Possums as Astronomy Buddies

Perhaps it's been a mistake, but I've been leaving snacks out for the two possums.

Whenever I feed Beau leftovers, he manages to barf them up, so the possums are getting them now, along with any cat food Oreo and Iris leave.

Why this may be a mistake is they are rather noisy on the back deck. They knock the bowls about and I have seen the big guy nipping the little one to protect his bowl. They make a noise like a little bark. All that causes Beau to bark quite loudly and spring into action, which startles me and the cats. The other night, I was stretched out on the couch in front of the wood stove, reading a book. Iris was on my lap. She bolted, getting purchase with her claws on my leg.

Last night, I was stargazing on the deck.  I went out early, all bundled up, to find some open clusters in the constellation Auriga seen in my star atlas. Auriga is quite far north and so is rather high as the night progresses. The little possum stayed in the corner, despite me moving the chair and tripod and gasping in delight at the myriad stars in Auriga. To the naked eye, or one wearing glasses, those stars are invisible.

I only wish I could have held the possum up to the eyepiece so it could have a look.

Today is the Winter Solstice

Only another gardener would understand why the Winter Solstice is important. No, we aren't doing any pagan rituals. It's the turning point toward Life and Living. That means a lot to a gardener.

After the Summer Solstice, we gardeners lose interest in gardening. Things don't want to grow well and  the soil is usually too dry. A Fall garden is usually a big waste of time and energy, with days still hot for the recommended cool crops. Plants sense the shift toward Death and Dying. It's Nature's way.

Now, the seed catalogs have started arriving. As usual, I don't look at them until Christmas Day. They are in a secure location, hidden from the Grinch. More should be arriving shortly.

Seed catalogs are some of my favorite presents.  I dream of them while cutting firewood. Incidentally, I cut, hauled and split 14 carts full, but a sudden really cold snap of minus 15 degrees both used up the wood and kept me from getting more. The ground is still covered with ice and snow, making my hills more than imposing.

Fortunately, a young cattle farmer nearby has come to my rescue. He's bringing a big truck load of wood tomorrow. For my money (literally) burning wood is cozier than burning propane.

Not looking at the catalogs or getting the seeds stash out does not preclude me from thinking about my veggie garden and flowers I might start indoors. These ideas are germinating in the warmth of the wood stove.

Happy Winter Solstice to all gardeners everywhere! May our numbers increase.

Chain Saw Grandma Returns

I'm concerned that the dog and cats are chilly with the furnace set to sixty degrees at night. Even though it's hard to get out of my cozy flannel sheets, their comfort is such a high priority that I am motivated to get up and get the fire going.

At last, the days are getting cool enough to cut firewood. The road dust is still a problem, but the time has come to run the chain saw.

Today, I cut up the sycamore limb that fell near the pond in the summer. I'm rather fond of sycamore for the sound it makes when knocked together, which is rather like bowling pins. It's quite heavy. I understand it won't split for anything, but I only cut the limbs. They are just my size. I'm not sure where sycamore stands on the BTU's scale, but maybe not knowing is better. Also, it doesn't seem to deteriorate. Best of all, it's very pretty, camouflaged in a distinctive way.

I cut these kindling pieces with the pruner. They are almost too gorgeous to burn. Last fall,  I wimped out and bought fire wood, on account of having that awful lingering cough. I was pretty much wiped out by it.

Now, I'm eager to start cutting wood. Because it's hard work, one load a day seems like plenty. One winter I kept a tally and cut 40 of these carts full.

I could buy wood again, but where's the fun in that?

A National Tragedy

To my readers around the world, I'd just like to apologize for the election outcome. How people could call themselves Conservative and yet vote for such a horrible creep is beyond me. Those of us who voted against Trump are huddled in shock, clinging to the hope that justice in his upcoming lawsuit will remove him from office. Having a loose cannon on deck does not make us feel secure.

Please don't think we are all idiots. He did not win the popular vote.

Tucked in for the Winter

That little bed has been planted. Several dozen daffodil bulbs are tucked in around the three transplanted daylilies and five butterfly weed bushes. To a non-gardener, this must look like some dirt and some plants sticking out of it. However,  I can see the daffodils in full bloom, nodding in the spring rain or even braving the last few snowflakes. It always snows on the daffodils. In my mind's eye, I can see the later flush of bloom from the daylilies and then the gorgeous butterfly weeds in yellow, orange and red, echoed by the marigolds that I'll plant along the edge.

