A friend's baby shower gave us the perfect excuse to get out on Saturday. We had to drive two and a half hours west, but, realizing the shower wasn't until 3, we were able to dawdle. We stopped at a yard sale. We followed signs to antiques stores that never materialized. We stopped at a picturesque cemetery. And we got to go back to this beautiful place. I got to drink in some spring wildflowers, and that felt pretty amazing.
This morning, I got out to the garden (before the thermometer climbed to eighty-five (!) degrees, and planted lettuces, radishes, and more peas. Neighbors stopped over to say hello and compliment the brick-work. Over the weekend, another friend had posted a status update to Facebook, "Gilbertsville. You can't make this shit up," and more and more I'm thinking it's the perfect reaction to this place. Half the time I feel like I'm living in Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. The other half the time it's some combination of happy Beatles song and trippy Grateful Dead song. Oh, and there's another half the time where it feels like a Wendell Berry book. Have you read Wendell Berry? Gilbertsville feels like Port William, only more idyllic.
Next month, we'll celebrate two years since we "met," and one full year since we came to call it home. What a journey.