The young executive walked briskly down the city sidewalk toward the farmers’ market, the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt rolled up against the heat of the August sun. On his lunch break, he had just enough time to stop by the produce stand before returning to his office job.
He spotted the fresh home-grown tomatoes that he craved and pushed through the downtown lunchtime crowd. He selected two ripe tomatoes and handed them to the old farmer working the stand.
“I’ll take these two,” he said.
The farmer gently placed his prized tomatoes into a paper bag. “These are Best Boys. You can’t go wrong with Best Boys. Sure is a nice day we’re having. Better enjoy it now because this is gonna be a rough winter.”
Impatient, the younger man glanced at his watch. “Is that so?” he asked.
“Yep. Fog on the mountain today. August fog. Been foggy a lot this month.”
Still pushed for time, but curious, the executive questioned “what does fog, now, have to do with the weather this winter?”
“There’ve been eighteen dense fogs this month. That means there will be eighteen snowfalls. Three hid the top of Twelve O’clock Knob. You know what that means?”
“Look for three big ones. Maybe you should go ahead and stock up on this strawberry jam the missus canned for the winter,” the farmer said, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling.
“You know, I think I will,” the young man said, now wiser from the lore of the old. “In fact, I’ll take three.”