Peepers and Counting Receipts

Soon after we moved in last May I began collecting my grocery receipts in a small drawer in our kitchen.

It was separate from the ‘stuff’ draw that Jamie hoped we would not have. I think it’s inevitable, because we just have a certain amount of stuff that doesn’t belong with anything else, and happens to be small enough to fit in the drawer. You always know what will be in there – lights, scotch tape, twist ties and sometimes AAA batteries, if you’re lucky.

But this is not the same as the receipt drawer. A new creation…for me. I was not very diligent about it, and this shows in my results. Still I am always proud when I start and finish an idea, and today I really did sit down and sort them.

Each month it seems I spend an average of 200 bucks on groceries, and at 4 different stores. I have yet to go through and find local stuff, or meat or produce etc…to see the differences there. That will take some detective detail work.

I remember that at the end of last August I really made the switch to buying and eating local produce. This April we joined the meat CSA from Applecheek Farm. I am proud of our changes…..We also already have quite a large garden going…I am proud of the way we have been eating.

These peepers are still going strong. I wonder, which parents told their kids they were insects, and which knew the truth? I’m finding that only about 50% of my friends know which little creature creates that familiar summer sound. I am also wondering how long they will keep on singing their love song. I believe they started early, April at least, and now it’s nearly June.

Speaking of the peepers, I had an in-love-with New England moment. My landlord, Pat, had brought over a copy of the lease for us to sign. We’re staying another year. I signed on Tuesday, since I was home, and to be honest, I began to have the tiniest anxieties that Jamie would not, until Thursday when I saw his scribble under mine. After a great class, I came home, poured myself a glass of wine, and walked across our front field through the twilight dew to personally hand the document to Pat. I took the long way back, down his gravel driveway, pausing to look over the land as I walked down the small hill into the valley that is Old Pump road. Nostalgia is a silent killer, it’s why we’re all afraid to make marriages.

I’ve certainly fallen for this place though – the romance began a while ago, but out of convenience almost. Not that any move in convenient, but the love came because it was supposed to. This week, walking back up my driveway right before dark, the smells of childhood came back. I looked for the constellation of grass in the driveway. I stopped to stare at the birches, and their bright, baby leaves. I sent love to the moss in Hercules’ (the bull) pasture. I thought deer thoughts, and wanted to curl up and spend the night with the Earth.

Out there, yes, but true and intense. New England sows it’s way into your heart. Many poets have understood this. Robert Frost was bitten.

Well, perhaps I will keep counting, but I’ve cleaned out one drawer.

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