O sweet September, the first breezes bring
The dry leaf's rustle and the squirrel's laughter
The cool fresh air whence health and vigor spring
And promise of exceeding joy thereafter.
This Labor Day morning all is quiet in and around the little blue house at the end of the road.
Tootie Mae coiled up like a cobra on the plush covered couch to take advantage of her holiday of rest. However, it is different for us.
Paul is at work and I have chores to do. I continue to tend to the garden harvest. Tomatoes received my attention this afternoon. Later, the zucchini will be shredded and added to the bread-mixing bowl.
I intend to make four loaves of the moist flavorful bread this time around. With proper wrap, they will freeze well.
I truly enjoyed the article Ivy Jacobs wrote last week that featured a favorite recipe of Bobbi Cayton; one of our county's finest and unique cooks. The zucchini bread recipe is the same that I have used successfully for many years. My sister's former mother-in- law gave her the recipe. She in turn gave me a copy.
The bread is moist and so delicious. It is easy to make and the recipe, worth keeping.
Lucky for us, the deer dislike my make-do barriers that safeguard the thriving plants at the old pumpkin patch location. The hoofed foraging nibblers are bypassing my late "silver queen" sweet corn crop and the green bean in the row alongside.
Since the removal of the apples from my favorite old tree, that little garden is the only draw at the homestead property, except for the "shabby and shaggy down and up again" lawn.
The stately old oak will soon cover up my work area with fallen leaves and tiny acorns, in abundance. I do not know which is hardest to handle. Out here, I call on the wind to help me out with the leaves, while I forge ahead and carry out many and more pressing chores.
Eventually, frost will lend me a hand with the rest of what torments hopefully after the harvest is complete.
The elements of nature and I work well together and, most of all, they show up faithfully every year to move seasonal debris around, as I do.
Last night I lost some of my most used keys. I did not have the foggiest idea where in this big yard they were. Evening shadows were beginning to fall, worry was getting a hold on my mind. I own duplicate keys and know where to find them. One key was to a new lock that I recently put into use. We, as of yet, have no spare. I secured the door earlier.
How would I gain access to my animal feed or turn on the light and engage the alarm system? I trace my footsteps back to the places that I had been. I went over my space with a fine toothed comb.
Later, after dinner, after I washed the dishes, Paul joined in the search of those elusive pieces of metal that escaped from my grasp. Off we went to the garden and back --nothing surfaced.
I fed our other charges (dogs and cats and my lonely male rabbit) earlier. There was nothing in the feed storage cans but feed.
The house was spiffy. There was nothing staring back at me from the floor, but Toot-Toot. I hated to think, "Oh brother she didn't or did she manage to consume a dozen keys and a sturdy key holder? She does have a fair sized mouth, obvious to me when she yawns, but that would be a real throat opener that may not pass through and out into the light at the end of the weenie dog's tunnel."
The eggs were gathered. There was nothing in the nests but clean straw and a mistake or two dropped off by a couple young anxious, but careless pullets.
The Jerry Lewis MDA telethon was ready to begin when Paul Baby called off the hunt.
I have watched the telethon every year during its entire run, to date. Jerry Lewis believes as I do that through further research there will be a cure for MS.
We have healthy children, grandchildren and greats and we are thankful for that. However, that is reason enough to want to be a small part of that large effort to help Jerry's Kids.
Mr. Lewis is 84 years of age. I think that remarkable man of many hats does an outstanding job for his cause.
I watched four hours of the telethon. Then I stopped for the day and went to bed. Sleep would not come. Tootie Mae and Paul Baby were sawing logs. Every clock in the house seemed to be saying "The keys, the keys," repeatedly. Regardless of the logs sawing, in full swing, clocks ticking, two fans purring, and the search still on going, I drifted off exhausted.
Just before dawn, after much mind travel, I sprung to life. The picture was clear to me; those darn keys were on a chunk of the catalpa tree's trunk nearby, our birddog, Caesar's pen.
At first light, I checked and sure, as the grass grows around that fat chunk of stump, there was my metal heap of keys. The find was sweet.
You can reach me by phone at 446-4852 or by email at email@example.com.