1-2-3 Hockey: 40 of 45
Boomer meets me during my lunch hour on Fridays to tackle our farm share pick-up and pick-your-own options, and today she was tasked with bringing my infrequently-worn snowboots with her so I’d have waterproof feet to slog through the fields. Only when I tried to put on the boots she’d brought with her, I couldn’t get my feet into them — they were Pookie’s (comparitively dainty) boots, and I was stuck with just my work shoes. So she suggested we divide and conquer; I’d do the share pick-up in the farm shed, and she’d go pick our precious, precious six quarts of sauce tomatoes. I ended up having plenty of time to mill about in the light drizzle with the Ricoh Suave… and she almost got swallowed alive by the mud pits. Here she returns from the field, muddied but not broken. (The mud puddles were so pervasive and deep that they grabbed her boots and wouldn’t let go, and the water got in over the tops of them. My shoes would have been no match for it.) –Schn.