Saturday Morning

I posted two pieces yesterday by mistake so I will make this brief and sketchy.  Saturday morning, most people are taking a breather, unless they have small children, in which case, hey, what's different?  But we retirees for whom the days roll on like the Mississippi can only mark Saturday at least in Sarasota because there is the Farmers Market, fifty two Saturdays a year, and well worth the visit.  Our tendency to stock up--and attractive way to describe the pathology of hoarding--is tempered with the realization that in a week we are off to London, so it will a brief visit for some marvelous truly fresh fish, home made pasta which we have been getting for years now, some home made pastries which we should not eat from a stand owned by a couple who left administration in industry to set up this mom and pop business in retirement, so called.  And many, many others, some real farm stands with whatever produce is available fresh at this moment of the year.  I can't wait.  It will no doubt be in the high eighties already.  When I opened the door to pick up the Times on the mat I could feel the wave of heat and humidity lunging at me.  Funny though, it is not always such a negative. Last evening we ate out at an Italian restaurant and the tables in the outdoor area had a sizable group of us who enjoyed what passed for a breeze, who wanted the smell of "fresh air" in our nostrils.  As we sat, ate, and drank, the temperature was up there in the eighties but it was just fine.  The only people breaking a real sweat were the servers going in and out from kitchen to table and back.  A delightful elderly gentleman looking rather like a homeless man was playing jazz coronet, and various other instruments at a small stage in the corner.  We saw the John Le Carree or however you spell his name with the late Philip Seymour Hoffman.. A suspense movie, not my kind of thing, but a friend assured me there was no blood and disemboweling, so I went along with my darling husband who was down to hanging the last ten photos on the walls of my bathroom and bedroom (He had just that afternoon made the comment "There are going to be a lot of frames for sale when you go," chuckling all the while, and it startled me to realize that no on else on earth could possible care about this display), went along with him "to share" and sat beguiled by the action, the lighting, the design of the scenes, and the marvelous acting, but most of the time not able to follow the plot, and I wondered if that was because there were conventions of narration in suspense films that I did not pick up on or I was just getting too mentally slow to follow it all.  Well, this did not turn out to be so short.  Garrulous, no question about it.