Suddenly it is 85 degrees. Yesterday there was a fire in the wood stove to stave off the cool dampness; today there is a hot dusty breeze blowing through the house. It blows the daily crossword puzzle off the kitchen table and causes an occasional clatter in another room. Doors open and close for no reason, frightening the dogs.
Everything, it seems, is getting caught up in a puff of summer. Dragonflies, black flies, and mosquitoes ride the wild surf of a southern wind. Golden tails of birch seed scatter. Tiny white seeds nestled in tufts of cotton swirl and twirl and drop and rise up. Overnight the grass has grown wavy, the dandelions robust. The trees are full, the woods dense.
Along the old railroad grade a giant chokeberry has bloomed, its perfume strong as Nehi. The delicate flowers of the sugar plum have set sail, leaving behind small, red, ripening berries. Ivory bells dangle from blueberry bushes while wild strawberry runners run rampant. Bristly raspberry canes dangle into the road.
Up the road a bit, a patch of blue forget-me-nots.
Meanwhile, out at the farm ...
Miss a day at the farm and you're left with a secondhand tale of a runaway pig that goes something like this.
One day a pig on the loose was reported to the police. The police rounded up the pig, did not know who it belonged to, called the local humane society, who suggested calling the farm south of town (don't they have pigs?). So the police called the farm, and they said sure, bring us the pig. Later, a semi trailer pulled up. Worry set in. What kind of pig requires transport in a semi? (Now, I don't know how big this rig actually was, but to hear it told, it was pretty darn big. Friends driving by who were going to stop and say "hello" kept on moving because it looked like trouble.) Anyway, the cops get out and one of them is wielding a video camera as if something big is about to happen. Then they unload the pig, and what it is is a 50-pound pot-bellied pig. Later, the pig's owner calls and the wayward swine goes home.
When it comes to farming, all I know is what I'm told.
Everything, it seems, is getting caught up in a puff of summer. Dragonflies, black flies, and mosquitoes ride the wild surf of a southern wind. Golden tails of birch seed scatter. Tiny white seeds nestled in tufts of cotton swirl and twirl and drop and rise up. Overnight the grass has grown wavy, the dandelions robust. The trees are full, the woods dense.
Along the old railroad grade a giant chokeberry has bloomed, its perfume strong as Nehi. The delicate flowers of the sugar plum have set sail, leaving behind small, red, ripening berries. Ivory bells dangle from blueberry bushes while wild strawberry runners run rampant. Bristly raspberry canes dangle into the road.
Up the road a bit, a patch of blue forget-me-nots.
Meanwhile, out at the farm ...
Miss a day at the farm and you're left with a secondhand tale of a runaway pig that goes something like this.
One day a pig on the loose was reported to the police. The police rounded up the pig, did not know who it belonged to, called the local humane society, who suggested calling the farm south of town (don't they have pigs?). So the police called the farm, and they said sure, bring us the pig. Later, a semi trailer pulled up. Worry set in. What kind of pig requires transport in a semi? (Now, I don't know how big this rig actually was, but to hear it told, it was pretty darn big. Friends driving by who were going to stop and say "hello" kept on moving because it looked like trouble.) Anyway, the cops get out and one of them is wielding a video camera as if something big is about to happen. Then they unload the pig, and what it is is a 50-pound pot-bellied pig. Later, the pig's owner calls and the wayward swine goes home.
When it comes to farming, all I know is what I'm told.
