I’ve started wearing a coat, socks, and a scarf in my apartment it’s been so nippy these past few days. The weather transitioned from summer to fall practically overnight.
I culled the leaves on the brussel sprouts, harvested the last of the Patty Pan squash and pulled up the prickly plants, washed crates—after about the fifth one, my fingers were red and stiff from the cold water and brisk wind, and though I’d had the presence of mind to put on my raincoat and Wellies, my jeans were soaked and plastered to my legs; I must have cleaned thirty or forty crates—that will be used to store jugs of apple cider, weeded the lettuce bed, cleaned out another bed overgrown with some kind of plant with thorns so fierce I felt their bite even through my gloves, and cut back the raspberry bushes.
Tonight, I went to pour a bowl of applesauce for dessert only to discover fruit flies in my applesauce. It was really too much. I have three more weeks here, and if I do not go mad—pulling out my hair, jumping up and down, screaming obscenities at the ceiling mad—before I make it home, it will be a sheer miracle.
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