I was not worried a lick about frost when I went to bed last night. Not a lick.
Before we sat on the couch to knit ourselves to sleep, Erin told me to step outside and look at the sky.
"Which guy?" I replied. (she secretly loves this joke)
I stepped out on the porch and was greeted by a rising orange moon, just past full. A clear, huge sky sprawled overhead -- a sky so black, it was blue.
I breathed in the night air. Cool. Refreshing.
I SHOULD HAVE KNOWN THE STUPID FROST WAS COMING.
I woke up this morning to zero degrees Celsius.
Frost on the grass. Frost on the roof. Frost on my precious garden. Frost on the two dozen ripe tomatoes I'd left on the picnic table in order to save room in the kitchen.
I splashed some water on the tomatoes and brought them inside. I might have well have smeared them with mayonnaise for all the good it did them.
Later, I received a phone call from the ghosts of four generations of my Atkinson tomato-farming ancestors, reaming me out for relying on the weather man to predict the end of the season. Lucky for me, my Trueblood/Edwards ancestors were more positive about the whole thing. And, they have e-mail.