Truth be told — I picked the last of the carrots. I had one little section left but they have started growing again. They are covered with little hairy roots. Hairy is not a word one ever wants to hear in reference to food. I am going to leave a few to grow some seeds. Because carrots are biennial, they will produce seed the second year following a bloom that exactly resembles Queen Anne’s Lace. If times get really tough you can eat the root of the aforementioned.

The girls in Violet’s dance carpool have been pestering me for a camp-out. I finally relented. We spent the night in the big unheated greenhouse in the middle of my vegetable garden. Unheated is the key word here. Once the sun sets and the campfire stops blazing, you can imagine how quickly the temperature plummets.

I have a whole new appreciation and compassion for the homeless and those in refugee camps. Little girls can have a giggle-fest in most situations, while we of a certain age are downright uncomfortable and prone to complaining.

Thanks to everyone for your condolences regarding the death of my mother. I have been doing quite a bit of reflection during the past few weeks.

One good thing about gardening — there is always something to do. It’s wonderful to have an activity that is not only useful but meditative. There is plenty of time in a garden for thinking and enjoying.

The usual five-hour road trip from Rew, Pa. to the Massachusetts border took me nine harrowing hours. To call the weather awful would be giving it a compliment. As if the snow, sleet, rain and wind weren’t bad enough the other people on the highway were certifiable. I crawled along at a terrifying 40 miles per hour with cars passing me at least 70 mph. Every time a semi tractor trailer passed by it doused my car in so much slush that I was blinded for several seconds, minutes, yards, miles — who knows?

Here I am in Rew attending to the affairs of my mother as a result of her recent death. Like so many before me, it is quite an adjustment to become orphaned. We are taking apart my childhood home — no small or emotionally easy task. Elizabeth (Betsy) Irons was born in Bradford, Pa., in 1921, the second of five children.

Here it is the end of another snow-bound weekend. I’m happy to report that I have never experienced “cabin fever.” It was such a relief to be prohibited from going out. For starters, my car door was frozen shut and the main road looked a bit treacherous anyway. Hurray! I spent an entire day puttering around and throwing away useless stuff. Honestly, how can a person acquire so many belongings?