Last night I made the first berry pie of the season. As I dodged falling packages and dug berries out of my freezer, I was thinking about why I am glad I live in the country. This train of thought started because I realized that I have a freezer full of raspberries, something that would never happen in the city. Then I began to review my whole day, a typical day of work, chores, scavenging.
I had to get up early and went down to our small local hospital to get a blood test (enough vitamin D in my life?). Before I left I brought in an armload of wood listening to the neighbor's rooster. Then down to the hospital where there was no line; I was in and out without even enough time to read the Vanity Fair I found in the waiting room. After a short stop for coffee (now finally since we have a destination hotel in the area, you can get a really good cup of coffee in town), I went home to work until early afternoon when I headed back out for one of my favorite fall activities, scavenging for supplies around the county. (Over the years I have developed a grape connection, an apple connection, a milk connection, a chicken connection, several egg connections, a hay connection, and of course, always, a raspberry connection.) This time my first stop was at the discount grocery store, one of the best places to run into people you haven't seen in years. Sure enough there was the woman who used to run the store patronized by the Mexican apple pickers. Every fall, this small local store would have chorizo, 100 packs of tortillas, coconut and sweet potato candy at the cash register, round balls of Mexican cheese. It was great. Eventually my friend, the owner, married the crew boss who brought in the workers, sold the store, and disappeared, until yesterday.
Next I headed out to a friend's house where I had an appointment to pick up four bales of hay from his neighbor. We loaded it into my car and I drove carefully down the road to get eggs. (The hay was packed to the top of the car, no rear view). Stop at my friend's farm where her mother raises chickens, and after a brief chat, go out to the barn to find only one dozen in the frig. The chickens are molting. Oh well. Back home, I pit stopped to drop off the hay, change clothing, and call another friend to discuss the crack in the plaster ceiling in my bedroom. We go way back and he is the master dry waller in the county. Years ago we worked together for two years to stop Pennsylvania from building hospital waste incinerators. We are at opposite ends of the spectrum politically, but also have many areas of agreement. We had a very informative discussion about who to vote for for local district attorney, judge, sheriff (or sherff as they say around here) and county commissioner. We traded information, who knew what about each candidate. My friend will stop by today to check out my ceiling before it all falls onto my bed. (These walls in this old house are not wall board, but old fashioned plaster.) Into town for a yoga class, on the floor of the local arts center. And then home to dig a chicken, locally grown of course, and berries out of my freezer and make pies and chicken stew.
So why am I glad I live in the country? Lots of berries and local meat. No lines for things like driver's license or hospital visits. I can hang my laundry outside. Friendships with people who seem so different from you, but aren't really. When things happen to my house, I realize once again that I am not alone, in spite of living alone. Now, five days later I am on my way back to New York, where, as my other friend says, everyone wears black. Me too, I guess.
