Behind glass

I spent a while in the green house. The thermometer in there said 40Fahrenheit. That temperature scale is hardbaked into my mind, I've never been able to adjust to Celsius. Growing up, my father checked the thermometer every morning, mindful of his vegetable garden and  our barely heated home. If I was ever poorly a thin glass tube would be tucked under my arm or, when I allowed it, under my tongue to see if the mercury rose above 98.6 degrees. (If it edged past 100F I might be given a crushed aspirin concealed in a teaspoon of raspberry jam.)

I have reached the stage where reminiscence comes to the forefront every time if you're not careful.

But anyway, I transplanted the remaining lettuce plugs and succeeded in tracking down the rogue snail that has been picking them off for the past weeks. The broad beans have all sprouted  and should catch up with those in the ground outside. Self-seeded lambs lettuce is almost ready to pick.