Four lines of prose about: the white-haired woman.
Kat was painting cupboards today and came in with some paint in her hair. It's been washed out now, but it was a rather... memorable image.
Second to last market of the year tomorrow morning. Lots and lots of apples to sell... and not much else.
Hoping the rain holds off and the wind isn't too miserable.
Time had not been kind to her, though it certainly could have been worse.
True, the arthritis had stolen her ability to knit. And obviously the hip replacement had ended her running days.
But she could still drop a deer with one bullet at a hundred paces.