It’s 29 degrees here this morning. “Here” is near Pensacola, in what is called “the Panhandle” of Florida because of it’s long, narrow shape attaching to the rest of the state. We’re even in a different time zone: Central, while most of the state is in Eastern. Causes all sorts of aggravation for the citizens here when presidential and other elections are called while our folks are still driving to the polls.
This lovely Florida Anise tree lives around the banks of the natural spring that flows between our home and the gate, a distance of roughly a third of a mile. A culvert runs under the gravel road to allow the spring to go its way.
This morning’s cold snap is almost certainly the last before temperatures in the mid-seventies moving quickly higher become the daily norm. We’ve had a mild winter. The wild blueberries lining the road to the gate have been white with flowers for two weeks and the Louisiana irises I stuck in the stream bed twenty years ago to give them a fighting chance while we were gone all summer, have spread and will be a riot of yellow and lavender soon.
Lou Lou Belle and I run what I call “stick patrol” each morning, walking/running from house to gate about 6:30, picking up small branches that have blown onto the road during the night and tossing them into the deeper woods.
We arrive at the gate and dawdle until school buses, often in twos and threes, carefully negotiate the dangerous, blind curve right in front of the gate. One more day safe, at least here, in this moment, in this spot.