This is exciting - I have finally figured out how to share pictures as well as words. (My friend Chris, after trying to teach me something on the computer, said that I have a serious genetic deficit with technology. How right he is. But I try.) Here's another snowy picture taken this morning, of the table on my deck with its cheery Provencal tablecloth on which we dine in summertime. In the last post, that picture is misplaced - my friend did finally appear and is standing by the result of his labours in the back yard, where I need a long path to get to the bird feeder. He's a remarkable man who washes windows in summer, riding around the neighbourhood on a bicycle with a long ladder and bucket over his shoulder. He has long hair and very few teeth.
It was a glorious sunny Sunday as the city dug itself out. I walked to Riverdale Farm, chatting along the way with neighbours out shovelling. No one complained; we had survived, the snow was beautiful, the sun was out. I visited the cows, goats, sheep and pigs at the Farm - many of them pregnant, heralding spring - and then asked at the little shop if they had any fresh eggs for sale. They did, and, said Kevin who works there, "we also have organic bread freshly baked in the brick oven." I realised I'd forgotten to bring money. "Pay me next time," he said, and I went on my way with the freshest bread and eggs in Toronto. I ate poached eggs on toast listening to J. S. Bach, the sun hot on my face from the blinding snow outside my window.
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