11:25 AM. Sun shining. 34 degrees. Spring sounds. Snow to slush to wet black top on the roads. My 15 year old son drives me to buy eggs.
We have chickens. Most of them to old to lay. The others that lay aren't laying yet.
On the way there we talk about town roads. Who got killed on that hill. The stop sign where mom found an abandoned car until she saw a hand pop up. Then it wasn't abandoned anymore.
We drive by the house on the hill. The hill his great grandparents gave away to friends on a drunk one night. That's the story anyways.
A pileated woodpecker flies from tree to tree next to us. A man walks his two dogs with a whistle around his neck. Looks like a gym teacher.
I paid two bucks for the dozen eggs. They're supposed to be four. While delivering their mail I bought a dozen one day; another the next. I only had a five dollar bill a day to slip through the slot underneath the padlock. They owed me two. We're even now.
Home now with the eggs. My driver is going to cook us breakfast before we look at a house his older brother and wife might buy.
The pallets you see will be covered in native plants in a couple of months. And people will hopefully drive up our driveway with fantasies of gardens full of wildflowers covered in butterflies and bees of all kinds.
2.23.25