My new auger made short work of planting the bulbs. Much better than the way I once did it. That required loosening the soil, running Tillie, scooping off the soil, placing the bulbs and then dumping the soil back on top. That was such fun that I only did it once, for a very limited amount of bulbs, like a dozen.

Had a little time out from gardening to have pneumonia. I blame the road dust for starting that.

Still awaiting more much-needed rain, but at least the cistern has rainwater and the pump delivers it.

Thinning the new spinach was lots of fun and I got plenty of thinnings to eat now. It's great to have anything growing in the garden after two light frosts. The El Dorado chard were eaten by bugs all summer, but have finally put on some growth. These darling volunteer lettuces may make it, and the garlic will overwinter for next year. The marigolds are still blooming, but another frost is forecast tonight. It's November, for Pete's sake, and they cannot go on forever.

Because the warm dry weather continued, I got a paint project going. Not perfect, but better. The old paint on the structure above the fruit cellar steps has been peeling for years. I decided I can't possibly look at it for another winter. It's the view from one of the windows. The paint was brown, one of my least favorite colors. I went with a pale green, the same color as my living room. The roof needs replacing, but this was what I could do. I scraped loose paint, nailed quantities of loose lap siding, added gobs of caulk, and ripped off the curling top boards.

The second coat was awaiting a bit of rain to dampen the horrific road dust, so I could breathe. I got a break when the wind shifted away from the road. Slapped on the second coat. It's as pretty as new paint.

A Feather Bed

Despite having a three-tiered roost and plenty of fresh straw for bedding down, the little crazies found a place they like more.

This won't work when they get much bigger. The nights are only in the sixties, so they must just want to cuddle with their friends. It doesn't appear that we have a rooster, so this must be a hen party that goes on into the night.

Magic Beans

Last year, I went to town and got a packet of Black-Eyed Peas.

In summer, I planted less than a dozen beans (they only call themselves peas to seem more appealing).

There wasn't anything on the packet to indicate they weren't what I was expecting, namely a bush bean. They started to grow, whereupon it became obvious that I'd been uninformed. First, they twined around a cage of green peppers, then cast an eye (they have plenty) toward the big daylily nearby. I hastily erected an opened-out tomato cage for them to climb up.

Before long, actually it was while I was sleeping, they had twined right up that. Next, the weight of the huge vines, leaves and long pods of beans caused that fence to fall over, blocking the path for the remainder of the summer. Since I love black-eyed peas, I let them continue.

The disappointing part, however, was most of the beans were tinged with brown flecks due to our humid summer. Hulling them was a lot of bother when most were spoiled.

They were trying. The kindest thing to do was to let them carry on until frost. Today, I started cutting them free from the fencing and the pepper cage. That's when it became apparent that I had in fact purchased Magic Beans.

Most of the vines were over ten feet long, great strapping monsters that probably would have reached the clouds if they'd had something like a cell phone tower to twine around.

Tossing the remainder of the packet out of the window, I vowed to never grow them again.

Frost Tonight

Frost warning, so that's it for the summer garden. The chicks will be sad because they have been feasting on largish zucchinis for some time now. The baby cantaloupes set an extra round of melons but most won't ripen. Even the possum isn't interested in them when they are under ripe.

The green peppers are always in fine form finally when the frost finishes them off. From an avalanche of vines, these tomatoes were the only ones that may ripen in a dark closet. The potatoes were a lovely surprise. I didn't get them all dug in a timely manner, so they put on new plants and gave birth to babies. I'll enjoy new potatoes and old potatoes, too.

The last blooms of summer were the tall zinnias. They took their sweet time in growing, for some moody reason. Now that the end is near, they burst into bloom and have loads of buds that will be zapped tonight.
Dahlias and Gaillardias were still growing strong, too.

The spinach and mystery Toy Choys are up, so winter isn't here yet. It always seems a short time between the heat of summer and cold nights. Probably because we have basically two seasons, hot and cold. However, there will be some lovely days between now and the first snow.

It's a Start

After some nice rain settled the road dust, I'm back at the Great Hillside Project. The bees were finished with the White Heath Asters. One bee did come around while I was cutting them down. I did a little dance to show her there were lots more in the nearby fields. However, I don't believe we both have the same choreographer.

Before the rain, I ran Tillie over the hand-dug parts. I transplanted four of the Butterfly Weed shrubs, now dormant. I was surprised to find they have big roots, most of which are still in the ground.

