The night before last fog slipped in on little cat feet, as Carl Sandburg wrote. And it poured, too, into every crevice and cranny and draped over every branch and shrouded the leaves and the rocks and the river. Whisps and threads reached our windows.
It came in bearing chill and damp. In the morning,we reached for sweaters and more sweaters and jackets, too. This is classic fall and winter weather here, and though temperatures reach into the sixties during the day, it is cold for us, unpleasant without some source of heat or at least lots of warm things to nest in.
We took the dogs for their walk in the early afternoon. Our now-aged Afghan has some kind of cancer in his belly. He has lasted longer than we thought he would with it, but moves slowly, elegantly, and steps with care. So we don't go far, just to the fairly level path along the river that runs past La Providencia about a mile from our house.
Yesterday we felt as if we were slipping into a ghost story, or a Sherlock Holmes mystery. The three healthy dogs ran along the path, turning into shadows. Ahead of us we saw a twisted form, a body? We giggled (nervously). An old mattress, half of it flipped over, some of its stuffing strewn about. In itself, a strange thing to see.
Today the fog has pulled back so that it rests along the top of the hills and hides Acamalín. It's still bleak and cold, though. We will go for our walk and buy vegetables to make a Thanksgiving dish for tomorrow. Our host has requested we look for stringbeans. I said if I could find them, I would cook them with bacon and onions as he and Jim like them. Both are sons of mothers, one black, one white who grew up on farms.