It is another gray day in western Pennsylvania. The sound of the rain falling through the canopy of maples in front of Little Red tells me there is no walking or kayaking this morning.
Yesterday, after our weekly lunch date, I took my Mom for a ride. There was no supply list, no need to stop at Walmart or the local drug store. It was too early to return her to the home. Instead we went for a drive. Our meandering led us to the golf course she and my dad frequented in their younger years. We strolled through the clubhouse (a former barn) and sat a spell beneath the tree on the number 1 tee. The look on her face was far away and full of joy. There was no doubt that memories of good times and better days filled this one.
On the menu last night, BLTs. Big red tomatoes fresh off the vine, thick sliced bacon, courtesy of the butcher at Livingston's farm, lightly toasted bread slathered in mayo.
Summer at it's best.
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