
It's been raining here in Northern California for about three weeks. The newspapers were complaining about the drought and now they're complaining about cabin fever. And they still say there isn't enough water. The chronic negativity of the media seems to be unconscious, bouncing from one negative thought to another. It's one big, collective, "Yeah, but..." It's like that one sad-sack person in your life that you're trying to avoid.
I often look down and see something at my feet worth photographing. It’s as if little gremlins were arranging things just before I got there. These are delicate little compositions that seem so elegant that I cannot resist them. They are the best reason I know to always carry a camera. They are also a good reason to walk slowly and to look down at my feet.