I started them from seed one year. They were pretty. The next spring, I guessed they weren't going to show up, so I planted some new daylilies there. Surprise! Not wishing to play favorites, I let them all try and duke it out.

Now they can have enough room. I'll plant some of those daffodils around them, so I'll have some pretty blooms while waiting for them to break dormancy, rather late. They are like me, not early risers. Perhaps they are also into astronomy that keeps them up late.

The scrawny bamboo markers show the curve of the planned bed. Most of the weeds now are English Plantain, a solid carpet of them. The moles have kindly helped with the excavation and will no doubt come back when I have everything planted.

Speaking of planting, today I found the seed packet from the Toy Choy bok choy. Wish I'd seen it before I used the saved seeds to plant lots of them the other day. I thought  they were open pollinated, but they are hybrids. Who knows what I'll get for all my trouble. I did plant some Melody spinach for spring. It always does better with a fall planting, if I'm not running terribly late. The heat just passed a few days ago.

It was 36 degrees this morning, so Jack Frost is probably going to call soon. The sweet potato vines have taken over the tomato planting and lots of the garden. Hopefully, there are a few tubers in there.

These marigolds in the garden make my eyes glad to look at them.

From four plants, I now have many square feet of autumn blooms, really finer than mums, which are so fleeting and lots more expensive. These are Hero Mix, a much better bargain, $1.50 from Pinetree Garden Seeds. They've been in bloom all summer. Rich, beyond my wildest dreams.

Surrendering to the Road

The road dust is thick again, with huge combines and grain trucks roaring by. The dust is not good for my lungs, so I avoid it. Perhaps a sign borrowed from a boat marina would help: LEAVE NO WAKE.

My front border has suffered from neglect on account of the dust. My house is too close to the road. So, I made a decision to stop trying to have annuals there. This has only taken me years to figure out. It suddenly dawned on me that having a pretty show of flowers for the passers-by was ridiculous. For one thing, everyone zooms past so fast that all they see is a blur, or my backside as I work the soil.

 I shall now confine my efforts for my eyes only.  The weedy hill out back will be my new area of interest/challenge.

At the moment, however, there are bunches of wildflowers there that the bees are working. Shrub-like White Heath Asters have taken over spots not already choked by English Plantain and foxtails. Usually, I avoid yanking out flowers in bloom. They don't like it and I feel bad. However, the surrounding fields are crammed with them. I believe the cows don't eat them, preferring to just smell their lovely fragrance and admire the tiny daisy-like flowers.

Now that cooler weather has finally arrived, I can fling myself headlong into transforming the hill into a blooming showplace. That's how we gardeners always start out, with plans that are a tad beyond grandiose.

As I've mentioned, the soil is lovely on that hillside. That's why it's choked with weeds. No need to dwell on that.

To this end, I have ordered a bulb planting auger for my drill. Here are quantities of daffodils that I dug up recently because they needed to be divided. There are some daylilies that I want to transplant in the manner of White Flower Farm's expensive Daffodils and Daylilies collection.

My plan is to also transplant as many of the robust plants as possible. Here are the sage I mentioned earlier. They have lovely blue flowers in springtime and shade out weeds that try and grow under them. Bees and hummingbirds love them. Parts have sometimes died out in a really cold winter, minus twenty degrees, but they have always rebounded.

Best for me to begin with Square Inch Gardening. Today, I started at the end closest to the back of the house and began the slow crawl forward.

Getting the roots out required several things, like the shovel, claw and kneelie. Another was the lawn chair and jar of iced tea with basswood honey.

The beauty of this bed is it gets morning and late afternoon shade. Heading in a northerly direction, I came upon the Lost Iris Planting. The weeds have infiltrated it and the irises will all have to be dug up. That four-foot wedge of dirt was about two hours' worth of digging and sorting. Soon, I'll be able to work the soil with the Mantis and proceed with the Grand Plan, hopefully before the fall rains start.

The Door Opens on a Wider World

At first, the chicks were afraid to come out when I propped open their door. Chickens are not renowned for their bravery.

Waiting to see how big a zucchini would get, I decided that this was it. I split it open and the chicks came out to get it. Lots of weeds have grown up in the run since there were any chickens using it. It was over the babies' heads and must have seemed like a jungle to them.

As long as I was sitting on my half cinder block watching them, they stayed out. Every few minutes, they would look up to check that I was still there. It was like when I had toddlers; the eye contact was reassuring to them.

