Bill and I went to one of our favorite farmers markets last weekend. It is clean and relatively quiet, and populated by lovely, polite people. It has very little in common with the farmers market of my youth, which was like a farm stand, a flea market, a circus and a bikers’ rally all rolled into one. I have great memories of that one, but it doesn’t exist anymore, and I like things a bit more peaceful now anyway. . . .
We enjoyed a fried fish dinner at our favorite spot and spent some time watching puppies play in the pet store window, then got around to our shopping. My list for this trip was short: corn on the cob, homemade pickles, shoo-fly pie, and a few new face masks.
After more than 6 months of mask-wearing, I have quite a collection of brightly colored face covers. I made most of them myself, but when my stash of fun fabric ran out, I started buying them already made. I’m not sure what I’ll do with all of these when the mask-wearing mandate ends . . . maybe I’ll make a corona quilt . . . as a memento of the strangest time in history I’ve lived through.
As I was looking at a rack of handmade masks, I saw something that I found very upsetting:
A mask made of . . . Christmas fabric!
My mood plummeted. What a way to put a damper on an otherwise perfect day.
Like everyone else, I’ve soldiered on and I’ve worn a mask on Easter, Mother’s Day, Memorial Day, Father’s Day, Independence Day and Labor Day—and every day in between.
I have no problem wearing a mask on Halloween (obviously, if there ever was a day made for mask-wearing, it’s Halloween), and I’ll proudly wear a mask when I step into a voting booth a few days later.
It won’t even break my heart to wear a mask on Thanksgiving.
But don’t tell me I have to wear a mask on Christmas. Because I just can’t go there.
At least not yet.
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