It’s just a small-town farmer’s market.There are thousands of them across the nation. For a few hours each weekend starting around Memorial Day and lasting well into the harvest season small vendor tents and plastic tables crop up in clusters like colorful mushrooms in the parking lots of churches, schools, and town centers. Like the return of hummingbirds and public pool signs, they are a welcome reminder that we made it through yet another winter and the hard work of summer’s bounty has just begun.Ours is no different from any of the others – it’s just a small-town farmer’s market.

At a recent farmers market another purveyor of eggs regaled me with a story about a customer who refused to buy his eggs because he refused to guarantee her they were “free range”. The reason for his reluctance is simple; unless a chicken farmer is willing to submit to regular inspections and certifications (you should read that “willing to PAY FOR inspections”) we are discouraged from using labels such as “free range”, “cage free”, or “farm fresh”.

I didn't sleep good last night, in fact I've been wide awake since 2:30am. I took the day off because I have a dentist apt this morning. It's cold, damp, and the sky is gray for the umpteenth day in a row because I'm in Ohio and it's January and that's what we do here. I have another appointment in 30 minutes so I'm sitting in town killing time. Plenty of things I could be doing at home and my job has never been busier, so I'm falling behind while I sit here.I could take to FB to complain about any and all of those things. Here's what I did instead.

Boyd's Mills 1831 - 1875Avondale. 1875 - 1905Fresno 1905 - present

I didn't know I was going to the garden to cry.I could have put it together of course, but I didn’t go out there to think. I went out there to do a job - to harvest the veggies I’ve been ignoring all week. The ones I address every evening as I walk by on my way to bring the puppy girls in from the pasture promising I’ll take time the following morning to get them collected before time marches them past their prime.

Don’t let PERFECT be the enemy of GOOD.

Sometimes I wonder if we do justice to the "firsts" in our lives. In our house we have a lot of firsts this year. First Christmas and New Year in a new home. Tucker Bear's first Christmas. First time sleeping under a lovingly made quilt.

Things I learned from Toby: