Good talk is like good scenery-continuous,
yet constantly varying,
and full of charm of novelty and surprise.
Randolph Silliman Bourne
Naked trees stand and shiver, with those new buds that have already emerged probably wishing that had waited a little longer. The ground is littered with last autumn’s discard of their leaves, which now lie below all brown, crumpled and rotting.
With nary a cloud in the sky, the sun shines brightly. I stand in the middle of a huge crowd of fleece and down, toque and hoodie layered up, crowd. Half an hour of misery, and then I retreat. It appears these old bones are not what they used to be. Shivering and defeated I give in.
It is that time of year again. A beautiful April day, and if you are sitting inside looking out from an old truck window, it is the perfect day for an auction. I now sit with the warmth of the sun on my legs chasing away the chill.
The tops of the trees bend to the south, while the bitterly cold wind from the north pushes with all its might, showing us all who is really in charge. I watch as paper-cup coffee holding, all bundled up and defeated auction goers now also retreaters walk by to get to their own trucks. They also feel this need to calm the screaming of their own aching in the bitter cold bodies, for at least a minute or two.
A well-fed old black Labrador follows and then mingles among those auction retreaters like me, who head for the warmth of their trucks. That well insulated old Labrador stops, stands and stares under the window of that warm old truck. His big brown eyes meet my sleep deprived droopy eyes. I know what he is thinking.
“What kind of tough farmer are you supposed to be?” I smile and think to myself, a wise old wimpy one. I open the door. He walks away, to no doubt ask the man in the truck parked behind me the same question. I wish I could understand dog.