Already home…

Each morning, we take Sylvie for a walk down Sparrow Bush Road.  It’s our new routine. And every morning of this first week, we’ve seen Canada geese on the wing in the brightening light.




When I was growing up, I loved the sight and sound of geese in the late summer sky above the valley. Their mournful honking always filled me with a thrum of longing I never quite understood.  It was something about their moving on, homeward bound, when we were already home, and the way their passage marked the end of something beautiful.

I like my farm-to-table as much as the next girl, but..

After two days of wrestling with moving boxes and feeding on corn nuts left over from our cross-country drive, I ventured out of our new nest in search of provisions — hopefully not corn-based.

I landed in Hudson, 12 minutes of beautiful countryside from our house, parked my car (25 cents an hour!) and found the Farmer’s Market…

too cute

Promising, right?

The market is a fraction of the size of our old Santa Monica Farmer’s Market, but a fraction of the size is what we were going for when we moved here.  I happily wandered around and picked up “local” everything to tunes provided by a folk singer doing her best Joan Baez.

“This is going to work,” I thought happily to myself as I headed back to the car, deposited my fresh veggies and headed down Warren Street to Dogs of Hudson, which, I had been told, was charming purveyor of canine provisions.  On the way, I passed more high-end antique stores than I could count, each more refined and inviting than the last.  And yet, I somehow found myself longing for the early morning grit of the Pasadena City College Flea Market.

In Dogs Of Hudson, I learned all about the evils of Western Veterinary medicine and the miracle properties of blackstrap molasses for canine well-being. As I walked back to the car, I wondered if Sylvie had “farm-to-table” needs. And is there such a thing as a free-range Milk Bone?…and then I passed one too many folk singers.

“Seriously?” I thought, “What IS this place and how did I get here?”  And just when I was plummeting into a sour and decidedly unfolksy mood, a herd of beefy, tatted bikers thundered down the street.

And just like that, I felt happy again.

“This’ll work.”