Wake up late, say, 9 a.m.

Arrange bedhead into more acceptable form of chaos.

Toss on a t-shirt and short pants and hop in the car.

Get some cash — we always spend it all, so not too much.

Drive downtown.


Haul out the wagon and wander toward the smell of fresh plants and eggs cooking.

Meander toward the bagel stand and order up an egg and cheese on garlic and a steaming hot coffee. (The kids get warm chocolate chip cookies and the best lemonade in the universe.)

Sit. Eat. Drink. Watch pale feet in sandals scurry past. Notice, as usual, that everyone is smiling.

Grab some plants, some rhubarb, some asparagus, some herbs. Catch a few notes of banjo that are floating through the perfect 68-degree air.

Go home, hoping the farmers’ market high lasts all day.