They scurried back into the coop when I left to go inside. I had to order a camp stool from Amazon.

A Short Rant About Honey Prices

Checking honey prices in the supermarket, I was astonished to find the dark honey labeled "raw" and sold at premium prices. Dark honey is at the bottom of the scale for great honey, right next to road oil.

Here's the deal with honey. Honey is graded by color. The lighter the color, the more value. Any honey from a local beekeeper is no doubt "organic" and not pressure filtered. Raw just means it hasn't been heated. In a small operation, there's no need to not let gravity cause the honey to drip through the mesh strainer. "Raw" sounds unfinished to me.

Not only that, she goes on, but I really can't believe that honey labeled raw and organic and from Brazil is really all those things. What it is is dark and medicinal-looking.

Doing some calculations of what my honey is worth, according to the various jars and bears, I get a range of a minimum of $11 for the quart jar, up to $16.50 for organic and raw. If I were to part with any of the specialty honey, the basswood, I would expect to get $20 for a quart jar, for the premium light color and unique flavor. Anyone who had tasted basswood honey (and could afford it) would be happy to get it.

I used my new spiffy digital kitchen scale and discovered that a quart jar holds not three pounds, but two pounds and twelve ounces of honey. So my calculations were based on that.

One other factor, in addition to all the expense of equipment, is the glass jars, which cost almost a dollar each. From all the above, it is apparent that I intend to sell some honey but don't want to haggle with those who want the price to be cheaper than Walmart.

These jars, filled yesterday, are all the same batch of light, exquisite honey. The ones near the window just have more light shining through them. Beekeepers frequently use the flat-sided glass honey jars to make the honey look one grade lighter. Those jars are lovely but even more expensive than the canning jars.

Fine honey is like fine wine, expensive.

More Honey

Despite the oppressive heat and humidity, it is once again time to bring in some more honey. I always wear duds under the bee suit, not because I am afraid of the bees, but because I think I might do something clumsy and have the entire hive swarming about me. So, I'm pretty warm before I even leave the AC. If the temperature is even above eighty-five outside, all my pores are working overtime to cool me off. When I wring out my headband, there is an appreciable amount of salt water. Okay, it's pure sweat.

There were three supers on the hive. Instead of filling the frames completely on one super before moving up to the next, as I've instructed them many times, the bees have filled and capped the center frames of each super and then gone up and filled the middle frames of the next super. Lots of frames have uncapped honey. The bees are like me with my knitting projects; many things started at once. That's how we are.

I'm finally learning how to use the empty super box to unload some of the heavy frames and save my back. Brushing the bees off the capped frames, I load them into the cart and cover them. I leave the the bees to get out through the bee escape. After a few trips, I'll have sorted the frames that still have honey that is uncapped, and leave that super on for the winter. As I've mentioned, it's not a commercial enterprise.

The smoker, like a barbecue, seems to be at its best when I'm finished with it and driving the cart back to the house. Pine needles are the best fuel. I always add some dried sage. It smells great. I have rather a lot of sage growing in the front border. From time to time, I cut some and hang it to dry in the workshop.

The hive is tipping. I'll need some help to level it soon. There is an extra bee suit and veil that my granddaughter Carolyn isn't using. She was a beekeeper as a teen. Now she and her husband Karl  are going to college in Georgia.

Some of the honey from 2014 has granulated in the jars. It's a normal thing. There is a fun moment when I take the lid off and the honey rushes out. I hastily pour off some of the honey, put the jar in hot water in the crock pot and warm it up to liquefy it. Like all honey projects, it's messy, sticky and very tasty.

By the Armful

The chicks learned to fly to a breathtaking altitude of two feet. The Reds can now reach the perches.

Ellie and Nellie flew up to my arm, ignoring warnings from the flock that I was not to be trusted. Sitting on a half cinder block limits the amount of time I can accommodate their comfort. As a chair, it's woefully inadequate.

I shall have to tame down the others. Meanwhile, I have a bracelet that makes me laugh.

Welcome to Fort Flocks

Arriving in the pet carrier, the six chicks are now running around in the coop. They are a challenge to photograph, they move so quickly.



They worked as a team to bite the few weeds peeking through the opening left by the extension cord. The coop is constructed of metal siding, with a metal door. Hence, Fort Flocks. Nothing bigger than a half inch can get in, but I still worry about them.

