Today I'm thinking back to the days when I'd head out on my training rides in Ascutney, grinding up and down the mountain foothills, returning to Thrasher Road and dreading that final gravel climb up through the cow pasture to the cottage. Sometimes there were cows in the pasture, and while I'm not particularly afraid of cows, I remember my grandfather telling me when I was young to stay clear of the bull, and it's always stuck with me. (To be honest, I'm not a country girl, and I don't know the difference between a cow and a bull. They kinda look the same to me?)
I'd arrive back to the farm after my ride, lie on the grass in front of Cheryl McDerment's garden, and steel myself for the long climb up the hill, taking in the beauty of what was blooming that day. Cheryl put a lot of love in that garden, and it was special, like she was.
We learned yesterday that she passed away last week, and my heart is saddened by the news. The world seems less colorful today.
