I’m beginning to understand why farmers have always gone to bed with the sun, and last night I followed suit. I was tucked into my bed by eight-thirty as the last, dying light of day was filtering through the trees that tower over my small abode. I dreamed, though, during the night. More than usual. And I kept dreaming that I was picking peaches—which, I suppose is normal when you’ve spent the last nine hours doing just that. I woke up several times in the act of gathering up my bear or my pillow in my arms to put in a crate to load onto the back of the tractor.
It rained all day today, so I was allowed to have the day off. It was glorious just to lounge around and relax, reading, baking a peach cobbler. One of the things that I’ve always known about myself but has become even more apparent over the last week is that, at heart, I’m essentially a lazy person. That is to say, I don’t mind hard work or getting my hands dirty, but I would much prefer to curl up in a chair and spend all day reading or writing.
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