Summer, Glorious Summer

 

     Everything is coming up roses, because it rained!

      Roses aren’t the only thing that bloomed.

   The yucca is doing just fine.   And the grass.

And the compost pile.

Lots of great scenery.

     Afternoon callers (or is that crawlers?)

     Well, he doesn’t belong in the rhythm band—no maracas on his tail, so I guess he is welcome, maybe.  It takes all kinds to make a world.  It wouldn’t be politically correct to grab a shovel and send him packing.  We must work to overcome our prejudices.  I think I made him nervous.  He zipped into the first hole he could find, the rain downspout.  We’ll find out if he managed to exit the downspout the next time it rains.

     Well, all’s well that ends well.

Yard Work

     We learned to play a card game from our eldern neighbors.  It was called “Touring.”  I don’t remember the particulars of the game, except that lurking somewhere in the deck were cards like “Flat Tire” or “Out of Gas” which halted your progress.

      Last weekend, we drew one of those penalty cards, unbeknown to us, until Monday, when we returned to Kansas with multiple purposes in mind.  The first purpose was to leave our Chrysler Concorde with the body man.  He scheduled us to repair damage from a collision with a coyote.  (Note:  A diatribe against coyotes and a suggestion we have open season on them will not follow.  After all, coyotes do take out a deer now and then.)

      Meanwhile, getting back to the ranch, we drove into the yard.  We saw the usual signs of high winds, a trash barrel gone missing, something left outside, like a six-foot length of one inch galvanized iron pipe rolled across the cement driveway in front of the garage.

    Then we saw it:

A tree branch lolling around in the asparagus patch.  A few steps further revealed more tree limbs.

     The tree used to have symmetry, the same amount of branches on the right as it had on the left.

      So, instead of advancing in the card game of our life, we drew the “Clean up the Wind Damage” card.

    All better, except for the poor old tree.  

     The local paper documented the damage from the Saturday night storm:  neighbors helping neighbors cut up and remove downed tree branches;  unprecedented opening of the landfill on a Sunday afternoon; power outage (the entire town) for 24 hours, Saturday to Sunday night from several downed poles;  many backyard barbecues;  and anemometer readings into the upper 80's.   

  Well, the lawn needs mowing, too.  Trouble is, I sold the old Marty J mower last April, thinking the house would be in the possession of new owners come June.

    Silly me.  Thank goodness for good friends.  (He lent me the chainsaw, too.)

 

 

     So, we have done our time in the penalty box.  Now back to shipping, packing, and storing.  The storage locker is full.  The farm garage must take up the slack.

       Now to draw another card from the deck of life.  Surely there can’t be two penalty cards in a row?

Deck’s End

      In June, when a person should be out digging in his garden, or mowing, or sitting on a tractor, or fixing fence, or mending a farm implement, or playing a round of golf to celebrate day’s end, we have been trying to finalize the transaction that will end our sojourn in Kansas.  About three things stand in the way of that final step:  getting our “stuff” out of the house, crossing eyes (or is that dotting “i’s” and crossing “t’s”?) and jumping red-tape hurdles thrown up by FHA, and finishing the deck.

    Progress was made in all three areas this week.  A surveyor showed up to locate four pieces of rebar that demarcate the four corners of our soon-to-be ex-world.  Sure enough, he found the iron rods right where we put them.  On to the next hurdle, whatever that might be.

     We hauled another two-vehicle load to the farm, and then tried to find places to put everything.

     A garge-cleaning ensued in the effort to find room.  Among the items unearthed in the purge:

      A boxful of wigs and three traps, one humane, the other two barbaric.

     The deck project nears its end with the arrival of the railing.  The railing on the deck ends insure that a somnambulist won’t wander off either end of the deck.

        Two swallows seemed to enjoy a new perch.

      Then the stair rails.

     Sort of makes you want to pull up your rocking chair and mix up a mint julep, doesn’t it?  I still have to put the skirts around the rail post bases.  

Fooling (with) Mother Nature

      Twenty-first century Earth:  In the foreground, the plain as it must have looked for centuries, buffalo grass, blue sky; man’s attempt to improve on Mother Nature.  How many man-made improvements can you find? 

      Sometimes, Mother Nature puts on a beautiful show.

  

      No wonder ancient man tried to explain Nature with human characteristics.  How else to explain this?

      The picture doesn’t really capture the scene, the whole field of broken plants, and the smell of new-mown hay lying useless in the mud.

      On Wednesday, June 4, 2014, those were healthy wheat plants.  One temper tantrum later, they were broken stems hammered to the ground.

     One neighbor called early Thursday to ask if I had gotten hailed.  No, not really.  Well, three miles west of us, hail still lay six inches deep over field and road.

    It was an ugly storm.  So ugly I arose from my bed, threw on a robe and put the poor old pickup in the garage.   Fortunately for me, it was an unnecessary precaution.  The rain gauge said .50”.  I thought surely as hard as it came down it had to be at least an inch, but no.

    I might have driven the three miles to snap a picture of the results of Mother Nature’s icy  rage, but another neighbor, on his way to file a claim with his hail insurance man, stopped by to see how I fared.  He reported severe damage south of us.  We visited awhile and then when he left, it was time to get to trimming the yard a little.

  

All better.

    Somehow I have avoided Mother Nature’s wrath, and have bathed in her gentler light.  My wheat still looks like,

     It’s probably politically incorrect these days to do things to court Mother Nature’s favor, you know, like human sacrifice and the like.  But I will keep my head down and my great expectations concealed as best I can.  It is, after all, overt and excessive emotions like pride, joy, or grief that attracts the attention and intervention of supernatural powers. 

     It’s the boastful pride that gets one knocked off the rock by a lightning bolt, or unparalleled joy that brings the crushing accident and misfortune, or heartbreaking display of grief that gets you turned into a river or a constellation.

    Let us therefore be humble.  It’s particularly difficult when you see a new son keeping some old planets in orbit.

Man, I hope Mother Nature isn't jealous.  Surely She will understand that this is perfectly natural.

     

The Old and the New

     I am an Isthmus linking 1872 to 21??.  I was a senior in college in January of 1969 when “Papa” died at the age of 96 years and 11 months.  Bronson and many of his cousins could easily live to see the end of the 21^st century.  (Disclaimer:  Past performance is no guarantee of future performance. Life involves some risk.   Read life’s prospectus and invest carefully.)

     My generation links potentially over 200 years, from 1872 to and into the 22^nd century.  Memorial Day brings out such speculation.  Baby showers, too, maybe.

     A new generation takes over the Memorial Day duties.

     Then we celebrate a new birth and a new generation.

 

 

Four generations spanning 1928 to 2014.

      So, in the space of one week, we have taken time to remember our dead, and to celebrate our new arrivals.  C’est la vie.