What fruit can never get married?

Cant-elope. That's the gem my groggy daughter shared as she staggered out of bed this morning. She thinks her thoughts at the oddest times and they burst out unhindered by time or setting or company. So instead of "good morning," she gave me the joke she'd just thought of when I awakened her at 6:30.

It's misty and humid outside. Rain is coming again in droughty Atlanta. We're still on major water restrictions, but our gardens and lawns are bursting thanks to the overindulgence of rain this March. Go figure. The gardens around the Dunwoody Farmhouse are lovely as ever. Too bad Chesnut House still suffers from benign neglect. I'm hopeful that once the residents of Dunwoody have a city we can take better care of our special places.

I'm eager for Sunday to come. I scored one of the few tickets for the Yarn Harlot's impending visit, thanks to Knitch. I'm taking a rare break from family and duties to spend an afternoon among kindred spirits. I'll have yarn in hand and will not feel the least self-conscious about knitting while I listen since hands will be flying all around me.