Saturday, September 17, 1:00 PM. Amy.

Just finished lunch. It rained hard all morning but is clearing up. Brewer and the kids are out exploring, but I’m going to rest.

Brewer drives me crazy. This morning when the rain started, he stands up from his easy chair, slaps his copy of A Family Farmer’s Country Almanac onto the end table, and strides over to the window. “What do you know?” he exclaims. “The Almanac said it would rain today. Maybe there’s something to that forecast after all.”

“That is pure lunacy and you know it, Brewer,” I said. “They make that forecast by rubbing sticks together out in some field in New Jersey. That’s if they’re making any effort at all. Most likely some codger at an old metal desk cooks it all up. It’s pure lunacy. No one believes that stuff.”

“You’re such a cynic, Amy,” he replied, and threw his arms around me.

We stood and looked out the window. He whispered, “Maybe I believe it.”