The evening storms, predicted to be part of a strong system of dangerous lightening strikes and possible tornadoes, moved through yesterday with a light wiper and a few rain showers. But the nighttime storms, coming in around 2 or 3 in the morning, were something else! Ed was still downstairs and I came down to sleep on the couch next to him rather than staying up alone in the bedroom in the chaos of the thunderous night . (Yes, we can fit on that slim couch together. But it takes some squirming and adjusting!) The power did go off for a while, but not for long. And looking at the damage outside the next morning, I'd say we got off lightly once again. A few fallen phlox in the garden, a few downed limbs from the front yard maples and that's it. But my oh my, was that a vicious storm! I think our silo must have taken a hit a couple of times. It was that close and that loud.
In the morning, I had to do a motivational speech to myself to get going. All those lilies to snip! Groan... Made even heavier because they're soaked with rainwater. And there you have it: we have passed the midpoint of summer. It happens when I switch from feeling meditative and in love with my flower field work, to feeling for the first time that it is a lot of work! Really a lot. (I know I surpassed the number of snipped lily heads today, but I got distracted by a Bresse girl trapping herself in an animal cage and I lost count. Once you forget if it was 147 or 234 at last count, you may as well give up counting for the day.)
Lily snipping isn't easy. You're gently snapping off a head from a stalk filled with delicate buds. Do the snap motion incorrectly and you'll take down the whole system of buds. Each day I make a bad snap that at least once, kicking myself afterwards for being so indelicate. But I continue to clean the beds in this way every single day. Let me show you why:
Before:
After:
Before:
After:
It's a transformative change in the beds! It's also an almost two hour effort in the peak weeks, but I do believe it's worth it. And afterwards, when I clean out a field, I take a photo and I smile a genuine ear to ear smile. For the rest of the day, the farmette looks well tended and loved. (Of course, by tomorrow, all the blooms you see below will be history!)
Done. Breakfast:
In other farmette news -- we think, indeed, we know that Happy is not himself. He can't crow. He stumbles. His tail is down.
It's time to examine him for signs of trouble: bumble foot? Flu? Mouth infection? I hold the poor guy, Ed pokes around, flashlight in hand. Poultry doctors in training! We find nothing. Let down, Happy proceeds to eat voraciously, stumbling around as he seeks out the best kernels of corn. No need to separate him from the rest now -- they've been snuggling with him every night, to no ill effect. We'll watch him. Maybe it's just age?
"Just age" explains lots these days. I suppose since the onset of the pandemic, age has taken a front and center position in daily life. So typical for us to steer clear of activities readily resumed these days by others: oh, go ahead and do that. But without us. We shouldn't, you know, because we're ancient. If in the past you looked to your capabilities not your age in deciding what you can and cannot take on, these days we're back to marking birthdays. Ah well: July days are for us the same, pandemic or not: we work outside.
(Speaking of work, it's time for me to tractor-mow some paths on farmette lands. Oh! Look at the meadow in the new orchard! It's beautiful, isn't it?)
With love...
