One more gorgeous day here in Ohio. Photographs will encourage me when in a couple of months, snow will fall. And fall. The furnace will run nonstop and dinner and breakfast will be eaten in the dark. And I will be depressed until mid-May. Bummer.
But I will enjoy today! Honey crisp apples cool in the fridge, leaves outside my door are brilliant yellow and still on the trees, the hawk is on her perch eyeing the pond, and my husband is out for his morning walk. All of that overrides the ugly news that runs all day every day whether I pay attention or not. It will keep.
I’m remembering our days living over the garage at Brown’s farm. Farmer Brown was delighted to have my little girl trailing him all over two hundred acres of green fields, one milk cow and about 2000 laying hens, and a couple of very busy roosters. He sold eggs commercially, which means the hens were force-laying twice a day. At two in the morning a kazillion lights flooded the barn, tricking them into thinking is was morning. The ruckus woke us straight up out of sound sleep.
We slopped the pigs, and when it occurred, my daughter nearly fell into the pen watching the sows farrow. Today she tells me those were the best memories of her childhood, living there. She had the run of the place, always accompanied by Tippy, the little beagle, and Bruce, the German shepherd/collie mix. A big dog, he could be seen walking slowly around with Tippy hanging on his lip. Literally.
That pair kept us company any evening we were grilling our dinner. They waited patiently for drops. Tippy hoped for a marshmallow, and inevitably a toasted one fell to the grass. Tippy gingerly stepped on the melty thing, got the goo all over his front paw, and sat for a half hour licking the sweetie off it. Bruce watched him like beagles are just not very bright. But it was Tippy who had the goodie, not Bruce.
We had a very old, green truck with the floor rusting out in places. I learned all about what you do with a choke, and became quite proficient with the stick shift, which I loved enough to duplicate in a later little Fiat convertible and a corvette ordered with a stick because a sports car without one didn’t make sense to me. We loved evening drives in the green truck taking us down dusty country roads.
I suppose the crisp and lovely morning brings all that to my mind. Way better than the news.
I must write two difficult queries today, to agents I really hope will represent my book. I’d love to tell them I have crowds of followers who read my blog, but that would be far, far from the truth. A faithful half dozen of you are with me, carrying my little torch. For you, I am very grateful. Agents want to know that if you read my blog, you’ll want to read my book. Actually, I should be thanking, not complaining. This is only the tenth submission I have made to this blog. Shame on me! I’d delete this whole paragraph, but then how would you know that I am grateful for the attention paid by you! And that I am capable of feeling contrite.
I spent my youth, despite orphanage and a rejecting mother, buying lots of time roaming, to discover, in most of my waking hours, my inquisitive brother, to be shaped by the ebb and flow of the farm life around me, to rub up against aunts and uncles who were the salt of the earth. That balance brought me to understanding of how the world works and what part I would play in it. This morning nostalgia rules!
Next time, come with me to gypsy church.