Thursday, July 31, 2014



He comes up after letting the cheepers out and tells me - it's a pretty sun out there.
So I should get up?
Not necessarily.

But I do get up. And I walk over to the fields farmed by truck farmers to the east of us. Their crops don't have the visual beauty of farmer Lee's fields when you drive by, but I see that if you follow the path into the depths of where they farm, you come across fields of flowers. So pretty against a misty sun, pushing up in the early morning!


What About Us?

It struck me that certain flowers in my beds are feeling insulted. I talk about the lilies. I talk about the peak season being July. I show off the flashy trumpets, the composites of color -- all good, all glorious, but I neglect the little guys who are just coming into their own now. So, let me give a nod to the late phlox, the nasturtiums, the cosmos.. they will stay with my 'til frost and I love them to death, I really do.




When I glance at my step counter, it displays a number so low that I don't think I could even call myself a couch-potato. Yes, I'd enjoyed a prolonged breakfast on the porch with Ed...


...But after, I just stayed there. As if no life existed beyond that little corner behind the screens.

That cannot be. My steps tallied to 1000 by afternoon. They should have been ten times that amount.

So I go for a walk/run -- to the beautiful park by Lake Waubesa. The place where we cross country ski nearly every day of winter.

What a difference a season makes!


A ground hog runs across my path. Scared, he scurries up a tree.


I think about Martha (our groundhog) back at the farmette: I haven't seen her lately. Animals come and go. Cammie, the feral cat hasn't been around. Martha has kept quiet. You never know why some show up, others do not.

The walk is splendid. The prairies  surely are at their best. Monet would have been out with his easel.


One of the many park paths runs close to Lake Waubesa. I catch a guy sitting at a picnic table, just looking out at the water. In the wintertime, we'd sometimes come across someone just sitting in their car at the lot, motor running, heat on, staring at nothing in particular. Perhaps relishing the quiet. During the summer, they can do this outdoors.


But unlike in the cold seasons, it's never really quiet in the forest or the prairie now. Birdsong. There is always birdsong.



We play tennis, we go to the market, I cook dinner. All good moments. Except... except, one of the hens is not well. I can tell. Her red crown droops. She isn't interested in treats. Her bottom sags. Ed doesn't buy it. She's fine... Denial.

I think about when my own girls are not well. When they were little, their issues were small. They didn't seem small, but they were that. I understand it now. Would a cold spoil the fun of Christmas or a birthday celebration? So small!

Looking at my (according to me) sick hen I wonder what goes through her head during these times. Probably a feverish desire not to feel sick. Hen, you share that with half of humanity out there! A feverish desire for it to be alright. If not forever, then for a long, long time.

I leave you with a day lily. Because for a few more minutes, it's still July --  it truly is their best month, when all is well, all is beautiful.