Ellie and Nellie come up to my hand and let me pet them and pick them up. The others are far too busy scratching excitedly in hopes of finding some tiny treasures they can gobble up. The Rhode Island Reds streak across the straw as I sit on a cinder block watching their antics.

At night, they burrow into the fresh straw near the hanging heat lamp, oblivious of the hysterical yipping outside. The coyotes are out carrying on under the full moon. .

Ready to Fly

They are only two weeks old, but mostly feathered out and ready to fly their temporary home in the cardboard box.  Were it not for the old fan screens on top, they'd be all over the workshop.

This is Nellie and on the dowel perch is the other Barred Rock, Ellie. They are the tamest, with the Americana, Besty, the most skittish.

It means stretching a long extension cord down to the coop and hanging the heat lamp there for nights.

The coop is all cleaned out. They will have so much room there they may be bewildered. I'll have to keep them company for a little while. They can't go out into the run until they get so big that they can't hop through the chain link fence.

I'd forgotten how much healthful exercise is provided by chickens in the coop down the hill. Now, it's made even more beneficial by a quantity of mole hills that make it a lot like trudging up that hill through snow.

Chicken Delivery

Lissa brought the new babies. She couldn't resist a couple more than I ordered. We wanted a rooster to look after the hens, so got a straight run Buff Orphington. Also arriving in a little box were two Barred Rocks, two Rhode Island Red and one Americana pullets.

We had a fun time taming them down. They were only hatched two days ago and needed mothering. It was such fun to have them fall asleep in our hands. The day was plenty warm for them to be out on the deck. They will stay in the cardboard box in the workshop or outside, with a cat-proof old fan screen on top, until they are big enough to move into the coop. Now, they could walk right through the chain link fence.

If a person is the type to get all giggly cuddling chicks, they just have to admit it.                                                                                                                                                              
They seemed to grow before our eyes, especially their little wing feathers. They knew how to scratch for food right away, getting right down to business.

These little peeps seem so tiny and fragile that I spend lots of time checking the warmth in their box. After sunset, they have a heat lamp on a chain so I can adjust the height every hour. They only need a 100-watt bulb on these warm late summer nights.

I called Lis to report that they survived the first night in my care. She requested I take their pics daily so she can watch their amazing progress.

Here's the day two photo of adorable Lucy, the redhead, in a pensive mood.

The Bees Will Be Sad

Yesterday, I made a startling discovery on my way to the river. Part of  the huge basswood tree was down, almost blocking the path.  Beau sensed that something was amiss. The tree's massive horizontal branch must have reached a critical weight and broken off. I couldn't get close on account of the poison ivy, but a glimpse through the fallen branches revealed the spot where it used to be. I could be mistaken, but it looked like the tree was hollow there.

If it is hollow, my concern is the bees may decide to move in because it's so close to food shopping. I can only hope that my springtime sugar syrup will induce them to stay where they are. Pay no attention to that ideal bee tree, I say.

There will be lots of basswood firewood for me to cut next winter, but that will be small recompense for losing some of my special honey crop and the inevitable decline of the tree. Oh well, these things happen. The bees are very clever. Probably they know of other basswood trees in the many miles of choice locations along the Grand River. That surely can't be the only one.

At the hive this morning, the bees had gathered on the landing board and the hive front. I tiptoed away, not wishing to disturb a memorial service for the fallen tree limb.

Giant Ragweed Harvest

Every year at this time, I cut down the huge ragweed plants that have gotten past me. Most are over six feet tall.

These giants can be pulled up easily when they are small, but now it's another story. An elephant could do it. I use the long-handled pruner and yell, "Timber!"

Supposedly these herbs can be used as compost activators. I'll have to cut some up and add them to the compost, as soon as I get a machete. Meanwhile, it's easier to just haul them down to the brush pile.

Along the river bank, by the bridge,  thousands of these monster weeds have assembled to enjoy the riparian life. It's a closed community.

Even though there are more waiting for me to fell, this load is nothing to sneeze at.

The Fate of the Late Veggies

The beets should have been harvested weeks ago, if not more. In the past, I've grown Long Season Beets, but this year Harris Seeds sent an apology instead of seeds. It turned out that there was  a complete crop failure. Hmmm.

Consequently, I kept waiting for the Detroit beets to get bigger.  Some finally did. Taking a chance on them being tough and woody, I cooked them. They were tender and delicious, so now I have some to freeze.

