Russell and Emily are visiting, and they brought some of the strawberries they just picked from their urban farm — now known at Cat Spruce Fields. Those plump red berries in the metal bowl are the fruits of their labors. You can see the difference in color between their natural, locally grown, hand-picked berries and the bowl of commercial strawberries we bought from the grocers, and the difference in taste is just as great, too.
What’s better in the summer than strawberries?
We have an old clock in the front foyer of our house that we inherited from Kish’s Mom. It’s a lovely piece of craftsmanship from days gone by, with careful wooden carvings and delicate clockwork mechanisms. It’s a bit temperamental, too. It needs to be wound, pursuant to a yellowed set of instructions kept inside the clock cabinet, and only Kish can do it in precisely the right way.
But what I really like about the clock is its sound. On a morning when I wake up early and come downstairs, like this morning, the sounds of the clock fill our quiet, darkened home. The steady ticking, the whirring made when the hour or half hour are ready to be struck, and finally the hollow gong that marks the passage of another 30 minutes — these are reassuring sounds that are good company for the early riser.
Ask not for whom the clock chimes. Why, it chimes for me!