Corner of the Yard

I had a little help with our garden today. These two young ladies like doing most anything that requires getting dirty, or allows them to play with worms, or having a chance sighting of a garden mole. This afternoon, we dug one up, and it wouldn't do until I had captured the fuzzy little bugger in my cap for further study.

We worked the soil together, me making sure nobody loses a toe or finger to the hoe, or ruins a foot with the garden claw. Safety first. We had a few disagreements over who got to use what, so I made them take turns.

We planted a few hills of squash and cucumber, some Cherokee purple tomatoes, plus bell and cayenne peppers. In another location we will plant watermelons. Hopefully some of the plants will make it to adulthood. I have a tendency to kill things. I've always had a brown thumb, except when it comes to weeds.

Now I'm sitting on the patio, resting my back and swollen knees. Getting old sucks. I never thought I'd see the day when I would have to hold on to a fence and have my kids try to help me up.

Man, how times flies. Blink and ten years have gone by. I'll be a grandad soon. I hope that I can still do this by the time he/she gets old enough to do things out in the yard. Better start taking better care of my dern self now.

The quiet of afternoon gives me time to reflect on what we have accomplished, and gives me some inspiration and ideas for projects to work on in the coming days.

Right now, the wind is blowing through the trees, and in the west, storms are moving in for Easter Sunday. I'd better enjoy the quiet, and this last bit of sunshine for a while.

Comments

A Point Through Time

Occasionally, the Earth will give up some of her secrets. If one should be so lucky as to stumble across one of those secrets, it can have a lasting impact on how that individual sees himself, and the world around him. History is not just the past, but our past. On my way to a hunting stand one morning, my headlamp caught a glint of white, protruding from the red clay on the bank that I was crossing. I laid my recurve bow on the ground and took great care digging the point out of the mud, then wiped it off on my shirt tail. The serrated edge was as sharp as the day it was made, long before Europeans set foot in North America. Over the years, I have found several points, each unique, bearing the mark of the one who made it. The smaller ones being bird-points, or true arrowheads, the larger were no doubt spear points, used with an atlatl, a device used to hurl the spear at game, or enemy in time of war. They turn up in field edges after heavy rains, or on old logging roads. Sometimes

River Walk

Through clear water you see the first leaves of early fall lying scattered on the smooth river stones on the bottom. The slick rock reflect glints of sunlight in the shallows. Everything takes on the hues of russet and amber and somewhere in there are flecks of gold and flashes of silver swirling in the eddies and riffles, gliding down into the deep pockets along steep banks rife with ferns and alder trees and jewelweed. As far as you can see up the river, trees form a canopy over the water, all bending toward the other side, all lacing their branches together to form a tunnel for an occasional cool breeze to flow through, loosening dead leaves and pieces of dried branches that fall into the current and end up gathering around your legs as you make your way upstream. A river birch growing right on the bank is canted over at an angle across your path, it's root ball pulling out of the soil and rock near the water. At the base of this tree, the river has deposited fallen limbs and

A Kindred Spirit

That morning, I paddled the cove, searching around fallen timber and boat docks for bass. The first one I hung into pulled my kayak around like a bathtub toy, even though he was no more than two pounds. I took a good look at the fish, then flipped him back into the tangled mass of brush that I'd pulled him out of. When I paddled back out away from the bank, I saw a man in a red kayak, working the shoreline toward me, although his only fishing rod was upright in the rod holder, and his hands were prodding the rocks, as if he was searching for something. I just watched him, wondering what he was looking for, and then when he pulled up a wad of mono with a Carolina rig attached to it, I knew he was a treasure hunter. He looked to be around 70-- slender and tall with a white goatee and ponytail, earrings and tattoos, a stubby pipe puffing smoke as he paddled on around the bend to find another jewel. When he looked up, I threw up my hand. He took the pipe from his teeth and said, &quo

Wildcat Creek Journal

Search This Blog