The carrots were another story. Failing to harvest them in a timely manner hurt their feelings, leaving them embittered. After I'd planted, weeded, watered and otherwise spent lots of time on them, I couldn't just pull the puny things and put them directly into the compost. They fell into the category of not good enough to eat and too good to throw out.

The fridge was crammed full of other late veggies that I hadn't the heart or the appetite to eat. From a mere four broccoli plants, I froze 31 me-sized packages of  broccoli. I  ate quantities of them until I couldn't  face another bite. Even during the heat, they put on side shoots, which I dutifully picked. They were in the fridge, waiting to turn to compost. I finally stopped picking them. No doubt I shall be charged with veggie neglect.

Some late, somewhat rubbery green beans were sharing the same fate. I'd frozen plenty and even made some dilled green beans. God knows I've tried. Sob.

Since I knew I'd never eat any of them, I ran them all through the food processor and worked them into the soil where I'd pulled up some strapping big foxtails. Guilt eliminated.

Dog Days End Today, Supposedly

The extreme heat looked like it was breaking, at last. There had been adequate rain, usually after I watered from the cistern. For weeks, it was a bad idea to do much outside in the oppressive heat and humidity.

As predicted, the weeds pulled ahead and now needed to be dealt with.  The weeds didn't look too scary from up on the deck, but an apple tree and some hibiscus were in danger of disappearing  from the landscape entirely if I didn't get in there.

The first step was to yank out the cow guard fence and pull up the fence posts so I could use the weed-eater. The lawn mower would just push the weeds down. The fence, however, was secured with lots of grasses and weeds and it wasn't the work of an instant to pull it out.

The fence made it hard to mow around the tree. However, I was glad to have the protection for  that young tree when several enormous cows stopped by recently. Cows are like the weeds, much more terrifying up close. They brought their largish calves. I helped the guy who owns the herd, who was foolishly trying to herd them by himself. I carried an old broom, held aloft to give me a more imposing stature.  He said they had pushed down a fence and gotten out, so I lucked out to not have more over here than I did.

Another apple tree that I planted years ago didn't survive a cow using it as a scratching post. So, this tree has been perhaps over-protected since when it was a young whip that didn't even have limbs. It now has two apples. It's a Golden Delicious.

Step two of the land reclamation was to use the weed-eater. But the grass wound around the spinning trimmer head, making it more work to stop and untangle it than it was worth. I was able to use the hedge shears, which was a big bother, too.

The hillside by the garden has great soil. In springtime, after huge rains, I pulled up lots of chicory, those pretty but pesky weeds with foot-long roots. A few days ago, I yanked out a few more after a six inch rain. As far as weeds go,though, chicory was only a drop in the bucket. The others either have three foot long roots or the roots are somehow anchored in place forever.

In spring, I envisioned the entire slope covered with lovely perennial flowers. I didn't get around to planting any, possibly because the row of lovely perennial iris I planted there a few years ago got choked out by those invasive grasses and bindweed.

When I say that I actually love weeding, let me make it clear that what I like is weeding in cultivated ground, where the weeds can be pulled up out of the friable soil. What has gone on in the hibiscus patch is nothing less than a return to grassland. These are weeds that can only be dislodged with explosives. There will be no weeding as such in the area. What may work is smothering with cardboard topped with anvils. I don't have any anvils, so maybe some loose bricks and quantities of mulchie stuff.

The chicken coop needs to be cleaned out, which will be a start. A few weeks ago, the three old hens vanished. I'd like to think that they just wandered off and are scratching for bugs in a nearby field. However, knowing how they always loved the comfort and security of Fort Flocks at night, I have to admit that something got them. There weren't even any telltale feathers left behind. I miss them.

At first, I vowed to not have more chickens. The problem was the eggs that I bought didn't really taste like eggs. One would think that free range brown eggs would be just as good. Instead, they were pale replicas of delicious breakfasts of yesteryear.

Thus, I'll be bringing home some chicks when the local farm store next offers them, at the end of the month.

These Surprise Lilies add lots of cheer to the landscape. They make beautiful bouquets that smell a lot like mothballs.

Meanwhile, a return to heat advisory days has put the hill clearing project on hold. I would be less than honest if I said I was disappointed. Perhaps tomorrow will be better, but today's heat index of 108 degrees at least had some benefit.

I trust the cows, now in the pasture across the road, will not get out before I get the fence back up around the apple tree.